Point/Counterpoint...

Yesterday Googie, Trouble and I decided to take a car ride half way around the free world. We were in search of some shoes for her size 4/5 miniature feet.

DSW the world's largest shoe warehouse here we come.

She found one pair.

And they were over priced.

Oh, well...we had our backs against the wall, flip flops have no place with a skirt in Googie's new work place.

Back in the car and ready for our big ride home Googie and I started talking "dinner".

"I'm hungry for spaghetti" she said.

"Okay, spaghetti it is" I said.

"I'd like to make a special request" Googie said "can you please PLEASE cut the onions real BIG so they are easier to pick out?"

"I'll put them in the blender" I offered "and you'll never even know they are there."

"NO, NO!!... if you put them in the blender then I'd be eating tons of them" she yelled.

"But you'd never know" I rationalized.

"They'd be all mushed up beyond recognition...you'd never even know they were there" I explained.

"They'd be spread ALL over the spaghetti and I wouldn't be able to get them off" Googie countered.

"I don't like onions MOTHER,

I don't like them, and I don't want to eat them!!!

Iiiiiiiiiiii... doooooooon't.... LIKE .....ONIONS...what don't you get about that?"

Googie was beginning to get a bit hot under the collar.

The debate raged on...and on.

Googie can be a stubborn little thing.

Especially when I am not getting her point of view.

"MOTHER, can't you just CUT the onions in BIG PIECES? Googie asked.

PIECES LARGE ENOUGH FOR ME TO EASILY PLUCK OUT?

Maybe I like the flavor, but I don't like them in my mouth!" Googie ranted on.

"I guess I could just put in some onion powder instead" I offered weakly "but it wouldn't taste the same."

"Or maybe I can just peel an onion and toss it in in one big ball?"

"That would be easy enough for you to pluck out (monkey girl)!!!"

"BUT it wouldn't taste the same, just so you know. The sauce would not be the same!"

"If I put it in the blender, it would be squashed into oblivion and you'd never know it was there" I offer again.

"The blender will turn it into onion water" I continue.

"M-O-T-H-E-R!!!!! Can you please just cut the onions into big pieces and not make onion mush for the sauce? Can you do that, can you make the onions big mother?"

"Big so that they are easily pulled from your sauce?"

"Pulled out so those who don't like eating them don't have to eat them..."

"And no mother, I don't want them turned into onion mush so that I am eating a whole bunch of onions!"

"I don't like onions mother. I don't like them. And even if you mush them up there will be white onion stuff all over the sauce and I will be eating it."

"Can you make the onions big mom, can you do that?"

"Googie, cutting the onions big is like asking me to smear lipstick all around my lips...it just doesn't feel right."

Trouble uncurled himself from the fetal position he'd assumed when our "little discussion" rolled into its 25th minute, he perked up, trying to understand my analogy.

"WHAT!!! Googie screamed " what are you talking about?

How are lipstick and onions at all connected?"

"Eric...do you hear her?" she hollered to Trouble.

"This is what I have to put up with!"

Our verbal tennis match went on and on until we pulled onto our street.

"Wow, I feel invigorated" Googie said as we drove toward our home.

"Me too" I laughed.

Trouble looked feverish.

I made the spaghetti and quartered a large onion.

The onion looked horrible that big.

It looked like floating flower petals.

"How is the sauce Googie?" I asked later at dinner.

"WHY? You mushed one up didn't you? You mashed one up and you tried to trick me ?"

"I respect you too much to do something like that!" I replied.

(Our blender is broken)
 

The grapes of wrath....

How many times do you think of your own death?

Right before you jump, parachuted, out of a plane?

Right before you rush into a burning building?

Right before you eat my mother's cooking?

(Mom, I SWEAR TO GOD, I'M KIDDING)

Of course if you do any of that kind of stuff, you probably think of the death of you more often than the average person.

I on the other hand, am one that doesn't do risky.

I mean I do text and eat a taco (simultaneously) while driving.

But doesn't everyone?

(Mom...put down the phone, I'M STILL KIDDING).

And even though I really try to avoid risky, I'm somewhat preoccupied with thoughts of my own death... (and ways to prevent it).

While pondering my demise I've dreamt up many romantic and exciting endings.

Laying in a beautiful canopy bed, draped in satin and lace curtains surrounded by my huge family and about 1000 of my closest and dearest friends.

A classy exit....

Or, I will be 106 and Daddio 107 and we will go to sleep one night and that will be it.

Just like in the movie "The Notebook".

(Man, I love that movie)

I'd like to think that I'm totally normal in pondering my own death.

But something tells me I'm not.

Lately, in dealing with my own personal war against my own personal terror(ism), and borrowing the National Homeland Security Advisory System I've placed myself at the Warning Level Orange....

Which is HIGH.

The most recent enemy....

an ordinary purple grape.

I've become addicted,

and eat them by the hands full,

every day.

One recently purchased bag had bunches of grapes with really tough skins.

And eating them I became conscious of the possibility (probability...remember the Orange level) that I could choke on one.

Cause one is all it would take...right?

One to block my windpipe.

Then I wondered... could the Heimlich maneuver dislodge a determined grape?

Then I thought about where I might be and who would perform the heroic deed...?

Then I remembered that I heard once that people throw up when they get the Heimlich.

So not only would I suffer the indignity of having the maneuver done in order to save my life....I'd more than likely puke on the table or the floor.

Puke... in front of people.

I'm still eating grapes.

But I chew each one really well.

And I'd advise you to do the same.

(Disclaimer #1: I really am kidding about my mom's cooking, she makes a wicked New England boiled dinner, awesome Spanish Pork Chops, and the best Chocolate Malt Milkshakes the world has ever known, to name a few. Disclaimer #2: I'm not making fun of choking deaths...I've actually very fearful of one.)

My Golden Girls.....

Friday morning usually finds me hanging out with my Old Dolls, a group of women who live in a private senior home close to me.

I go there to do their hair.

So for five years..

for five whole years,

this is my Friday morning....

"HI MISS JOSIE " I say, greeting my first client.

"Oh hi" she stares at me.

"Are you here for me?" she asks.

"YEAH, I'M HERE TO PULL ALL YOUR TEETH" I say "I'M THE DENTIST".

"HUH???...what's wrong with my teeth?" she asks.

"NO, I'M THE HAIRDRESSER, REMEMBER ME, I COME EVERY WEEK TO MAKE YOU BEAUTIFUL". I remind her.

"Oh yeah, where do you want me?"

I begin waving my hands like they do to guide an airplane into the hanger.

She follows my lead, pushing her walker.

"Where do we go? she asks.

"IN HERE, FOLLOW ME, BACK THIS WAY, FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW ME" I wave her toward the shampoo area.

She makes her way into the small room and up onto the big black shampoo chair.

"Do you want my glasses?" she asks, every week for five years.

'YUP" I say.

"My hearing aids?" she asks.

