The title of this post might indicate that today’s mail was filled with bills or something of the like. Perhaps a magazine that touted younger skin or tighter abs… No, today’s mail brought a catalog. Not a cool catalog, like Nordstroms or Levenger or something like that. It was “Gold Violin, Helpful Products for Independent Living”.

Thanks, direct marketing association.

I am only 44 years old. Although I’m missing one original part (gall bladder), none of my other parts have ever been replaced. I haven’t purchased orthotic shoes or cable knit sweaters or any other item that would correlate to needing “helpful products”.  I’m more than just a little worried about what in my catalog purchase history triggered this. (To be clear, I also regularly get a catalog aimed at very stylish black women (I’m a decidedly un-stylish white woman) so who knows what my profile looks like…)

I could have thrown it out, but instead I decided to try to understand what all is considered “helpful” today. My parents are aging, so I might want to familiarize myself with these items.  I must say the “Suction Cup Tub Rail” featured on the cover was a real eye catcher, so I dove right in.

Page 3 – Dual transport chair and Rollator. What is a “rollator”. Is the ‘a’ pronounced ‘a’ like acorn or ‘a’ like away? One sounds sinister: the Roll-A-tor, like “Terminator”. RollaTOR sounds like an antacid. Hmm…

Page 5 – Between the Seat Stuff Catchers. No more lost keys or coins. Looks kinda cool.

Pages 8-11 – Shoes. Holy crap, some of these look like ones I already have. I especially like the Acorn Z Strap Spa Slippers, simply because they combine the class of velcro with the softness of terry and the attractiveness of something Pepto-pink. Have dog-eared the page for future reference.

Page 17 – Bibs disguised as aprons. I’m not talking the plastic things you get at the BBQ joint. These are ponchos that extend to your thighs with a wide pocket at the bottom to catch what you drop/dribble. The models wearing them couldn’t look less happy to have gotten this particular job.

Page 24 – I’ve never seen so many magnifying devices… 2x, 2.5x, 3x (really, that difference matters?), 6x, 10x, plus the 6 piece set ranging from 4x to 10x. Who needs to work through 6 difference magnifying glasses to read a map. And who actually reads maps anymore?

Page 28 – Look at all the different gel wraps you can get for your toes! No wonder old people walk slow: they have all this crap in their shoes. I swear this one cap is just a cut down condom. Really creepy looking.

Pages 38-39 — So many options to keep from killing yourself in the tub or shower or on the toilet. Good to know.

Pages 52-53 – Pain relief. Also where they assume the catalog’s readers are idiots. Dr. Necky Pain Relief? Dr. Archy Pain Relief? Boo boo cover up? I refuse to order anything that makes me sound like I’m talking to a 3-year-old.

And my favorite… Page 40 – Wipe assist. Nice.

I really can’t think of a way to wrap this up. I mean, after “wipe assist” there really isn’t much more to say. I can only hope this has been helpful to those of your wondering what help looks like later in life…

I’m becoming Charlotte.

I’ll give you one guess as to who she is… did you guess? Yep, my mom.  Now I like Charlotte. Someone telling me I’m like her is a huge compliment because I think she is smarter than me and a lot wiser (the benefit of our 25 year age difference).  But those compliments are usually directed at how I think or how I approach the world.

Now the “Charlotte-ness” is seeping into other domains of my being…

I recently purchased a housecoat. That is a very Charlotte thing to do. I justified it as follows:

Charlotte’s housecoat: fleece or terry, hits just below the knee; color family of pale blue or red; purchased at Sears; snaps or zips up the front; worn for several years until the pockets are worn through or there is a good sale at Sears. (There is only modest exaggeration here…)

Picture from Sears' website.

My housecoat: dark blue velvet with satin trim; floor length; floaty; purchased at Dillards; great for lounging after a long day in work clothes. And I prefer the term caftan to describe what I’m wearing, thank you very much.

Picture from Dillard's Website

Who the blazes am I kidding! It has a freakin’ zipper down the front! Just because there is a tassel on the zip doesn’t glam it up! I purchased and am now wearing a house coat.   AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

You know, they are quite comfortable. 

But, but, but… it’s a housecoat! My mother wears these. She travels with one. She wears it over her clothes when the house is cold.

You don’t have to hold in your stomach when you wear a housecoat, did you know that? And I might even receive guests while wearing my blue velvet, satin trimmed caft-

Repeat after me, it is a flipping housecoat, Maureen. Don’t kid yourself. Get rid of it now. Save yourself… This is a slippery slope you are heading down.

It’s only a matter of time before the assimilation is complete and I’m one of her…

*sob*…  I just found out it isn’t even velvet. It’s velour… noooooooooooooooooooooo!

