Write or Wrong?

If you call my house and expect someone to take a message, don't. It's just not going to happen. We'd like to, we really would, but we can't. Why not? Because we can't hang onto a notepad and a functioning writing utensil for more than 2 hours. Oh, I bring the stuff home. I've bought more pens than Hershey's has kisses, but they disappear the minute they hit our house. I hate hearing the words"let me give you that address" on the other end of the phone line because that prompts a furious search for something to write WITH and something to write ON, and I know I won't have both. Paper comes first. Let's see, how about the back of the water bill, an old church bullentin, the tab on that snapshot of our trip to Gatlinburg or that book I need to return to the library? I usually settle for a paper towel. Next comes the writing utensil. I can pick from an orange crayon, a dull eyeliner pencil, a big fat permanant marker (where was that when I needed it last week?) and a stubby pencil with broken lead. Hmm. I could always sprinkle a little flour of the counter and write with my finger. No, I'll take the pencil, sharpen it with a kitchen knife and scratch out the number on the paper towel. All of this requires a little tap dance of conversation to cover up the fact that I am sharpening the pencil, slicing my finger, washing out the cut and putting on a band aid.

If I'm not at home, I usually just pull out a deposit slip and lipstick. Since I make far fewer deposits than withdrawals, I always have plenty of deposit slips sitting in my wallet. Of course, all of this leads to yet another embarrassing moment when I eventually need the information on these homemade notes and start pulling paper towels and lipstick smeared deposit slips out of my purse.

The positive side to all of this is that these frantic little searches turn up other things I've been missing. I may not having anything to write with, but I now know the whereabouts of an unopened package of party invitations, my daughter's birth certificate, ticket stubs from our honeymoon, the dog's rabies tag and a two year old pack of Skittles.

Doggone Crazy

We are crazy dog people. I never thought it would get this bad, but it has. Let me introduce you to the object of our affection.

He doesn’t know he’s a dog, and we do nothing to dispel that notion. He likes his bananas slightly firm but not too green and prefers cherry popsicles over grape, although, he’ll eat both. His dental care cost more than mine last year, and he wouldn’t know how to sleep on anything other than a king sized bed. He expects a liver treat on Mondays, a fake bone on Tuesdays and Thursdays and snarls his nose at but does not refuse the “low fat, good for your heart and coat” chew on Wednesdays. Like all miniature schnauzers he will eat anything that’s put in front of him. They are walking garbage disposals. It’s starting to show, too. The last time we were at the vet, they discreetly slid us a pamphlet for Weight Woofers.

I’m not sure how we got to this point. It started out simple enough. He lived indoors but wasn’t allowed on furniture. A few months later, he was sitting on the couch, sleeping on our bed and had a collar for every season. I knew we were in trouble the morning I awoke and found him laying next to me with his head on MY pillow, snoring like my grandma. He barely opened one brown eye, gave me a “what are you doing on my side of the bed” look and went back to sleep.

He’s one of several good dogs that have graced my life. There was my childhood pal, Puff, the collie-shepherd mix who came between mom and some punk low life who nosed around the yard one day while my dad was away. She was also the dog who prevented my toddler brother from working his way down the driveway and into the road. She was a good dog. We all cried when she died of old age, even dad. Our other childhood dog, Shannon, was a beautiful Irish Shepherd who didn’t have much sense, but gave us lots of entertainment. She was kind of the Jessica Simpson of the dog world, built well, nice to look at but not too bright. She eventually became arthritic and died in a dramatic Old Yeller-esque scene. Dad accidentally ran over her and had to shoot her because she faced a painfully slow and inevitable death in our driveway.

How can you not love a dog? Their unconditional love, companionship and playfulness make life’s ups and downs a little easier to take. They never let you down. They’re always glad to see you walk in the door, and they forgive your little indiscretions. They don’t care what you look like, they’ll keep you warm on a cold night and they ask for little in return. Everything you’d want in a family member. That’s why I won’t kick Jack out of our bed. In fact, that’s why he gets to share my pillow

What Did You Say?

The National Academy on Aging says there has been a sharp increase in the number of younger Americans losing their hearing in the last three decades. I believe that because my family doesn’t seem to hear a thing I say. Did you feed the dog? Huh? Did you feed the dog? What? DID YOU FEED THE DOG?! Hey, you don’t have to shout. I can hear you. Then why didn’t you answer me the first two times? What two times? I asked you twice to feed the dog and you didn’t respond. That’s because I was concentrating on “Guitar Hero”. Well, concentrate on the dog bowl and feed the dog before he gets too old to chew. OR….. Don’t forget we have that wedding to go to this weekend. What wedding? You know D’s wedding. You didn’t tell me we have a wedding to go to this weekend. Oh, yes I did. When? Last week, while we were sitting in the recliners, right next to each other, watching “Desperate Housewives”. I don’t guess I heard you. Obviously not. Sorry, you know I can’t talk and watch Eva Longoria at the same time.