"YUP" I say, holding out my hand.

"My sweater?" she asks.

I let her fumble with the buttons of her sweater, and take it off herself.

She is, after all, a grown up.

"Anything else?" she asks, sounding a bit tired of giving up her things.

"IF YOU'RE NICE, I'LL LET YOU KEEP YOUR UNDERWEAR" I tease.

And every week for five years she laughs at this same corny joke.

"This paid for?" she asks before I lay her back to shampoo her pretty white hair.

"YEAH, YOUR SON PAID FOR IT" I answer.

"HE'S A GOOD SON" I add.

"Yeah" she says " a good son."

"This paid for?" she asks while we wait for the water to heat up.

"YEAH, DON, YOUR SON, PAID FOR IT" I answer.

"My son paid for this?" she asks.

"YEAH, DONNIE PAID, YOU'VE GOT A GOOD SON" I answer.

"Yeah" she says "a good son".

"I don't have any money" she says.

"YOU DON'T NEED ANY MONEY" I say.

"This is paid for?" she asks.

YEAH, ALL PAID FOR. YOUR SON PAID ME TO DO YOUR HAIR...BUT HE USED YOUR MONEY" I say (as her family instructed me to).

"He's a good son" she says.

I agree and for a moment she forgets that she forgets that her hairdo is paid for.

"That's enough" she says when I scrub her head a bit too long.

She was an independent woman who did her own hair, she remembers that she doesn't like it being done, but she doesn't remember that she used to do it.

'LOOK HOW NICE YOUR HAIR LOOKS" I say, spinning her around to look in the mirror when I've finished combing it out.

"Yeah, that's nice" she says " but I would like it better if it wasn't so white".

"YOUR HAIR IS BEAUTIFUL" I say "BUT IT WOULD BE EVEN BETTER IF IT WASN'T SO WHITE".

"You took the words right out of my mouth" she says, laughing.

"SEE YOU NEXT WEEK" I say.

"Thank you" she says, then turns back to ask...

"Will I see you next week?"

"YES, I'LL SEE YOU NEXT WEEK. STAY OUTTA TROUBLE, OKAY!"

"That won't be hard to do" she says as she maneuvers her bulky walker around the corner.

Suddenly she stops...

"What do I owe you?" she asks.

"YOU ALREADY PAID ME, IN KISSES...DON'T YOU REMEMBER?" I yell to her.

"Oh good" she says and walks toward the dining room for lunch.

A veggie tale...

Sunday, is a working day for us working folk.


Housecleaning, laundry, cooking, and of course the dreaded grocery shopping.

My God, I hate to grocery shop.

Especially since I've decided that we aren't eating healthy enough around here and I know what that entails.

A closer inspection of every darn thing that goes into my cart.

A closer examination of all the crap I usually feed my loved ones.

Hauling around extra healthy bottled water and a heart filled with guilt makes the trip even worse.

It's sooooo much easier to just throw in a bag of cookies, a couple of boxes of mac and cheese and call it a day.

Anyway, I was feeling out an avacado when I heard someone say something to me.

I looked up and in front of me was a young man who I recognized, but couldn't place.

A friend of Sweet Prince Buttercup's??? Bears??? Someone Googie knew?

"How are you Beth?" he asked me.

Who who who who who the heck are you? I thought.

And where do I know you from?

"I've been doing fine" I said. "how bout you?"

When he began to talk more I suddenly remembered who he was.

A kid from my program.

But wait...something had happened.

This was the face, the voice, the smile I remembered.

But gone was the dingy raggedly cut long black hair.

Gone were the seven (or more) rings that used to hang off his ears.

The stainless steel bolts that pierced his eyebrows, with skin and hair and perpetual redness around them...GONE.

Gone was the thick black ring that he wore in his lip.

He used to twirl it when he got into trouble.

It made my stomach hurt to see it go round and round.

He was always in a lot of trouble.

Gone were the angry chains and spikes that he used to wear around his wrists and neck.

And in a funny twist, gone were the grungy black shorts that he wore all winter, instead in this muggy August heat he wore a pair of light colored jeans.

And an American Eagle tee.

And his hair...my God, you should have seen his hair.

Light brown and cut in the most current "handsome young guy" look.

"Still on probation?" I asked.

He'd been taken out of our program when it was determined that he was not going to cooperate. He was not going to behave. He was not going to stop endangering himself and others.

He was the only kid our visiting chef ever almost laid his hands on.

He caught him eating raw stewing beef off the end of one of our butcher knives and chef came unglued.

He backed him against a wall and yelled like I've never heard him yell.


Jared was good for that kind of stuff.

The shock value of any action was his motivation.

The more outlandish, the more outrageous, the more he liked doing it.

To the other youth he was a Day Treatment hero.

To the staff, he was a mighty thorn in our sides.

A 6'4" inch thorn.

"Yeah, still on probation" he said "for another six months."

Obviously "placement" had been good for him.

"I'm on non reporting" he said.

I asked him about what his court order said and what the judge had him doing.

"Working and eventually going to college" he said.

Awesome, I thought to myself.

We talked for a couple more minutes and then I swear I wanted to reach up and give him a big hug...I was soooo proud of the new and obviously improved him.

Instead I offered a closed fist.

Which he bumped with his own.

"Take care kid" I said "and stop by school when you're in the area. I know the other staff would love to see this transformation you've had."

"We love to see our kids all grown up."

"I will Beth" he said "see ya around."

I don't remember much about the rest of my mundane Sunday grocery shopping.

I do remember catching people looking at me.

Probably wondering why this crazy fool woman was skipping around the fruits and vegetables.

Whistling and giggling.

And shaking her head.

Witnessing a miracle will do that kind of stuff to ya.

EDITED TO ADD....Don't anyone go getting their bloomers in a bunch..I have nothing against long black hair, spikes, piercings, tattoos, grungy clothing, etc etc etc, honestly, I don't...I do have something against angry, self destructing teens who make the world an unsafe place for themselves and others.


I try never judge a book by its cover.

Bear goes to Boston......

"Can I go to Boston?" read the text I received yesterday at 2:45 pm in the middle of my Culinary Arts Class.

Wow, I hoped thought, wrong number.

I once before got a wrong number text.

(Googie told me not to respond, that people screw around with people like that.)

Then my work phone rang.

"Did you get my text?" Bear (my just turned 19 yr old son) asked.

"You want to go to Boston?" I asked

"Boston, as in the state Boston? (my very intelligent co-workers glanced at me kind of funny when I said that..forcing me to clarify..)

"I mean, as in Massachusetts.... You want to go to Boston, Massachusetts????"

Have you been sniffing glue?

"Seriously....you want to go to Boston?"

He gave me the details and I told him I'd call his dad and call him right back.

"He never asked to go on any Girls Gone Totally Wild sex/tattoo/multiple body piercing a thon Spring Break trip" I reminded Daddio.

