Geronimo!

…then comes marriage, then comes (fill in the blank) with a baby carriage? I’m surely going to ruffle many colorful feathers here, but I really wonder. When did we begin not only to accept, but celebrate, even envy, women and couples, who have children before they even talk walking down the aisle?

Some people are going to be really ticked off. I know there are those of you out there with different stories. Not so traditional. Not so easy. And these are circumstances I would never even pretend to understand, or judge. But what I am talking about, gritching about, is a society that has nearly fully, NO. Fully decided that it is just great to promote and flaunt men and women who get pregnant, and then maybe, talk about what they want to do about it. Or try, like the rumors surrounding the obnoxious Angelina Jolie, to get fertility help, on the heels of, and maybe even before, a divorce is even final. Do we have no respect for ourselves? What do we want for our children? Really? Even if we must deal with some unconventional circumstances, is this what we desire, dream of, for our own?

You have your story. I have mine. And they don’t always look the same. I’m all for diversity. And some people truly believe there is no merit in a piece of paper only. There is Sting and Trudy. Who after quite some time and several children, finally did go for the piece of paper. But have apparently, and yes, this is subjective, been faithful to eachother and thier children for years and years. And it is important to understand that I am not condemning all women out there who either met her husband at the altar in a maternity gown, or brought their mutual child to the reception. I know all about casting the first stone, and judging ye not. But there is nothing un-Godly about questioning certain societal trends. Trends meaning the things that are coming in vogue. That we aspire to, or admire. Or think is sooo cool. And we are knee deep in a trend that says if you got the hots for each other, by all means, go for it. Bring a baby into your 2nd, 3rd or 4th relationship. Doesn’t matter if the ink is dry on the papers. Or if you’ve even notified a current spouse. This time it’ll take. This time, your loins are screaming the truth. Just ask the children of your previous marriages/affairs.

Angelina Jolie. Gag. Sorry, but hearing news bits about her “wonderful news”, with the ever devoted (right Jennifer A?) Brad Pitt just turns my stomach. The ever beloved TomKat. More gag. Apparently, they found each other, went out a few times, got pregnant, she considers his “religion” (just personally, I’m not into any religion that denounces the potential pharmaceutical needs of a post-partum woman), and they start planning a wedding. And all the world is enthralled. Isn’t it romantic that he proposed at the Eiffel Tower? Isn’t he brilliant for going at it with Matt Louer, vehemently espousing that medical intervention is unintelligent? Misguided? Just plain wrong? Remember the beautiful Catherine Zeta Jones? Her husband, the dashing Michael Douglas? If I remember correctly, she was proudly displaying her bulging belly before the papers had even been completed on Mr. Douglas’ divorce with his previous wife. The one that saw him through all his years of trying to make it in the business, and raised his other children at the same time. The toothy Julia? She wore t-shirts berating Danny Moder’s at-the-time current wife, to get her out of the way. And we were all soooo happy when their love was finally made official on her ranch out west somewhere. Aaahhhh, true love. Wasn’t it true love when she went barefoot to the wedding with Lyle Lovett?

I am not saying mistakes can’t be made. Or rather, lessons learned. I know many of us go through heartache before we find our true one. That the things we think could kill us, that we dread the most, are so often the things that make us, for the better, who we are. Or that we find our ideal situation may just turn out to be without the one we thought we’d share the rest of our years and raise a child with. It happens. And maybe, our baby is on the way before we exchange gold bands. These circumstances can still result in a wonderful life.

But if this is the case, if these are the trials through which we lived, is it really our dream for our daughters to experience the same? Do we want her to find herself pregnant, and wonder if the father will really stick around? Do we want her to win a man from his wife? And if so, what’s to give her the confidence that this time will be it. I’ve always wondered, if I am once the other woman, what will prevent another from taking my place one day? I’m thinking that the track record there may not instill so much peace in my heart. Do we want our children to have to wonder if the one they love will really be there? I’ve certainly survived, and even thrived, through some stuff. Yet, I would not wish it upon my children. I get really ticked at the constant barage of media out there, telling my children, telling your children, that certain things are not only OK, but normal, and even desirable. Some things just are not. And if you consider yourself more open, more liberal, more accepting than you think I am sounding in this little rant, just picture your child in one of the situations of which I speak. Your little girl. Or your son. When I personalize it, it makes a difference in my so-called philosophies. Does it for you?

I’m just fed up with the glamorous shots of couples touching bellies, and shopping in $150 per outfit baby shops. When they haven’t even, for all apparent purposes, begun to plan a life together. Commit. Say they’ll stick it out, for better or worse. I’m not concerned with the state’s approval and silly certificate. I’m concerned about a heart issue. Again, I’m not condemning or judging all the men and women who find themselves in circumstances they may not have exactly expected. And then they go and do the best they can. I’m just tired of the glamorization of babies and families through people who’s idea of long term is a movie contract. From the people who started that remember the children a few years ago, telling us, the rest of the country, as if we didn’t know, that some really important years of a child’s life are the first three. Or some such nonsense, but who’s heads were people like Bruce and Demi, who’d long since divorced. Do you have to? I’m not in your relationship, so I cannot cast opinion. But in these celebrity cases? Don’t even get me started. Bed to bed, relationship to relationship, family to family, and then a re-made family upon re-made family. Call me square. Call me old fashioned. Tell me I’m judgemental and closed off. Religious freak. I’m not sure I care. I don’t think you have to hold to one certain religion or denomination to understand what I’m saying. One of our dearest friends and I were just bemoaning the loss of the family on the phone the other day. The loss of values, and hope of relationship within the family. And she is Orthodox Jew. And I am Charismatic Christian (on a good day). I think we all know, deep in our heart of hearts, that there are certain circumstances more conducive for children and families than others. And that our lovely members of society in their la-la land out in L.A. may not have a clue as to what that is. But they seem to be dictating to the rest of us what it is.