The scientific name for Teen Angel and Hubby’s hearing condition is “selective ignorus”. That means they hear only what they want to hear and ignore the rest. For example, my husband cannot hear my request to take out the trash when I’m standing right next to him, and yet, he’ll knock me down getting to the tv because he heard a Shawnia Twain video while standing in the back bathroom near running water. I can have my hands in a bowl of meat loaf mix and have to answer the phone with sticky fingers because our daughter can’t hear it ringing unless it’s for her.

There is technology to help other hearing conditions. Papa T. can’t hear himself fart but he got some snazzy hearing aids this week that made a world of difference for him. He’s hearing stuff he hasn’t heard in months. I hope researchers come up with a solution for “selective ignorus” soon, because I think it may be contagious. Mom, can I have $20? Huh? You’ll have to speak a little louder. I didn’t hear you.

Meet The Neighbors

We live next door to my in-laws. That’s right. Mama J. and Papa T. live right next door. In fact, we’ve lived side by side for twelve years. When I tell people that, they usually look at me like I’m crazy. Then they casually ask whether or not I like it. I like it just fine. The Pink Floyd song “Comfortably Numb” comes to mind. Just kidding! Oh, we’ve had our ups and downs over the years, and initially, it was kind of tough, but I am at peace with the set-up now. We had one knock down-drag out fight on their front porch that was a little ugly (okay, REALLY ugly), but it blew over pretty quick. I don’t even remember what started it. And our proximity has provided a few surprises along the way. Before Mama J.’s knees got so bad that she couldn’t navigate our back step, it was not uncommon to step out of the shower and find her sitting on the living room couch. I learned to put an ear to the door before parading down the hallway naked belting out “Hey, hey we’re the Monkeys”. More than once we’ve crept up on an intruder only to discover that it was Papa T. admiring our garden.

We bought our house because we liked the neighborhood and it fit our price range. I don’t think we put a lot of thought into the “living next door to your folks” aspect of the purchase, but I do think the Good Lord had a purpose in putting us there. Mama J babysat our daughter when Teen Angel was young, so it was handy to take her there in her jammies before work each morning. Wonderful arrangement. Later she got on and off the school bus at their house. She’s developed a really close relationship with her grandparents because they’re next door. She’s been a bright spot in their lives and a diversion from the grief they’ve suffered from burying a son and a grandson. On a lighter note, over the years, we’ve averted many a toilet paper crisis by running next door to swipe a roll. Throughout his career Papa T. got paid once a month, and Mama J. is still in the habit of buying a month’s worth of groceries and household supplies at a time. Her garage looks like Sam’s Club. We’ve borrowed laundry soap, garbage bags and a variety of other items I’m too embarrassed to admit that I don’t always have on hand.

As their health has declined the advantages of being next door have taken a more serious turn. We can react quickly when one of them falls and can’t get up. We know how they’re doing all day, every day, making it easier to catch changes in their condition. Hubby can better take care of their house and yard, and we know each morning if they’re up and about. We’ve become nosey neighbors, and they’re okay with that. We’ve kind of outgrown our house and have talked about moving, but we won’t. I think we’ll stay put for now. We like our neighbors.

Mommy Style

The whole dress shopping incident (see yesterday’s post) made me think a lot about how our appearance is affected by motherhood. Pregnancy changes your body in ways that can never be fully reversed, but the day to day stuff that comes with motherhood changes it, too. You just don’t have time to doll yourself up like you used to. Rushing to get everyone dressed and out the door reasonably on time means sacrificing a check in the mirror to make sure everything is okay and in place. This has resulted in fashion disasters over the years. For the first two years of my daughter’s life, my work suits all had a big spit ring on the left shoulder from cuddling a slobbering baby before work. My solution? Slapping a big dressy pin over the stain as I zipped into my cubicle. I’ve arrived at work wearing two different shoes. I showed up one time with a big hole in the calf of my black pantyhose. Very noticeable to everyone but me for oh, about four hours. One time my skirt was inside out, seams and tag visible to even the severely nearsighted. Recently, on two different occasions I’ve gone to the potty and discovered that I put my underwear on wrong side out that particular morning. That’s one you just live with until you get home. My most embarrassing moment happened right after I returned to work from maternity leave. I was still breast feeding, and I worked in a busy TV newsroom. During a particularly hectic afternoon I looked down and saw that in all my running around, I had jostled a breast pad out of my bra and into the floor, smack dab in the middle of the room for everyone to see. Breaking news! Nasty breast pad in the floor! I wanted to crawl under my desk. Hoping that no one was looking, I kicked it under a credenza that hadn’t been moved in 20 years, hoping it wouldn’t be moved for another 20. Ten years later I held my breath when we remodeled the newsroom, hoping it wouldn’t turn up. It didn’t. Thank God.