"And he's never been in one bit of trouble"

What the hell was I doing here??? I was talking Daddio into agreeing to let Bear leave the country.

Fly to the moon.

Be swallowed up by a tesseract...a sort of "wrinkle in time" in space and time, a fifth dimension.

"I will need every one of their full names (including any alias's), phone numbers, addresses, MySpace, Facebook and any YouTube account info" I told Bear about his travel companions.

"I want parent's names too"... (a quick credit check couldn't hurt).

When everyone checked out okay and Bear got the go ahead it was a mad dash to get packed, secure some flow (that will probably be stolen when he is robbed and raped in some filthy germ infested rest stop along the way) and do all the things one does when leaving out of town.

"We don't have a small tube of toothpaste MOMMMMMMMMMMMM" Bear screamed into the phone, it was the 27th call he made to me at work, in the 45 minutes he had to get ready to leave.

This trip on the fly was starting to grate on my nerves.

"I don't know if I want to go" Bear said on call number 29.

And again with call number 32.

"FLIP A FREAKIN ASS COIN AND DO WHATEVER THE FRICK IT TELLS YOU TO DO OKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKAY?" I yelled, when he called again to tell me he wasn't sure.

A second later when a screwdriver stabbed me in the heart (be nice to him you idiot, if you let him go and God forbid something happens.....) I got control of myself....

"Sweeeetheart" I purred "this is an adventure. You are going to have a blast. Make a decision, figure that there are going to be pros and cons, just like every other decision you are ever gonna make. Once you make a decision you will feel better. Just make one, make up your mind and go with whatever it is that you decide. Have some confidence in yourself. GO or DON'T GO, decide. Now, are you going to Boston or not?"

"I don't know" Bear said "should I?"

For cryinoutloud ........

OF COURSE YOU SHOULD NOT GO....an accident could happen, you guys could get so lost that you'd never make it back.

Boston is far kid, really really far.

(One step closer out the door you go.)

I'll miss you Bear, be safe and hurry home.

And don't forget, hide your money in your sock....

(I will age 20 years this weekend...... guaranteed)

Bark at the moon.....

I knew it, I just knew Daddio was wrong when he answered "No" to my question "is the moon full?" a week or so ago.

People act weird when the moon is full, myself included.

I drift into other lanes on the highway.

I forget words.

Except four letter ones.

Which I spit outta my mouth like discarded sunflower seed husks.

And it's all because I'm so aggravated at....um, well, everything.

And it appears as if the entire human race has joined me.

It's like the whole world has pms and dementia combined.

Full moons have me channeling late comedian George Carlin on the highway when I scream at anyone going slower than me calling them assholes "a-holes"  and anyone daring to go faster is certainly a "maniac".

It's a no win situation.

The only one driving properly is, well, actually none of us.

Nothing seems to go right...when it's a full moon phase.

While making dinner, I cut myself.

I run to the garage with a dish cloth tightly wrapped around my bleeding finger Daddio bellows "What did I tell ya? I knew this was gonna happen. You think you are some kind of fancy chef tossing those big knives around..I told you...I TOLD YOU.."

(Just for the record, Daddio has been predicting this exact tragic event for over 27 years, every time I cook and he watches.)

I've done a bit of predicting myself over the years buddy...Predictions like "one-a deeze days Alice...POW to da Moon"....

And speaking of POWS to somebody's kisser.....

As Googie was getting ready to leave the house she leaned in to kiss me goodbye.

She's famous for presenting a cheek for a peck...I often follow suit and we'll give a kiss-kiss in the air like debutantes or old Italians.

Today she decided to give me a real peck on my cheek.

And I decided to give her a real peck on her cheek.

At the same time we puckered up and turned toward each other...

SMACK....right on the old kissers.

"EWWWWWWWWWWWW" we screamed in unison, then wiped our mouths.

It's not everyday your daughter tries to French kiss you....

That damn crazy ass full moon.....

(PS...I later sent Googie a text message saying "I kissed a girl and I liked it"....she probably read it while stopped at a red light, since she'd never read a text whilst driving.)

When da moon hits da sky like a big pizza pie dat'ssssssssssssssss amore.
 

“Misty water colored mem-reeeeees light the corners of my miiiiiiiiind”

Like any mother I don't like to see my babies suffer. Nevermind that my babies are (mostly) grown people who can and do make their own bed decisions and should have to lay in it deal with the consequences.


My step mom likes to tell me that if you do help them too much you rob them of their memories.

Hard times are usually the ones we remember most.

Unless you're like me and like to block all that crap out.

I think my rose colored glasses fit me perfectly.

My sister Susan can always be counted on to jog my memory about our growing up years.

When I complain about a kid of mine skipping out on doing their chores or not getting the concept of saving or paying bills Susan reminds me that the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree...

"Don't you remember?" Susan will ask "that whenever you owed mom money you would tell her she couldn't get blood from a rock"

"And when she asked you to clean your room, you'd hide all your junk in the closet or under the bed and then call her in and show her what a wonderful job you did."

"You're lucky mom let you live to see adulthood."

A bit before Daddio and I married my mom made a move to Arizona. We'd all been invited to join her and her husband. When we balked at leaving our "oh so very" established lives she said "you can stay in the house and pay the bills if you don't want to come".

Well that sounded like one hell of an adventure and we took her up on it.

And while we loved the adventure often times were tough....really tough.

A strange thing happened during those times, I came to the realization that sometimes you can get blood from a rock.

So Susan reminds me of a time when a desperate time called for a desperate measure.

We really were dirt poor early in our marriage and for a short time right after our wedding my sister lived with us. One day not long after our wedding she was in the bathroom and started hollering for me to bring her some toilet paper.

We had not one square.

“Ok, how bout some tissue?” she asked.

“Nope” I replied.

”A paper towel?” she pleaded .

“We're out” I reported.

“Wait a minute” I yelled outside the door…I just remembered, I had a whole bag of leftover tissue flowers that you shape like an accordion and puff out, the ones that we’d put on our” Just Married” car.

I banged on the door, it cracked open a bit and her skinny arm poked out, palm up. I placed a couple of the flowers in the center of her hand and closed her fingers around them.

She screamed when she saw what I’d given her.

"Hey" I said "they even have a little string on the bottom to make them easier to hold."

“Freak” she yelled.

We used that bag of flowers to wipe our cans for at least a week…before they ran out my dear sister suggested that they shouldn't be kept in a paper bag on the floor, so she found a pretty basket to put them it.

She always was the classy one.
 

Coupons???? Off with her head.....!!!

Last week Daddio offered to take me on my grocery rounds. This usually means a trip to the fruit market and to some kind of large grocery store. I had an awesome coupon for Meijers. One of those “use the pharmacy, get twenty bucks off deal“, so to Meijers it was.


As usual the place was packed. And I should know better that when poor Daddio starts to complain while still in the parking lot that maybe I should limit my trip to a loaf of bread and some milk.

I poo-pooed my gut warning and stupidly proceeded.