So. You don’t really believe in marriage, as a traditional institution. You don’t need any government, any religion, to tell you who you can love, and live with. Although I lead a pretty conventional life, I understand some of this. I love my husband, and we belong together. With our children. No matter who has or who has not signed off on some fragment of a form. What I wish, what I pray for, is a honoring of what it really is to be a family. And some universal understanding that it just may not be what we see in Hollywood on a regular basis. This may never happen, but I can hope. And I can still just go about saying gag about the Angelinas, and the Britney’s and Kevins, who can’t hold it together even a year after the baby comes, and all the others who are so privileged, but can’t really appreciate what they have. And think the rest of us are pedestrian, at best.

As quoted in the article by Ben Stein, one post prior to this, the heroes of our age are not the flashy ones. They are the ones who dig in and do the work that must be done. That we cannot survive without. And that especially means raising our children, for the next generation. It is no light task. And the perks suck. But it does mean everything. And the example we are being given by a large percentage of our culture, especially the wealthy and famous culture, is just wrong. Send me all the hate mail you want. But it is. Lord, help us.

statements. Ever again. Come out of the mouths of my children.

1. Is that all? If it’s on your plate, and I’ve called you to a meal, what you see is what you get. And the answer to that question will be, nope (with a removal of your plate, and a reference to the remaining empty spot), that is all you get. I. am. not. your. personal. short. order. chef. And those assanine books suggesting I make plates of food that resemble ships in bottles, some demented clown face, or the leaning Tower of Piza? Screw it. By the time the kids of those parents are 12, they’ll (the parents) be carving sides of beef with a chain saw, to get a custom cut of steak in the shape of Poke’ Man. Or whatever the heck that character’s name is. Forget it.

2. But you said you’d (fill in the blank). Um, the last time I checked, I was generally with my lips when they start flapping. You think I’m going to suddenly forget, and then suddenly condone the promise of a purchase of a cell phone, so I can always know where you are. Because once, for .2 seconds, 8 months ago, I said to your Dad, and you overheard, that I can see why some parents would find that useful for some younger children. Little newsflash, Speedreader. I already always know where you are. You’re 10. And we homeschool. And your Razor has a busted wheel. Where are you going to go? I know what I said, and usually when I said it, and what I was wearing when I said it, and if I was having a good hair day or not the day I said it. When it comes to you and your siblings. Why I can’t find my keys, ever, I have not one clue.

3. But I didn’t doooo it! Oh hon, oh my darlin’. Oh sweet Blue. Lord knows I do love you. But when I hear the crash, and see the flash of light from the other room, and run to the area of presumed disaster, and the lamp is smashed to smithereenes, and the side table is knocked over, and the picture frame is busted, and you are the only one in the room, and the only one who just so happens to be sitting in the chair by the aforementioned lamp and table…my dear, you did doooooo it. You did, you did, you did. I. am. not. stupid.

4. But he/she grabbed (whatever). I just don’t know what to say here. Really I don’t. We’ve scolded you. We’ve spanked you. We’ve time outed you. Or whatever the past tense is there. We’ve taken away the Object of Grabbing. We’ve re-enacted scenarios where one of you has an item, and another asks nicely for this item, and we practice how that situation can be handled, and we all do this little skit together, and then demonstrate the wrong way to handle it, and we all go away with a fresh understanding. Smiling. Nodding. Oh yes, we understand. It’s so much better this way. Why, oh why, dear Mother and Father, have you not shared this precious information with us prior to this most seminal moment? Freed forever from the insidious whines that creep through our walls, but he graaaabbbed…around here, forever is about a 6 minute span. *sigh* I have no answer, but I’m warning you. I. am. sick. of. this. phrase.

5. I’m so worn out’a doing this! Blue Boy, let me tell you something. There is nothing. I repeat, nothing. That you could possibly be worn out’a doing. You. are. 5. All that is ever asked of you is to brush your teeth, fold a blanket every now on then on your bed, and help Catgirl if you sleep in her bed, with all those blasted decorative pillows. And oh, carry some of your clothes up the stairs, to your specially arranged room, just for you. These are words that really get me going, and it would be better for your health, if you learn right now, to stop saying them. You do not, and again, I repeat, do not. want me to start on the loooong-a** list of what I’m worn out’a doing. Not the least of which is raising you. Boy, you’re gonna be lucky to make it 20. By the grace of God…

6. But you get to (fill in the blank). I, my sweets, am the adult. And for the crap I have to put up with from yall, I’ve earned it. Staying up til midnight is a small, small perk for the totality of my job description. Let’s not even mention that if I can make it up that late, I’m usually folding your underwear! Enough.

7. In just a minute. Oh, ho, ho, hoooo. Oh, Mom and Dad. I’m so sorry I was probably getting married before I began to outgrow this. And listen up little peeps in my house. I. am. the. boss. of. you. And when I say, or request something, you have not, you have earned not, the privilege of putting me off for a minute. Not even for a second. For in that amount of time, you are capable of forgetting that you desperately have to pee, and may wet the floor. Mom, Dad, I never understood. Now, I do. In spades.

8. Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m! Where are yo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-u? Oh. my. G*d. This makes me insane. We have a nice house. A great house. It is large enough, certainly, but not too large. There is no east wing. There is no west wing. 2300 sq. feet. Not one of which hides any of the smallest decible of sound from any other part of the house. When you fart in the mudroom, I hear it from my bathroom, on the second floor. Do. not. call. for. me. from. any. part. of. the. house. Unless there is blood. Large, copious amounts of blood. A smallish gaping wound will not do. Something requiring 12 or more stitches, maybe. Other than that, come. find. me. Period. There are few things I hate more than screaming up heeeeeeeerrrreeeee when I am upon the john. Which, by the way, statistics show, is the number one time in which you go about yelling all over the house for me. You all? You ask for privacy. Me? You ask why I have to be in there so long. Stop. it.

9. I don’t really wanna… Oh. Really. You. don’t. really. want. to. That’s funny, really. Hysterical. I don’t really wanna do the laundry. Wipe your bums. Get up early. Clean the kitchen all day, every day. Dust. Rid the toilets and surrounding areas of your pee, and worse. Pick the dog (that you begged for) poop up off the floor. Vacuum. Think of something to make, 3 times a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year. Um, let me think. Wear the clothes I purchased 10 years ago. Live with these stretch-marks…and on, and on. But sometimes, love is doing what you don’t really wanna do, because you do really do love someone. You’ll learn that soon enough, I suppose.

10. That’s not fair! Waah, waah. It may not be. Niether is life. Get over it. The sooner you do, the better.

1. cool beans wants to know what we do without the TV. Well, I’m only partly able to answer. We only went TV free part of the day. It was a half TV Free Tuesday. But I promise to make it up another day this week. Do make up days count? Can I still keep the cutie TV Free Tuesday button. Please? This, I can report, and it was good. I just bailed later in the day. Got busy, had to tutor someone in the must-dos when beginning homeschooling, and just said, aaawwww crap, just go watch TV. No. Really I said, you’ve been really good and imaginative all day (til 4 pm), you wanna watch a cartoon or two? That really is what I said.

What we did up til then is as follows:
Legos, Legos, Legos, pretend we’re dogs, pretend we’re cats, work in our new calendars, our morning chores, some laundry, drew sea turtles hatching eggs, baby turtles clawing towards the ocean, drew baby puppies with momma dogs, kittens with momma cats, a really bad horse (that was me), wrestled, got hurt and cried, stopped wrestling, counted the turtles eggs that were drawn, made lunch, had a long lunch, cleaned up after lunch, and by then, my friend was here. But it’s Andy Griffith for Pete’s sake! Right now, Opie’s getting called out by his teacher right in front of the whole class, and Sherriff Andy’s getting blamed for his not doing his homework (class erupts in chaos). It’s practically educational. I’m going to call it Mid Century Modern Social Studies. Now that’s a great class. We might do Mr. Ed next. It’s Husbandry.

2. What the h*ll is up with WW telling me my 25 minutes of wing flapping fun on the bike is only worth one activity point??? One measly point? I can burn more calories lifting a 1.5 liter of a good red wine. Shoot…that stinks really smelly.

3. I’ve noticed that the word verification dealy with which many of us must leave comments makes really funny words or sounds, or something, sometimes. I think I’m going to start a list, and post them. Yeah. Maybe that one’s not taken, or copywrited. Now what to call it…

I’ve had it. The whining, the boredom, the pouting, the endless excuses to not do what needs to be done, and that’s not even the children. I guess I need a good rant. It’s that or start drinking at 3:58 pm. Sounds a bit early, for a non-holiday day.

All the goodness with which the children were laden from Dec. 24 til, like, yesterday, sits idle in boxes and closets. Tissue paper, pine needles, dirty dishes, scads of laundry, dust balls, Werther’s wrappers, and those stupid foam peanut things litter my home. They stare at me, seemingly empty headed (the children, not the peanuts), begging for some form of entertainment? Whaa? Entertain you! With the list of Important Stuff I need to do, and roomsful of new crap for you to play with? Apparently, yes. Try the Droid builder I laid awake praying to snatch away from some unsuspecting guy in Sweden. Don’ wanna. Don’t wanna? What the…? How bout the new Legos, the puzzles, the books, the magnatex thingies?…done it, finished it, read them, don’wanna. What do they want to do? Watch TV. And more TV, and then a bit of TV. And when denied this privilege, they’ve countered with an all out assault of bickering, moaning, gritching, grabbing, heeeeee saaaaaaiddddd to meeeeeee, sheeeeeee toooooooook myyyyyyyyyy, maaaaaaaaaakkkkkkeeeeeee hiiiiiiiiimmmm stoooooooooppppp shelling that is coming scarily close to bringing down the Supreme Commander of the Big People’s 1st Battalion (Mr. Tango is Supreme Supreme Commander, and come with the privilege of getting to leave the house.).