My mother’s most embarrassing “mommy fashion flub” still makes me laugh. It happened when I was about eleven. She left me and my two brothers in the car while she went into the grocery store. This was back when you could leave children in a hot car and be comfortable that they wouldn’t be kidnapped by some freak. We might have killed each other, but we were safe from marauding kidnappers in our small town. Besides, she just couldn’t shop with three rowdy kids. After she had paraded up and down just about every aisle in the busy store, a woman approached and said, “Honey, you have kids don’t you”. “Well, yes. Why do you ask?” “Because you have a sucker stuck to your butt”. There it was, dangling from her backside like a badge, screaming “mother of three” (soon to be two when she found out who it was). One of us had laid a barely eaten sucker on the seat of the car just before mom sat in the driver’s seat. She was steamed when she got back to the car, especially since none of us owned up to it. Sucker? What sucker? I didn’t have a sucker? Did you? Nope. No sucker here. Through gritted teeth, she issued one of those mommy voodoo curses, “Just wait ‘til you have kids some day”. It worked.

Dress Distress

I tried on 28 dresses Saturday in a two and a half hour span. 28! I brought home 1. I’ve always enjoyed clothes shopping, until now. I don’t go that often, and thank goodness because the last two trips have been, pardon the phrase, a freakin’ nightmare. When you become a woman of a certain age, there are few stores that carry the right stuff for you. I am somewhere between Hot Topic and Sass shoes. I don’t want to look like my daughter, and I don’t want to look like my mother. I’m not ready for knit pants with elastic waistbands, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying to hard to appear young. My goal Saturday was to find two or three summer dresses that I could wear to work and church. My requirements were simple. I wanted something stylish, modest enough for those environments, not too expensive and comfortable enough to stand up to our stifling humidity. Apparently, that’s too much to ask for.

The first store turned up several beautiful dresses, but they were all $90 plus. I refuse to give that for a knit dress that cost about $8 to make. Do you know how many starving people in Africa could be fed for $90? I found a dress in the next store that fit perfectly and looked great. About three times in your life you find a dress that hugs your body just right and makes you feel special. This was one of those dresses. I was smokin’ in that dress. That NEVER happens, so I was quite smitten with that little rag. However, it was sex on a hanger, and I have absolutely no place to wear it. It would have been a total waste of money, so I stifled a tear and hung it back on the rack. Sorry, little black dress. I’ll miss you.

I trudged from store to store, trying on different styles and sizes. Nothing seemed quite right. One was so complicated I couldn’t even get it on. I got it wrapped around my neck and left arm and for about 5 seconds thought I was actually going to have to call the sales clerk for help in getting it off. Desperate, I even veered into the juniors section once and ended up in a baby doll style that looked like something you’d wear to a porn shoot. The problem was compounded by the fact that sizes vary from manufacturer, so I’m three different sizes depending on which store I’m in. I never know which one to grab off the rack. I know they’re trying to make me feel good by cutting sizes bigger than they used to, and that little size * incident in New York & Company did make me positively giddy for a few seconds. However, I know it’s all a big fat lie, and I would just love some consistency.

Oh, please Mister Dress Manufacturer, help me out. I know I’m not the only woman with this problem. I’m not interested in showing ¾ of my boobs and the bottom third of my butt cheeks. It’s just not appropriate at work. But I don’t want to be dowdy, matronly or plain. I want some style, a little bit of sass, something that says “over 40, but confident, fun and lively”. I do NOT want to scream “hoochie mama” or “grandma at Easter”. And while you’re at it, how about some shoes that don’t have a 4 inch heel? It’s really depressing to shop in the “Comfortable Missy” shoe section.

Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

A letter to my daughter:

Dear Daughter,
On this day of your 8th grade graduation, I am filled with a variety of emotions. Mostly pride, for the accomplishments you’ve already achieved, and joy for the fulfillment you bring to my life. I can’t believe you’re going to high school this fall. My baby is growing up so fast. Time moves so rapidly for me now. Sometimes I can hardly keep up. The next four years will fly. They will be exciting but difficult. They are terrifying for me and your dad because we know the choices you will face. Many of those choices will be easy. Others will be hard. Some of them will be dangerous. We hope you will look to us for help when those choices come around. Every generation thinks things are different for them than it was for their parents. Not really. It may take you years to realize this truth, but mom and dad really do know what they’re talking about so I hope you follow my advice.

Study hard. It will pay off. You are who you hang around with. If you hang with trash, you become trash. Don’t ever get in a car with a drunk driver. Call me instead. You may still get in trouble for being at a party, but at least you’ll come home alive. Boys will warm and break your heart. The love you feel for them isn’t the deep lasting love you will share with the special person you likely won’t meet for years to come. Protect your virtue. It’s a beautiful gift that shouldn’t be squandered on the flavor of the week, month or year. Preserve your friendships. Those bonds will remain special to you for the rest of your life because of the things you will face together now. Laugh often. It’s good for the soul.

I wish for you wisdom, safety, courage and success. Be bold in your choices. Chase your dreams. Follow your heart, but use your head. I am proud of the person you have already become. You are smart, funny and beautiful on the outside AND inside. I love that you care about your family and friends and that you take such good care of your aging grandparents. I love that you are aware of your community and that you have opinions about issues like immigration and war. I love that you have a soft spot in your heart for the poor, the sick and the disadvantaged. Most of all, I love you for making my life complete. As you step into a more mature world, know that your dad and I are right behind you, cheering you on and propping you up. Welcome to the world, baby girl!

Love,
Mom