"The walk of the living dead" he growled, barely missing hitting a wide fannied woman wearing dingy white polyester pants and carrying six black garbage bags filled with plastic returnables.

He found a space about a mile from the entrance. "A walk will do us both good" he said in defense of his crappy choice.

I think he does this on purpose, he knows that if I were driving, we'd go round and round and round until one of the first parking spots opened up.

I don't care if it takes thirty minutes to find that perfect spot, and I usually don't realize that I've gone around so many times until I notice my gas gauge starting to go down.

"Mom, I'm getting dizzy" the kids used to say. "Please…pleeeeeeeeeeeease just pick a spot."

Inside the store Daddio went for a cart and he didn't even flinch when his mitts grabbed the dirty cart handle.

I shudder to think of all the E.coli he's probably just touched.

Oprah once did a show about E.coli and the places where it can be found.

Believe it or not public toilet seats don't have a ton of microscopic poop on them.

Bowling balls and shopping carts were found to be much worse...yuck

I've not stuck my fingers into a bowling ball since I saw that show.

Unfortunately, I can't say the same about shopping carts. Therefore I'm forced happy to use the sani-wipes the store provides.

Daddio gave me the evil eye as I searched (in vain) for the alcohol wipes.

"Forget it" he barked "I don't need those things."

"You're going to get sick" I warned.

"That's why I have such a superior immune system" Daddio brags "I'm not scared of germs."

Daddio doesn't really understand how aggressive one needs to be to successfully navigate a Meijer store on a Sunday after church.

Trying to be mannerly gets you nowhere besides stuck behind a lady with a coupon filled shoe box, six unruly snotty nosed children and two full carts.

Or an old gray buck carefully studying the entire 129 different varieties of Campbell's soup looking for Mrs. Grass chicken noodle.

Arrghhhh.....

So as Daddio (beginning to look brain dead) waits behind the gang, I scurry ahead grabbing items as I go.

Needing to get some tomato sauce for spaghetti I stop when I see Hunts Sauce and begin searching for the big cans.

Of course, as usual, they only have the eight ounce size and all of them seem to be dented.

When he catches up to me Daddio gets perturbed watching me feel out each can trying to find an uninjured few.

"What the hell does it matter?" he asks "just grab a couple."

I'll be sure to remind him of this little exchange a couple of days from now when he is suffering from stomach cramps.

We make it to the check out with me knowing that I certainly have forgotten something...you can't shop properly under that kind of pressure.

I choose a good lane and place our groceries onto the belt. Daddio was in front and didn't know what to do when the cashier passed him one of those grocery separating bars like a baton in a race.

"What?" he asks, holding it in the air "Do I run with this thing?"

When the cashier is almost done ringing our order I see that there is a great possibility that I may be able to use my $6.00 off $60.00 coupon as well.

I started getting giddy.

$26.00 off my grocery order!!!!

When the total hit $60.53 I almost screamed "BINGO", but for Daddio's sake I just stood mute and handed the cashier the coupons.

A little history here, over the years Daddio has gone to the grocery store once, maybe three times by himself. The couple of times that he did was because I was totally unable...I had a day old newborn at home or I was projectile vomiting and had a temperature of 103.

So only when he HAD to, did Daddio ever step foot into a grocery store.

I always gave him coupons and good directions about using them.

The following day I'd find them in a soggy ball at the bottom of the washing machine.

When I handed the blob to Daddio he'd just shrug and say "I forgot."

That was not a truthful statement...Daddio would rather hang by his earlobes than use a coupon. Using one is like asking for charity. Stealing money from the cashier's pocket. Trying to redeem a clam shell from the Great Depression....

He was beyond horrified when the cashier swiped my first coupon and the machine did nothing.

She swiped and swiped.

Without even looking I could feel Daddio pain.

"Buy any alcohol?" she asked.

If we had Daddio would have cracked it open by now and would have been in a much better frame of mind.

"Nope, no alcohol" I answered.

"Ohhhh...it doesn't count your bottle deposits" Miss Cashier finally figured out, "You need to buy something else."

Daddio's embarrassment and the line behind us was growing by the minute.

"Gum!!" I yelled "I'll take some gum."

Since the people behind us in their impatience had invaded our personal space, I couldn't reach the gum display and had to ask the cashier to choose a pack.

The first pack didn't cost enough.

"Okay, two then" I told the cashier who obviously is also a Libra and was having a hard time making a choice for me.

"ANY KIND" I yelled "ANYTHING!!!!"

The second pack didn't do it either.

"Charge me for two eight packs of Pepsi, I'll run back and get another." I suggested.

Finally, the machine took the coupons.

I sent Daddio and the other groceries to the car and I ran to the back to get my extra eight pack of pop.

It was a long walk which gave me plenty of time to plan my defense.

I was mighty tempted to ask the cashier for that baton and directions to the nearest exit.

My right hands.....

Well, my youngest child's grad party is now just a memory.

Thank God!

I'm so happy to be over that hump.

I'm sad to say that he didn't have the turn out that the others had...it was soooo hot and humid.

He also had about 4 close friends celebrating the same day.

It still was very nice and the people that were able to make it were wonderful and incredibly generous with my son.

Right before the party started I began to suffer the effects of all my party anxiety mixed with my regular anxiety and my procrastinating personality... and about an hour before the party started the crap hit the fan.

My cute new hair cut didn't look quite like I'd envisioned... it was damp and in a goofy looking clip thingy complete with a couple of different colored bobby pins holding the strays.

And about a gallon of hard hold helmet hairspray.

Embarrassing....

Then I melted our cordless phone when I laid it down on my darling daughter's straightener....

And I forgot tablecloths for the tables that were holding the food.

And with all this other stuff going on I worried that my eye shadow was on unevenly.

I felt like a disheveled mess.

Oh well, the party was certainly not about me.

So who cares, really.

I'd rather tell you about my hands.

My right hands...

Yes, hands with an "s"..... I have more than my own pair.

I have a daughter that left this sweet coffee pot note...
 
 

 
And I have future a future son-in-law who ran home to get more tables.
 
And then ran home to get more coolers.

Then ran home to get some ice.

Then ran home to get some orange drink.

I think if I would have asked him to powder my nose he would have.

My sons and my daughter in law stepped up and did every crazy little thing I asked them to do, without question.

"Mom, you want the coffee creamer and sugar WHERE? Ooooookay, into the oven it goes.

Daddio was awesome....he worked like a Hebrew slave and then he pretended he was social.

For hours he talked and laughed and not once (not even once) did I have to search the house for him and discover him hiding under the bed in our room.

My sister made a card box on the fly and it was the nicest one I've ever seen. And she brought 3 pans of jello dessert (I'd asked her the night before if she could do one).

One of my sis-in-laws made a beautiful salad (and was thoughtful enough to bring dressings).

A girlfriend made a beautiful cake (free of charge...!!!) and on and on the list of helpful things people did for me could go...