Tried to undecorate the tree. 5 year old broke favorite new ornament of Catgirl, resulting is wailing heard throughout the town, and 5 year old matching it pitch and volume, in protests of “I didn’t meeeeaaaaaannnnnn tooooooooo”. Children are lounging on sofas and chairs, limp and glassy eyed, like those melted clocks of Salvador Dali, begging for the brain stimulation of media. Any media. Just don’t make me think! They appear to plead. I’ve been told I’m not as fun as A. My parents, B. Mr. Tango’s parents, C. Our babysitter (countered that with the little bomb that I pay her to play with them) and apparently D. The newly acquired selection of Animal Planet, Cartoon Network, or Disney. None of those people have to run my house! Just let SpongeBob take a crack at it!! I shot back.

I see the pattern every year. The more they are played with, read to, catered to, baked for, sure-I’ll-do-thated, the worse they become. And I’m just screwed if you throw in a few presents. A potato farm in the outreaches of Uzbekistan would do them more good. All the cheer and gift opening dies down, like slamming on the brakes doing 80, Daddy goes back to work, and here I am, like a young fawn (but holding her morning coffee) before a leering pack of hyenas. What are you going to do for us today, Mommy, what are you going to bake? What’s new today, Mother, where are we going to go? How many shows today, Mom, I’m soooo booooored, Mommy… The mere mention of pitching in with the clean up sends them shrinking back into the shadows. Enforcing the pitching in is like pulling off my fingernails, one by one. All the work, all the effort of the year, all the progress we’ve been so proud of, *POOF!*, obliterated in 14 days, give or take. And the start to my new year, with all it’s fine resolutions of productivity and weight loss, and spiritual contentment, begins to shake, shudder and slowly erode, as I sit here and TYPE and think about what chocolate I may be able to find leftover in the stockings, and it must be 5:00 somewhere in the world, bottoms up!

Maybe February, or sometime in March would be a better time to start anew. Especially for the weight loss portion of the deal. I’m this close (me, nearly pinching my fingers together) to marching right up the stairs and boxing every piece of plastic I see. I’ll show’em bored. And I’ll show how to LOVE folding the laundry. Don’t. tell. me. you’re. bored, I oughta…(censored). And stop lurking around the computer while I’m trying to get away from you all! OMIGOSH! Catgirl just appeared at my side, all pitiful and sad-eyed, asking to WATCH A MOVIE! Do they have hearing anymore? Was it totally squashed by too many rounds of Jingle Bells? Are there synapses firing up there in those supposed to be bright brains of theirs? Or are they blocked by sugar deposits? HAVE I NOT SAID THERE WILL BE NO MEDIA TODAY? Am I talking just to feel my lips flap???

I swear I’m gonna cancel all future events that include any indulgences whatsoever. And Blue Boy just walked through the room declaring that Christmas should be every day. Good lord, forget the glass, just pass the bottle.

this was for fun. Apparently, I may be very wrong. As tonight, this is an email/comment I received on this Flashback Friday idea. When I was informed, as can be seen in my comments section, that I may be stepping on some toes, as below:

Karin at HeartSongs (http://three-part-harmony.com/heartsongs/) started the original Flashback Friday quite some time ago. I’m sure she’d have no problem with you participating, but if I were her, I wouldn’t be real pleased to see someone else claiming my idea as their own. Just saying…

I responded honestly that this just came to me, that I’m new to this, and have never seen this person or her site. And that I would contact the potential “originator” of said idea. And then received this:

Well Allison, to some it is a game, and to others it is a hobby. Please, do visit her and inform her that you intend to take her idea and pass it off as something you just happened to think of months after she did. Should you decide to do your own version of Thursday 13 as well, I’m sure the blogger who created the idea will be equally as pleased. It is not a competition, but you will find, since you are new to this hobby, that bloggers tend to take something called a copyright very seriously when it applies to their creative writing ideas.

Merry Christmas to you and yours as well.

I just want to say that I’m here for fun. That whatever has “happened” to occur to me, actually has, and that I do indeed, credit Miss Leanne with all her Thursday 13 fun-ness. I link right up to her, and mention her frequently. No attempt to steal here. I like participating in all this stuff, and would love to have others hang with me as I walk through this new “hobby”. I see it all as a great outlet for women, everywhere, no matter what their backgrounds, age, history, race, religion. We can have a voice. We can meet others. And in theory, I sure thought it was about support, and fun. Not copywriting infringement and “rights”. Why do I suddenly have an urge to slam my locker closed and tell my best girlfriends not to talk to her anymore? Is this highschool? Or is it a fantastic forum for women to get to know eachother and share a bit of life…oh! Do I hear the bell? I might be late for our quiz in bio today…gotto make sure I make that!

I would love good, fun traffic. I would love “popularity” in this funny blog world. I won’t pretend that’s not fun. But this stuff? I left it behind 20 years ago, and hoped most of us did, as well. And Leanne? I love your idea, and that you offer a great idea to link up to. What is wrong with sharing the ideas? Sharing the traffic? Sharing the fun, whether it be game, hobby or much needed outlet?

What I thought was a place to share what I feel, to be excited that people may read what I feel, to vent my wannabe writer-ness, seems to have become a slanted sorority of sorts, like the clique of girls I simultaneously loathed and longed to be, when I was 16. More than half my lifetime ago. Certain blogs seem to be able to dictate what the rest of us do. Suddenly, silly silly ideas like a Flashback Friday becomes proprietary rights. What? Is this something revolutionary no one else could have thought of? Are we kidding ourselves? Is there money changing hands that I don’t know about? We’re not putting food on the table here, we’re playing, or sharing. Or we would like to kindle some relationship, even if we may never meet in person. Moreena’s participation in this blog stuff has garnered her blood donors, gift givers and life time supporters for her very sick little girl. Running2ks has been blessed to visit her, and donate blood herself…many of you out there have participated in this walk with Moreena. And not turned this into some sort of infantile popularity contest.

If it means I have to take sides, worry about “stealing” copyrights (about which I would never care, this is pretty public afterall), or contacting any of the 50 some odd million people out there with blogs to make sure I didn’t duplicate one of their ideas, just to have an outlet I love, then I quit. I have been proved that this is all false. Just stupid. I’ll just open a Word document and type away til my heart’s content. I hoped I’d finally found a spot that didn’t run like middle school cheerleaders. Maybe I was wrong.

or A Makeover Story. I can’t decide which.

Dear, dear fashion gurus,

Please, please, please consider me. I once thought I knew what I was doing, and maybe I did. But that was nearly 2 decades ago now. And during that 20 years, I’ve watched 15 turn into nearly 35 (my 35 is on the 28th *sigh*), and I can’t possibly believe that amount of time has passed.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad to be, um, maturing. I love that I’m a mother of 3, wife of 1. And I’m usually content to hang at home with all of them. Make the produce sales. Frequent Target. Pick up Legos over and over. Drive a mini van. I wouldn’t be 15 again if someone held a gun to my head. It was a dreadful, uncertain time. But dammit, I knew how to dress, and what looked good on my body type! Which was, of course, very very thin, very very straight, and very very young. But now, well, now, I am not the girl I used to be. I’m a woman. A woman. OK, I said it. A grown-up woman. A grown-up woman who has had three children, through 3 C sections, had her metabolism hit the over 30 mark, and has discovered the fine art of drinking lots of appreciating wine. And the left overs of peanut butter and jelly crusts, and bits of macaroni and cheese. It’s not that I’m overweight. I not. But I just don’t know what to do with the, um, shape, that is left. The rounder, softer, not quite as gravity friendly shape. The shape I’m trying hard to learn to love.

And here is discovered an isidious rub. Learning to love your not so girly, much more womanly body is made a bit easier if the clothes fit nicely. More flattering. It’s easy when everything hangs baggy off the hips, you’re cute just because you got out of bed, and even your boyfriend’s old flannel shirt is sexy on you. So you finally realize you might need to adjust your style a bit, see yourself a bit more, um, sophiticated, not so teen. You face the fading 80s music, and set out determined to grow up just a bit. Just enough to not look ridiculous still wearing those legwarmers you can’t believe are back. So where to shop that fits the budget? Old Navy? Great prices, clothes made for anorexic/bulemic 14 year olds. How can a large tee shirt be only 7 inches across? How can an xtra large not reach my bellybutton? Who’s wearing the smalls? The xtra smalls? Newborn dwarves? The Gap is better. Seems a bit less confining. But a very small variety there for much more than yoga wear or office casual. What if you don’t take yoga or go to an office? What if you just need something pretty OK to wear to BiLo, or to get the brakes fixed, or to meet your hubby for lunch? Ann Taylor? Nordstrom? Banana Republic? Hell, one decent sweater there is gonna run a week’s grocery budget. KMart? Target? I’d actually like the clothes to last through one season. I’m not label conscious, really. But I do like quality, and a flattering fit. Where, or where is it? Is it anywhere?

And, even then, if I found the place, had the money, I’m not convinced I could do it alone. I just can’t see myself clearly. Not the way I am now. I see shadows, outlines of the girl before, several inches in from the actual silhouette in the mirror. Big problem here. I see me. Or who I think is me. I think shirt, pants, size. I go get the size I see in my head, and hey, whassup? It’s 2 sizes too small! OK, that’s OK. I am not needing to lose weight. Really. I’m telling myself all the way to the dressing room I like the way I am. I can live with who I am now (I think). I might can learn to love this body again. But help me redefine. Grow more comfortably into this phase of my life. I’m almost 35. Great. I’d like to just make the most of it. Wear it well, if you will. I don’t need to be 15 again, or 17, or 22…I just want to be the best 35 I can be. And I’m not sure what that is. How to let go of that, and go for this, with real enthusiasm.

I don’t want to be any fashion slave, don’t get me wrong. I don’t care about what others wear, do, how they “fix” their face, or don’t. Style their hair, or let it blow dry in the wind. I’m really not into all the surface over the substance. And sometimes when you guys totally dis some person’s outfit, I think it’s rude. But I’d like to sometimes go to some event, or just get dressed for the day, and feel really good in my skin because it’s not being pinched off at the waist. Or under my bra straps. Or better, know what I’m wearing something, like, dare I say, appropriate for my age? Not like I’m some mid thirties chick thinking she can pass for 21? Are tank tops OK if your arms are starting to get those little sags under them? Is it OK to wear some pants that fit tight in the butt, are do those have to be retired? What length pant, or skirt or jacket fits me best? And is still young. Because I am, you know. Still. Young. My mother-in-law says if you’re old enough to have lived through it once, you’re too old to wear it again. Is this true? Will I look completely ridiculous in collar up turned pink Izods? I’m thinking it looked ridiculous the first time around. But then, no one ever called me a fashion maven. What about all the other stuff coming back from my youth? Twist a beads? Lace fingerless gloves? Pegged leg pinstriped jeans? You guys seem to know how to take a bit of a trend, and grow it up. This, I need. I’m not ready for those little soft white walking shoes and pleated knit pants yet, but know I’m not pierced belly/drawstring silk parachute pants either. Where’s the cool middle ground? Or is it hip? Or bomb diggety fresh? I don’t know! And I don’t really care. I just wanna know where to get some clothes for the me I am now. And if I should choose my colors by seasons, what shoes I wear, or my blood-type?