I want to mention one little detail that had me walking light...and dancing in circles.

I would've done the sideways jump where my heels click together, if I wasn't scared I'd break a hip.

But that is how happy this thoughtful deed made me.

Here is the story....my girl, just home from running yet another errand for me said,

"Come upstairs mom when you get a minute"..

When I found a chance and caught up with her in our computer room she instructed me to "sit down, close your eyes and open your hands".

When I did, and opened my eyes she'd placed a package wrapped in pink iridescent paper, tied with a white ribbon and dotted with a little white bow.

I opened it to find....THIS......
 
 

A bracelet I'd seen and salivated over at the jewelry store the day before when we'd stopped by to have her engagement ring cleaned.

It was an expensive bracelet.... the surprise made me cry, and then I cried all the more when I thought of how hard she has to work taking care of other people's babies to earn the money she spent on it.

"I bought this for you" she said " for doing the fine job of getting three children through school. And because you are a good mom".

(Funny...these days she carries me)

All I can really say is....

Thank Heaven for little girls (and helpful sons)

And for big girls too.

Like my sister who cleaned for nearly two hours (straight) my filthy dirty kitchen and made it sparkle so brightly I almost needed sun glasses when I walked in. She did all this while I sat in the garage and shot the bull with some of my oldest and dearest friends.

Right hands....a girl can never have too many.

Holy crap...it's the 18th of June!!!

I remember having lots of conversations with my grandpa about the passage of time.

"It goes fast when you're old Babe" he'd say.

"So fast, that a week passing seems hardly more than a day going by."

Half of June is old news already.

Seriously, I'm tired of being a grownup.

And having weeks and months fly by.

I want to be bored.

And lazy.

I want to determine time by sleeping until the HOT sun is peeking in my bedroom window.

I want to play until the street lights come on,

and take more than a glance at some of these...

I want to take a moment to listen to this neighbor's song....

And I swear to God, come hell or high water...I'm going to get on top of this ball.

I will have Googie let you know to which hospital they take my stupid 50 year old self when I permanently injure my spinal cord or suffer a massive head injury. That way you can send a card or some Hershey bars.

So long for now... I need to start checking pockets and lifting couch cushions....I hear the ice cream man comes around about 2pm.

And the dirty rotten scoundrel has jacked the price of his Chocolate Éclairs no doubt.

June 18th....I promise to enjoy thee.

Waiting to exhale.....

It's 9:30 in the evening and I'm sitting in my computer chair typing this post because there is no way I can do anything else.

I'm waiting.

On pins and needles.

I have a pit the size of a basketball resting heavily on my diaphragm making it hard to breathe.

It all started with a phone call to our landline a bit ago. I didn't answer because I didn't recognize the number.

A couple of minutes later Daddio walked upstairs with my cell phone. Bear had just called.

He was calling to tell us that he was on the way to the hospital, his best friend since the first grade had been injured in a car accident.

With hands shaking so badly it was hard to hold the phone, I called Bear back.

"How bad?" I asked.

"His parents didn't know how bad mom" he answered. "They called me and weren't to the hospital yet."

Then he just about broke my heart when he asked "If he was dead mom would the hospital keep that from his parents till they could make it to the hospital?

I don't know. Do they do that? I didn't think they did that? Please tell me they don't do that.

"No, honey he's going to be fine" I said.

Suddenly I was scared for my own child.

Scared because he's driving and upset.

Scared about what he may find when he gets to the hospital.

Scared to think about how his life could change because his best friend got into a car accident.

Then I thought about his friend's mother.

And I thought about my own mother who lost her son to an accident one seemingly ordinary mid October evening.

And I thought about Bear and his friend's graduation ceremony tomorrow night.

These two boys who became fast best friends when they met in the school supply aisle at K-Mart the first day of first grade.

Bear and Metzie were in the same class and became a perfectly matched inseparable pair.

They would be best friends all their growing up years.

They planned to walk together to get their diplomas.

And now Bear was on his way to the hospital where Metzie was taken after the accident.

A couple of hours and lots of text messages later Bear called one last time to say he was on his way home.

"Anybody want any MickyD's?" he asked when he called.

"Bring your dad a big mac" I said.

"Nothin for you ma?" He asked.

"Yeah" I wanted to add.....go to the store Bear and get some party hats and some balloons. Stop by the church and kneel and say a prayer of thanks. Lets make a cake. And throw confetti. And blow kazoos. And bubbles. Lets dance a jig and sing some songs.

"No kid, just hurry home" I said "and be careful".

Bear's best friend is going to be fine.

Life goes on as planned.

Halleluiah, Hallehuiah......

* 22 hours later I had the pleasure of watching Bear and Metzie walk side by side during their high school graduation ceremony. Metzie just a bit worse for the wear.

Dear Flat Rock Schools….,

In a couple of days my youngest child will take his last high school final, turn in all his books and march across a decorated stage bidding adieu to Flat Rock schools, probably forever.

For the most part, I’ve really enjoyed our long time relationship.

My husband and I chose to move our family to Flat Rock when our oldest son was about to begin 7th grade, Jr High. Not the easiest time for a kid to change schools. Our daughter was to be a 5th grader and our baby was beginning his 1st grade year.

Our children previously attended a small Catholic school, where they passed each other in the halls all day long.

All three of them, together under one roof, certainly gave this over protective mother peace of mind.

We’d already signed on the dotted line with the mortgage company when I learned that the kids would be in three different schools.

I cried, literally bawled like a big baby when the secretary broke it to me that they would be separated.

“Come on in, bring the kids and look around” she said “you’re gonna like it here”.

I was still carrying on when I went to visit Barnes Elementary to register my daughter. Dr. Charlene Coulson the Principal, took us on a tour of the building.

She was warm and kind and in looking back, a precursor of things to come.

What a wonderful first impression I had.

My admiration for you began to deepen when my small son was lucky enough to land Mrs. Michelle Peters (now Tanner) as his first grade teacher.

And my daughter was placed into an interesting and fun Mr. Degrosky’s 5th grade class.

My oldest child loved your Jr High school and its wonderful group of colorful, creative fun teachers…Mr. Elliott and Mr. Schott, Mrs. Rinehart to name a few.

It was a very good year. They all thrived. And I began to relax.

Like with any relationship ours had its ups and downs, its bumps in the road.

But, never, ever did I love you more than the 2001/2002 school year.

September 11th found me just days into a new job when the terrorist piloted planes hit New York’s Twin Towers.

Like every other mother in this entire nation being away from her children and watching this horror, I wanted to run and gather my babies and head for home, where I planned to hide under the bed with them until it was all over.

Our youngest two children were kept safe from seeing or hearing even one little detail about this horrific act until they were home with their dad and I.

Our oldest son, in high school watched as the events that would change our country forever unfolded. He sat on a floor and held a large pillow in his lap and listened as he and his classmates questioned their teacher.

We had a lot to talk about, once they were home, safe in our nest.

One early morning in April 2002 I received a tearful phone call from my daughter. She was calling from school, one of her teachers, a young man she interacted with every day had been killed in an accident on I-75.

I rushed to the school to find my daughter and the rest of the student body being nurtured by grief stricken teachers and school counselors.

Putting their own grief aside to take care of their hysterical students.

You kept my child and a whole lot of other children safe, again…. I was smitten.

Flat Rock Schools you did lots of other things to make me love you…you brought on board caring, good men and women to teach my children in the classrooms and coach them in sports.

You brought on wonderful Art and Music teachers to nurture their creative sides.

From bus drivers to lunch room monitors…so many were beyond awesome.

Literally….you hired a near perfect village to help me to raise my kids.

Great Schools a school rating site gives you a score of 6 out of 10...I think this is much too low for you.

In my eyes you deserve more like a 9 out of 10...

Our relationship is about to come to an end but I hope you know that you will always hold a special place in my heart.

Thank you! Thank you Flat Rock Community Schools for all that you did to help raise my children…they’ve turned out quite well and we both should be very proud.

PS…To Mrs. Beth Stapleton, a public apology….The minute I was able to keep a straight (serious) face I really gave it to “you know who” for bringing that battery operated fart machine to school.

He was truly sorry.

Love,

Beth Kobylasz

Dropping a bomb and the ball....

Two days ago in my culinary class I had the loveables making cake cookies...we do this often, they're cheap and easy to make.

Most times we use an ice cream scooper to make really large cookies...they are baked in a professional convection oven.

Stressing the importance of having the cookies be uniform in size I suggested to one of the loveables that since he didn't have enough dough left to make another cookie that he should divide what he had left and add it to any of his other cookies that might be "needy"..."add it to the deserving cookies" I teased.

He proceeded to go to each cookie and comment...

"You are stupid" he said to one.

"You are ugly" he said to another.

"You are too fat already" he said to a third.

"You are black" he said to the fourth.

I was stunned silent.

I hoped his stupid comment went past my African American co-worker.

There were four staff around that large table and not a damn one of us said one word.

But I'm positive we all heard it...there was no way we didn't.

This incident took me back to something that happened to me in high school...I was in ninth grade and had a wonderful friend named Jackie.

My high school was mixed (I won't say diverse, because we weren't)..we were mixed.

There were the blacks and there were the whites.

And once in a while we mixed.

I'm Caucasian and Jackie is African American.

Back then we called ourselves White and Black.

Jackie was a tall, leggy beautiful girl.

And she was funny as hell.

We talked every day at school and often on the phone.

One day I was telling her a funny story and in the middle of it I said the "N" word...it slipped out of my mouth and before I could catch it, it landed in the middle of Jackie's and my friendship.

Like a lead balloon.

I pretended like I didn't say it.

Jackie pretended like she didn't hear it.

But our friendship was never the same.

So I stand some 30 years later around a work table with a couple of punks and the adults placed in charge of them and I pretend that the elephant in the room is not there.

I should have told the punk to shut the hell up. I should have yanked his dumb rear end out of the room and told him how stupid and ignorant what he said was.

I should have done something, anything.

Instead, I let it melt and slip through the cracks and slide it's slimy slithery self onto the floor and out of the room.

It's destruction, though mighty, was silent.

Just like the bomb I dropped so long ago.

Shame on me, times two..... :-(

Not like I'm keepin score or anything......

Saturday.....what the holy heck took you so long to get here?

What an incredibly loooooooooong week.

I think being sick made it feel even longer.

Being stuck inside a musty old school building for 10 hours on Wednesday the nicest day of the year so far, made it looooooooooger still.

Yesterday, walking into the commercial kitchen where our afternoon culinary arts class is held and smelling the distinct stench of cigarette smoke INSIDE THE WALK IN FREEER made time stand still.

Even with a terrible cold I have the nose of a Blood Hound.

How dare they!!! HOW DARE THEY!!!

PUNKS!!!!!!

I find it totally amusing that they all think the entire staff came down with yesterday's rain.

Yes sir.... we're dumber than doornails.

The loveables think they're so slick they'll be able to pull crap over on us....and sometimes they do, for about five seconds.

So as my face flushed and my heart raced I reached into my bag of "effective mothering" tricks and techniques and pulled out a doozy.

The GUILT CARD.

Sadly, with droopy eyes and a tear in my voice I told the loveable thugs that I was certain to lose my job over the Smokin in the Boys Room Fridge Mystery.

How hard being jobless would be, especially since my husband was laid off. (sniffle)

That I had every hope that the next lady they brought in to teach them to cook would care about them as much as I did. (sob)

I laid it on pretty thick.

And they bought it.

A few minutes after my little over dramatic monologue the other staff took each loveable aside and asked for information.

Every last one of them...every.... last..... one of them pointed a finger at the guilty kid.

Baby criminals aren't usually singing canaries.

But yesterday this bunch of lightweights were putty in our hands.....(hahahaha).

Juvenile Justice Day Treatment Staff 1
The Loveable Thugs 0

Till next time....

A job for a good daddy.....

I've caught a cold.

And as Daddio would certainly tell you, (if you cared to listen) I could brave an appendectomy sans anesthesia better and with less complaining than I do a cold.

I start to fall to pieces at the slightest twinge of a sore throat or one too many sneezes.

I caught this cold from one of two places.

Marmie (my darling mother) was sick and sounding like a slightly feminine man when we spoke numerous times last week.

As much as I sometimes think otherwise, germs don't travel 3000 miles over phone lines.

So it must have come from the other source, one of my lovables.

One of the youth in my work program came in sicker than a dog last week.

Sneezing, sniffling, coughing....

"I caught it from my baby girl" he confessed.

"Ya gotta stop kissin her on the mouth" I told him with a smile.

"I can't" he said " I can't stop she is sooooo cute and her cheeks are chubby. Every time I'm near her I try to eat them off her face. I can't help it. You should see how chubby her cheeks are, soooo chubby and sweet"

He continued, "You know her whole family dogged me and didn't think I'd step up and be there for my girl. I've showed them. I buy her diapers and clothes and I even got her medicine for this bad cold."

Oh well, I can't really complain about catching a cold from a juvenile offender who has admitted to being a kind of father to his baby girl that every daughter should have...one who smothers her with love and kisses, diapers and clothes and calls her fat cheeks the sweetest things he's ever seen.
 

 

PS...Dad, thanks (and I love you) for paring (nibbling) these mammoth babies down to a normal size ;-)

The best (twilight) sleep she ever had…..

My daughter Googie has been suffering from some stomach problems and was advised to get a colonoscopy.

Yesterday was the big day.

Both of us were dreading the prep done the night before the procedure. As we expected she almost didn't make it through.

She tossed out at least two cups of the laxative laden Gatorade, pleading ....."no more".

She was sooooo green, I had to agree.