And let’s not forget that if you should choose me, I’ll get a $5000 Visa card with which to fund my newly discovered, polished up look. Now that’s something that I’m never going to go out and do on my own. So again, even if I figure out my own thing, all by myself, I won’t be able to do a damn thing about it. Who has the money?

I would be an excellent protege’. I’ll toss anything in my closet you ask. You can give me a new haircut (as long as it stays long, and I can use hotrollers). I’ll take all your suggestions with excitement. Just please, please, pick me.

I’ve been perusing a few of my old posts, trying to do some organizing. It seems that there has been a poser here, most likely my evil twin sister (you know how they can be). I realize she is witty and wry, and most certainly extremely eloquent, but she has committed a most egregious act. She has given the impression that I give a rat’s a$@ about losing a few pounds in the month of Christmas! Imagine! A diet at Christmas time?! Was she on crack?! Who would ever believe that I would do such an assanine thing? What, with all the cookies, and cake, dips made with cream cheese, butter, the eggnog with extra nog, parties to attend at which you cannot just not sample the hostess’s efforts…it would be simply stupid to try to lose some weight at this time of year.

See, I think she had this wicked thought that with our 35th birthday looming so close, that maybe, in my obsessive compulsive way, I would want to “be my best”, or “feel young and great”, as if I could defy the numbers on my physical clock, or some such ridiculous nonsense. That I would actually consider using this minor hallmark of life to put the pressure on myself to remind myself that I am still alright. That age ain’t going to take me down without a fight. She may have thought that it would possibly depress me to have my favorite jeans fitting just a bit too tight (OK, really too tight) on the day I reach what some would consider a milestone. What a silly, silly notion. She might have thought that the sag growing under my arms when I lift them would make me feel older, less desirable. I think she has no idea of what she speaks. What does she think I am? Some vain aging ex-sorority girl who thought she’d have a fantabulous career in journalism and never ever saw herself as a housewife and mom of three who sometimes doesn’t shower for 3 days at a stretch and says stuff like “am I talking just to feel my lips flap or are you going to listen to me?”, and occasionally wishes she still got passing glances like she used to from the boys like the young hottie serving up lattes at the Starbucks, instead of being called “mam” and driving the minivan she swore she’d never have, or who worries about things like the leaves in the gutters and making the latest sale on lean ground beef and whether or not there’s transfat in the Reduced Fat Triscuits, or who thought she’d have traveled the world by now but has a hard time getting to her kid’s gymnastics on time, or actually cares that her once adorable bellybutton is now 7 times its original size and hangs 4 inches lower, and has to take a cocktail of antidepressants to deal with it all? Is that what she really thinks? It’s absurd. And to hang all that on something as mundane as a 35th birthday, as if it’s really all that closer to 40. Huh. Forty schmorty. It’s not like it means appoximately half my life is over, or anything. Or that I’m reaching an age at which I distinctly remember my parents and what they were like at say, 35. Or that I care at all about the fact that my hands are starting to get that slightly dried, papery, wrinkled and vaguely spotted appearance that not so young women get. Who gives a damn?! Not me, that’s for sure. I hardly even notice. I especially don’t notice the fine lines around my eyes, or that I use twice as much under eye concealer as I did 10 years ago, or get afraid of what I’ll have to do in 10 years more. Not one bit. I just could not care less that my doctor has now started advising me on things such a mammograms over the next few years, the need for increased calcium to avoid osteoporosis, or the potential advent of peri-menopause, should I go through that particularly early, which happens. As if it would bother me that the fertile, life giving years of my life are over? Never.

I think it’s all rubbish, and am embarrased that you had to endure the shenanigans of my evil twin. She clearly doesn’t know me as well as she thought. I haven’t even thought about how I would want to arrive at 35, or the fact that it is some 12 days and 10 hours away. And I most certainly have not ever been so self absorbed as to give thought to what I weigh or look like on some random birthday. Haven’t given it a thought at all.

I’m about to email Mr. Tango for an emergency wine run. Prayerfully, he’ll be leaving the office sooner, rather than later. I have just spent the last two hours on another this’ll-be-fun (ha.) family project, and am about ready to cut open that vacuum packed pouch in the sadly empty little wine block and lick it dry. What do I do wrong?

A cake. A simple, homemade chocolate cake with which we’ll make a Christmas castle. We don’t even have to assemble it, it’s a handy dandy bundt pan sent from my aunt, for special holiday cheer. Whip it up, pour it in, and voila’! A Christmas castle pops out, cools on the rack, and is decorated by all for memory making fun. It’s the only thing even remotely like this I’m trying all season, and I’m so nerve racked, I sent the children out in 40 degree, sun’s setting weather to just get out of the house. How can it be so hard?

I thought, this time, I’ll do it right. No frazzled Mom for the children. Warm fuzzy fun for all. I won’t clean the kitchen after breakfast, so I won’t care that we trash it. I won’t vacuum til later in the day, for the same reason (I don’t do these things every day, Monday is chore day). I won’t even shower, so if the flour starts flying, I’ll just throw back my greasy head and laugh. But then we all assembled in the 2x2 corner in which I have to cook, and all hell broke loose.