In the morning we didn't speak too much on the way to the surgery center, I did reach my hand over the seat a few times to hold her hand.

When we got to the front desk to check in Googie was carded..."You are 18, right?" the desk clerk asked.

At 4'11" and 90 pounds Googie fools lots of people.

It didn't take long for a nurse to come and get her to take her in back to change into a gown and have a quick interview with the doctor who would be doping her up.

He commented, jokingly "All of 90 pounds, huh? Won't take much to put you under."

When the prep nurse came to get Daddio and I she apologized in advance for hurting our girl.

"Her veins are so small, and she is so dehydrated it took me three tries to get her IV in. I ended up having to get one of the docs to do it" she explained.

Googie was being a good sport. I knew she had to be hurting, I could see swelling and bruising on her little hands.

"She's a trooper" said the nurse.

Yeah, this kid who had refused to swallow a pill until she was 20 was surprising us all.

We had a lot of time to joke around in the room waiting for them to come and get Googie and after more than an hour with empty stomachs (in support of Googie) and frazzled nerves Daddio and I began to snipe at each other.

Seinfeld character George Constanza's parents or Everybody Loves Raymond's Marie and Frank Barone quickly come to mind.

"Your mother is a know it all" he informs Goog.

"If she were in that bed she wouldn't need the doctor to put her to sleep" Shecky Green joked "she wouldn't even need the nurses to push her down the hall, her arms would reach around back and she would even carry her own IV pole, while pushing pulling herself (and the bed) along the wall, with one arm".....

(Arrrghhhhh shut up!!!!)

They finally came to take her away and fifteen kisses later my girl was being wheeled down the long hall and Daddio and I were ushered back to the waiting room.

"See you soon" the nurses said.

My legs shook, and bounced and were restless.

And I asked Daddio at least ten times if 15 minutes had passed yet.

After the 10th time he said "relax, it hasn't been that long".

I started watching the door like an expectant father in the old movies....every time it looked like someone was walking out I sat forward in my seat.

Finally, they came for us.

I tried to read the nurses face, to see if Googie was okay.

"How is she" I asked.

"Ohhhh, she's enjoying her anesthesia" was her response.

Daddio and I walked into the room and Googie was slumped sideways on her hospital pillow, her eyes tightly closed and a grin from ear to ear.

It was obvious that Googie was not only fifty sheets to the wind, she was loaded and stoned.

Her antics had Daddio and I cracking up. The nurse was laughing too.

With her eyes closed she'd use her IV heavy hand to search the tray for a cookie, she'd finally locate one, bring it to her mouth take a bite and then forget to chew.

"GOOGIE!!! You are gonna choke. Sit up and chew" I ordered.

She just giggled.

And waved her arms in the air, making circles with both wrists.

"I luuuuuuuv this stuff" she slurred.

The Ellen show was on in the background and when Ellen started talking about people who were graduating Googie took the message personal and started her little fist pumping

Up and down she pumped.

Then she started waving only one hand and when I asked her what she was doing she replied "conducting".

The dope doctor came in to check on his pint sized patient. She was laughing pretty hard when he came in and when he asked her "how ya doin?"

She answered "YOU tell me!!!!" then giggled.

"Ohhhhhhh boy" the Candy Man said.

"This is just like a regular Saturday night!!!!" Googie yelled.

"She doesn't drink, honestly she doesn't" I truthfully said, trying to clear Party Time Charlie's name.

The nurse told us to take it slow getting her dressed.

Daddio said he'd go warm up the car and pull it around front to pick us up when we were ready.

I helped Googie's underwear onto her feet and she came around enough to pull them up. Then came her yoga pants. When she had them pulled over her hips she kicked off the blankets and spread her legs widely side to side. If she were on the floor she would have been doing the splits.

"GOOGIE!!! What are the heck are you doin???" I asked.

"Stretchin mom, I'm stretchin".

She slap happily staggered to the waiting wheel chair and on the way down the hall she had a few more words to say to nurses getting in our way.

"Excuse us" one said politely, pushing another patient by.

"NOOOO EXCUSE US!!!!" Googie yelled.

The nurses looked knowingly at each other and laughed.

Googie came home and slept off the rest of her high.

Ohhh, a couple more things before I end my story......

1. Googie's colon is sparkling healthy.

2. God is Good!!!!!

3. And Googie now knows she can fly, minus wings.

Ohhhh boy!!!

She shoots, she scores!!!!!

Last Mother's day was one of those rare occasion when I got a “perfect” score

We'd invited Milly, (Daddio's mom) to come for dinner for Mother‘s Day, but she declined.

So what the heck do we do to make this virtual shut in’s day special???

Flowers, boring.

Candy, she’s got diabetes.

A blouse, she has a closet full, many with the tags still attached.

Out to dinner?

"No, not feeling up to it“ she explained.

Part of the “not feeling up to it” stems from the fact that she is nocturnal and so dinner time is just about the tail end of her sleep cycle.

I suggested to her son that we stop at Kroger and get all the fixings to make her breakfast in bed.

He thought I was nuts.

“She never eats breakfast. She‘ll never just sit in her bed and eat” he assured me.

“Yeah she will” I told him, not knowing if he was going to be right and seriously hoping he wasn’t.

Many of my unsuccessful “bright ideas” are often revisited for the mere purpose of rubbing in that I was wrr wrrrr wrong.

When we got to her house, grocery bags in hand. We were greeted by our niece and her two small children. They’d spent the night with grandma.

Grandma’s bedroom door was almost closed and her fan was on.

Through the crack I could see the blankets rising and falling with her even breaths.

I got to work on Rip Van Winkle’s breakfast in bed.

My little great niece helped me with the French Toast. We also made scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, toast and coffee.

Sliced fresh oranges and some juice made it a feast.

We put the breakfast on a platter and my husband and his pixie sized, brown haired great niece carried it in and woke up Sleeping Beauty.

She jumped up, startled when they called her name.

I could see a moment of confusion as she took it all in. “Happy Mother’s Day…breakfast in bed” they both yelled.

“I've never had breakfast in bed…EVER” Milly said, throwing back the covers and sticking her pillows up behind her back.

She ate like it was the best meal she’d ever eaten.

“Thank you honey” she whispered in my ear as she hugged me close.

As we pulled away from her house Daddio reached over and caressed my hand.

“What a great idea” he said.

You miss 100% of the shots you never take….this day I had a slam dunk.

(Take a shot this weekend and score big with the mommas in your life....we are a hard workin bunch.)

What was that?

I scamper over sleeping Daddio and a smothering pile of sheets and blankets like a Jesus lizard running on water.


Seriously, I took about three giant leaps, flew up off the bed and onto the floor in seconds flat.


Then I stopped dead in my tracks.


Did I just hear what I thought I heard?


I stood silent and waited.


I cocked my head toward the sound.


My eyes scanned the clock.... 2:03 am


Then the sound came again.


The phone!!!