I’m thinking about it now. Where did I go off course? Was it the desire to actually teach them something, like I tell people I do? Is that it? I only figured this was a perfect avenue. Catgirl is still getting reading under her belt. So have her read out the ingredients, and instructions. Math is not Speedreader’s fav, so have him measure with me for real life application. I had no plan for Blue Boy. There is no plan that will ever be hatched that will ever contain him. I just thought I could hold on long enough to include his grubby little hands in the mixing and licking.

Problem one. Phone rings as we begin to assemble the stuff. Had to take it, was a girl I’d been trying to get a hold of. 10 minutes, max. But it was an eternity and a half to Catgirl, who just couldn’t sit still and stop waving the recipe in front of me, no matter how many I-don’t-want-to-be-mean-but-will-be-if-you-make-me looks I gave her. OK, OK, shake it off. Back in the ring. I can do this. I dance around the children’s I wanna do the first ingredients and assign tasks. After 10 more minutes, the sugar is in the bowl. Ladies and gentlemen, we had lift off. And it was grand. 2 honkin cups of sugar, in the bowl…OK, flour. Speedreader…Catgirl says we need 1 and 3/4 C. of flour. Let’s go. Um, Mom, where is the mark on the measuring cup? There’s not one there, but there’s the one cup mark, and the one and a half…but I don’t know fractions yet….yeah, yeah, yeah you do. This kind. Remember the apple? The pear? The cheese sticks? How we cut’em? Yeah, but this is different. Nooo, nooo, it really is not. Same thing. Now see this mark (1 1/3)? What does that say, I’ll walk you through. Um, one and a quarter (me, deep breath). Okaay, a quarter means ‘4′. This says ‘3′. So what does it say? Three quarters. Um, no, hon (a bit of tension on my part). Not threeee quaaaarters…there is no ‘4′. Try again. One half. A half? Nooo, remember when we did the apples, the pretty little red apples? Cut them in 4s…two of those is a half…this says three. Three. Then he starts throwing stuff out, left and right, up and down, because he will never, and I mean never, let you think he just doesn’t know something. All defensive like, doing the “what, what?” shrug as I eyeball him.Two quarters. One and one half. Four quarters. While I’m pointing at the three. So then I had to make that a lesson. Son, do you not know the answer (duh.)? Just say, I don’t know. That’s all. Just saaaaaay it. That’s what I’m here for. I can tell you. I’d be so very glad to just tell you. Remember, we’re having fun, and learning at the same time? The whole practical life app thing that unschooling is? So he says, just tell me where to pour the flour to, that’s all I want to know. Ah ha! See? You can’t do it, without this delightful little life lesson, because you haven’t learned how yet…you have to let me show you. It’s. fabulous. fun. Meahwhile, Catgirl. Mom, can I read the next ingredient yet? Can I read it, here listen to me read it. I can read it. This is a word I can read. Hey Mom, listen to this…Mom, moooommmm, are you listening. I don’t want to be the White Witch, all promises and smiles in the beginning, only to reveal the ugly underneath when we get into it. I’m trying to give her grace, I mean, she’s waited all day for this. She’s excited. She’s also about to make me want to grab the hammer over there by that chair and bash my head in.

And then the wild one. Precariously balancing on a 3 and a half foot barstool because I can’t remember to get a blasted safe kitchen stool, and he alway always always wants to see into the bowl. He’s not even as tall as the stool that threatens to topple him to his most certain death. He wants get the ingredients, so just starts pulling stuff out of the fridge. Mayo. Diet Pepsi. Ham. Half a jar of salsa. No, no, no, noo, no, no. Those don’t go in the cake. But I just want to heeelllp, they get to help. Oh, Blue Boy, of course you can help, you can, uh, you can, you can lick the beaters clean! But I thought I got to lick the beaters, Catgirl wails and tears ensue.

At this point, we’re still on the dry ingredients. With one more to go, and like, 4 wet ones following. I have a twitch in my eye. There is a continual low level noise that I finally identify as slight whining from Blue Boy, as he can never see as well as he wants (I can’t see, I can’t see, I can’t seeeeeee). Which means, he can’t stick his head in it, hands all over it, and take it apart and put it back together for inspection. Anything short is sorely disappointing for him. I go into high gear. Catgirl, crack eggs. Speedreader, find the one cup dealy, Blue, get the heck out of my way. I can’t do anything with your head in my head. Which, by way of his poorly positioned stool, is where he was. Everytime I turned to the left, we were eyeball to eyeball. Tears for removing him from his post. Don’t care, just move.

Then, it is finished. In the oven. Done. And as I finish this, the timer is starting to go off. The timer designed by Satan. It is so loud, so beep-y, the neighbors can hear it. It is just like the forklift back up warning beep at Lowe’s, echoing off the concrete and 2x4s in the lumber section. But every time it goes, all three children yell Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-mmmm! to help me remember the thing in the oven is done. And don’t tell me to just not use it, get a little handheld timer. I’ve had 4. They’re all gone. Can’t imagine what happened to them. Now the precious cake is cooling. I’m just hoping it’ll come out of the fancy pan. The children have asked, giddily, are we going to decorate it tonight? Hell no. We are not. At this point, I am positive a Christmas Castle Cake must cool aaaalll night before successful decorating can begin. Maybe two nights.