"THE PHONE IS RINGING AND IT IS TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING"... I screeched at Daddio.


See, the thing is, I have a BIG problem with answering a phone that rings in the middle of the night...it may have something to do with the fact that I got the news of my brother's fatal accident by phone. That call came on a Sunday night around nine or nine-thirty.


For a long time I couldn't and wouldn't answer the phone on Sundays.


Phone calls after 9 pm usually bring nothing but trouble...unless you're expecting a baby in the immediate family, which we aren't.


As quickly as I was scaling Daddio and the mountains of covers I was doing a mental tally of where my children should be.


In bed.


In bed.


In bed.

All the commotion had Daddio out of bed as well and in the split seconds it took for me to locate the ringing phone he had thrown back the blinds of our bedroom window to see if the kid's cars were where they should be too.


Reaching the phone, which had just stopped ringing , I ordered my eyes to focus and my fingers to find the TALK button.


I fumbled for the call log button.....WHO was calling in the middle of the night??????


Before I looked down to see WHO.... I remembered.


BEAR....!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Bear and his friends had gone to see a midnight flick (yeah, I know it was a school night..and your point is???)


The opening night for the remake of Nightmare on Elm Street.


"Hello? Hello? Hello" I cried into the phone.


Nothing. Dead silence.


My fingers, on auto pilot, dialed Bear's number.


"Ma" he answered, his voice a whisper,

 "Can you come open the door? Googie locked the deadbolt".


When Bear stepped in the door I kissed and hugged him like he was returning from War.


"I can't take much more of this" Daddio said when I crawled over him to get back to my spot in our bed.


"People like us shouldn't have children".


Silently I thanked the Lord for safe children, the man sleeping next to me, and our strong aortas.


Aortas that have really been put to the test these past twenty four years that we've been parents.


I went to sleep thinking of home defibrillators.

It takes two to Waltz....

The next time you’re at a wedding take notice of the long time married couples dancing.

Notice how he moves forward and she steps back.

He steps back and she steps forward. It is the most beautiful thing to watch.

Poetry in motion.

I’m sure they didn’t always dance like that.

I’m sure there were times when he moved his way and she moved hers.

Toes got stepped on.

Timing was off.

Balance was lost.

I don’t think of that when I watch.

I don’t think of all the time they took perfecting their dance. I just enjoy the perfect rhythm, the give and take.

Sometimes I watch their feet to see if they misstep, which doesn’t happen very often.

But when it does, just as quickly, they readjust and are back to the perfect rhythm.


My husband and I are what you would consider *long time marrieds*, and I am beginning to notice that we too know the steps of our dance.

We dance often in the kitchen, in the morning, with no music.

In perfect step.

Effortlessly I follow his lead.

His timing is perfect.

He never steps on my toes, and I never throw off his balance.


When you watch a long time couple dance it looks easy and effortless.

When you watch the couples on Dancing with the Stars you see a similar rhythm.

 You have to remember though, that there is one expert on the team.

It also takes lots and lots and lots of practice and pain and trust in each other.


I equate this with marriage.

Sometimes I think that because I have a great marriage my children have grown to think that it is effortless, and has been easy.

 As simple as choosing a nice person and getting married and life, ever after, is grand.


The kids never witnessed the hard part.

We don’t argue much in front of them, we provide a united front on almost every issue. We are comfortable with each other having worked out many of the missteps long ago.


My best friend (since first grade) has long time married parents (and oh, you should see them dance).

When we were kids they were kind of scared to let her hang around with me because I came from a *broken home*.

Of the five children in her family, four have been divorced.

In my broken home family two of the three children have had long time marriages. My brother was newly divorced (a month or two) when he was killed in an accident.


My friend and I talk often about marriage and we toss around that idea that it could be possible that children of people who have been happily married a long time take for granted that all marriages are like their parents, easy and effortless.

And that maybe children of divorced parents may view marriage as something more difficult and harder to attain.

Is it possible that these children know that a good marriage must take lot of hard work?

A lot of pain and a lot of practice?

Interesting concept isn’t it?

The paper tiger.......

My mother in law and I share a dirty little secret.


Piles.


Piles and piles of papers.


Stashed papers.


In paper bags.


Hidden in closets, or under beds.


I found out a couple of years after Daddio and I married that his mother has exactly the same filing system as mine.


Our stacks start out innocent enough. A bill here, a bill there. Toss a couple of coupons for Bed Bath & Beyond and a grocery circular, last month’s Redbook and a recipe for that cake you plan to bake on top.


The neat little stack sits pretty on the edge of the kitchen table, or the kitchen counter.


Daily the stack gains height, and width.


After about a week or so the stack begins to teeter.


And totter.


And before you know it, the stack has matured into a full fledged pile.


And then somebody whizzes by and the pile slides off the table onto the floor.


And then we've got ourselves a bit of a problem.


Daddio threatens D I V O R C E.


Before he heads off to see an attorney he gives me time to clean up my act….like a few hours.


In a perfect world I would sort through the pile and reduce it. Then I’d file the important stuff and toss the rest.


Instead, I stash the pile into a paper grocery bag and hide place it in a closet or under a bed.


“I can’t live like this” Daddio yells when he stumbles upon one of my bags.


“I’m Claustrophobic”


“I will leave you” he threatens, when he has to catch one (or more) bag(s) about to tumble out of its hiding storage place.


“I WILL leave you over this”.


So I ask him, “aren’t you going to feel kind of stupid when we go to court and the judge starts questioning you”?


“Is she on drugs?


A shopaholic?


An alcoholic?


A nymphomaniac?


A germaphobe?


Been unfaithful?


Abusive?”


“No” Daddio will answer to each and every query.


“Why exactly then Sir are you seeking a divorce?”


“Piles, Your Honor, she makes piles."


Once when the kids were young Daddio built me a really neat bench, attached to the wall behind the table. It was for the kids to sit on.


“Make it a storage bench” I suggested.


He flat out refused, saying “In a week or two that bench will be so stuffed with crap that the kids will be sitting at an angle, wth their feet dangling”.


He did as I asked and in a week or two, they were.


Last night my mother in law came over for dinner. On the side of the table, hidden in the back against the wall are two paper bags filled to the gills with papers and flyers and bills and important recipes.


I’ve been taking full advantage of the fact that Daddio has bigger fish to fry these days and he hasn’t noticed mentioned the piles.


Normally, before she would arrive I'd have stashed the bags and had the place looking all spiffed up, yesterday, I got sidetracked and forgot.


After dinner, we sat at the table talking. She glanced over to her left, toward the right hand corner against the wall where the papers were sitting and she said "Nice piles".


What the........?!!!!!


How could she throw me under the bus like that?


"You like my piles?" I asked, wounded. "I've been very busy and haven't had much of a chance to clean them up or stash them anywhere, you know how it is?"


She looked at me kind of strange.


"Your tile" she said,


"I said, I like your tile".