Hey, it did come out.

It’s after midnight here in the Southeastern U.S., and I can’t go to sleep. Insomnia? Not tonight. Children ill? Nope. Tempting passion? Not at all. Ebay. I’ve got to win the Droid Lego Mindstorms building set thing with the remote control and PC programmable microchip deal. That’s what Speedreader has been wanting, and dammit, that’s what I’m gonna get. It’s not sold anymore through Lego; it’s older so can only be purchased used. It’s a sort of entry into the bigger, pricier Mindstorms kit, and seemingly perfect for our needs/budget. And that jerk that keeps outbidding me better watch out.

It starts innocently enough. Ah. A thing I need. A thing I want. And a bid is placed. Several hours pass in peace with the assurance that the object is mine. Errands go on, housework is done. Meals cooked. Stories read. The world spins as it should. Then the email chime. And the Notice. I’ve been outbid. Outbid? Who dares? Did I not stake my claim hours ago? Do they not know this thing is mine? So I rebid. And get outbid. And I rebid. And get outbid. Now I’m getting ticked. It’s personal. I’m sweating as I refresh the page to see where I stand. Have they come back yet, or has someone new thrown their hat in the ring. My fingers race across the keys. Shhhhhhh! I’m bidding! I snap at hungry children. Got. to. win. this. Thing. What would have cost $75 retail is soaring past $100. $110. $112. $113.50. $118. It’s Mine, it’s Mine. They. can’t. beat. me. Who do they think they are?

Aaah. But I am savvy. There are 47 minutes left on this bid and I’m going to watch it til the bitter end. Who’s the smart one now? And just in case I fall asleep, I’ve set my alarm to go off 93 seconds before bidding ends so I can swoop in if necessary. Hah. See who wins this auction. I bet they’re all snug in their bed, sawing Zs, feeling all cocky that the Thing will be theirs. But No! No matter that there are 14 still left for the taking, this one is the one I’ve claimed. Suuure, I could get one for $47.75, but then they’d win. And I can’t let that happen. Ah ha! 40 minutes to go, I am still high bidder bad ass! The Droid builder will be mine!

(35 min. 10 sec…)

(27 min. 16 sec…still hot! I’ve got butterflies…)

(16 min. 45 sec…ooooh, more jitters, I smell a win!)

(Ha! 6 minutes to go!)

59 seconds…47…32…28…11…2…SOLD! Sold to the crazy woman in her jammies with the mutt and snoring hubby at her side! I got the Droid builder, nanny nanny booo-boo…and only for 3 times what it would have cost me last year right out of the Lego catalog…what a deal! I wonder where it’s being shipped from?

So I am trying to take a little more control of my, um, intake, and can’t seem to find the will power or discipline to do it by myself anymore. And being nearly north of 35 doesn’t seem to help, nor does my fondness for chalupas, or wine. And this last 10 pounds is starting to tick me off, so I sought professional help. Weight Watchers. I’m thinking the Flex System sounds pretty good. Eat what you want, within reason. Each portion of each food carries a certian point value, and you add them up all day and enter it on your tracker thing on line, and it does all the work for you. Ha. It doesn’t cook, shop, or smack me when I waver, but it does show me, in black and red, when I’m off. If I’m honest. Which really is ugly sometimes when it’s staring right back at you from the screen. So I try to be.

I get all set up on line, and see that for what I weigh, and what I want to weigh, I get 20 points per day. Hey, 20, that’s not bad. Til I see one egg is like, 3. And one protein shake is 5. And one stupid cup of some no fun lean beef casserole thing with whole wheat noodles is 8. Sure, I can eat aaannything I want, as long as it is in thimble sized portions. Brownies? Sure. Get out your scale, and measure out a whopping .4 of an ounce. Go for it. Induuuulge. Enjoy. My Mom’s famous sausage balls? Yep. I can have 1/32 of one. And chew to my heart’s delight. And take 4 points off my daily allowance. Wine? Oh, yes. This is why this plan suits me so well. But one glass is equal to about 1/3 my entire daily intake. Gives new meaning to drinking my dinner.

Today is day 6. I think I’d dropped one pound, which is probably from peeing constantly due to the 27 glasses of water suggested each day. But last night was Bunco around here. A fabulous dice game made up simply as an excuse to leave the children with the husbands, and sample 7 new martini recipes. Wanna make sure you get at least of sip of each, so you can compare notes. I liked the White Martini, not too sweet, not too dry. Kind of citrusy. But I helped our hostess clean out her shaker by finishing off the Orange Martini, which was really too sweet for my taste, but I didn’t want to be rude, or unhelpful. She needed that shaker to get started on the Cosmos. Just doing my part to keep things running smoothly. Which kind of created the problem. I had rushed out the door, without eating a Point Acceptable Dinner. So after doing my party duty, it was only prudent to stop for snacks. A wise woman doesn’t over imbibe on an empty stomach. And I also realized I was pretty darn hungry. All that dice throwing. So here’s the rub. There were no carrots. No celery. No 0 point veggie soup. But there was a giant crock pot of velveeta queso dip. And fritos. I love velveeta queso dip. And fritos. And I was hungry. And maybe a teensy bit under the influence. Again, only trying to help our hostess. So today, I can’t quite figure out what to put in my tracker. Exactly how many points is half a crock pot of velveeta queso and untold numbers of fritos? How do I track that?