Why, pray tell? Because today was my first time ever on skis. And I feel fairly comfortable declaring that it may very well be my last.

It started as a good idea, really. The kids had a 4 day weekend and I thought that it would be fun if we all went to Perfect North, the ski establishment about 45 minutes away, to learn how to ski. I was thinking that skiing is a useful skill – opens up lots of vacation options – and kids who learn it early seem to get it and use it their whole lives. And why not try it myself, huh?  Seems reasonable, right?

I am insane.

First, for the uninitiated and ill-equipped, you require a lot of crap to ski. Boots, skis, poles, helmet, plus ski bibs, gloves, hats, sunscreen, layers of clothing, etc.  Boots seem a simple thing, but they aren’t. They have 4 buckles, did you know that? And you know what else is important? To put your ski bibs on BEFORE you put on your rental boots. And wait, before you get too much further, you have to go to the bathroom just in case. And then you come back and get the boots back on. But wait, be sure you have the bibs on.

Then you try to walk in the boots. I felt like an astronaut on the surface of the moon. I was walking in extreme slow motion, with my knees bent because locomotion wasn’t possible otherwise. I watched in awe as others moved quickly around, while I seemed unable to keep pace with a nursing home resident. This was the first sign.

Getting the skis wasn’t too bad, nor the poles, or helmet, except that these were located in 3 different places. Although the route there was more or less linear, it required more moon walking, which was inexplicably getting harder, not easier. Regardless, we continued forward.

Did I mention there were 4 of us? Because there is something exponential about the work required to outfit 4 people for skiing. The first one isn’t too bad, but the next one takes twice as long as the first… by the fourth person, you are quite sure you’ve entered some bizzaro parallel universe where you are much hated.

Then we left the building. Let me summarize what happened from here.

•  Tried to find a place to put all our “stuff”, which seemed to multiply since we left the car. In the end, left it all under the stairs and hoped for the best.
• Found the ski instruction area.
• I returned to the rental place because my boots were killing me. No really, they were killing me. Got a larger size.
• Waited 20 minutes for ski instruction. For the kids, this was the equivalent of 4 hours and 52 minutes.  I searched repeatedly for a brick to knock myself out with. Unsuccessful.
• Sent the kids off for private instruction.
• Frank and I met, with Harv, our group ski instructor. At the time, he seemed to be a nice, a 60-year-old man.
• I strapped on my skis.
• The longest 45 minutes of my life began.

In the end, I refused to do the final bunny hill trial for the class (“I am a danger to myself and others,” I told Harv), sat on the ground (the larger size ski boot having not at all helped since I have the world’s widest feet) and seriously pondered whether I should walk in my socks across the snow to the rental area instead of wearing the boots.

The kids didn’t fare much better. When we located them, they, too, were sitting on the ground. My girl was in tears, her boots also rendering her immobile because they were now too small (“I think I broke my toe… it bends backwards now, see”) and my son was bleeding and also a little tearful – “cut his hand on the snow when he fell” is what the instructor said (say what? Cut his hand on the snow??).  She looked exceptionally uncomfortable and quite eager to deposit the kids with us.

What followed then was even more pain: the second longest 15 minutes of my life, as we made our way back to the rental place to undo everything we did 90 minutes earlier. The kids were insanely miserable. I wasn’t much better.

At last, it was lunchtime. Ahh. Food, water, dry places to sit, no more boots.  I could hear angels singing over the din.

And you know what happened next? We had a ball. Did I mention that Perfect North also has a tubing area that was a-freakin-amazing? Great fun! Spent two more hours there enjoying their runs and it saved the whole trip. Kids left happy, we left happy.  The disastrous ski elements long forgotten*.

In the end, we spent an insane amount of money (especially if you do the cost per hour…) to learn that we are not ski people but tubing people.  I’m really ok with this. I can now say that I have skied. No one needs to know that I never left the instruction area/baby bunny hill. No one needs to know that Harv thinks my IQ is in the double digits.

*Post script: The ski trip really isn’t long forgotten. Frank and I can’t move. For our mere 45 minutes on skis, we both have managed to hurt muscles we didn’t know we had. I’ve walked a half marathon before and hurt less than I do now.  God help us tomorrow morning…

………………………………………………………..

The title of this posting is one of the hardest to see in writing. Who wants to admit their parent may actually have a valid point? Granted, it is far easier to acknowledge in my 40′s than in 20′s, but still, it ain’t easy. This one especially…

me and dad - no stress here! I love you dad!

One of my least favorite memories as a child (and there are very few of these) was when my dad, completely frustrated by the fact that I wasn’t ready for school yet and we were very late, left without me. My recall of this event centers on me trying hard to get ready, but being foiled by my inability to fasten my sandals: the strap was the type with the holes in it, and you had to push the floppy pin into it and thread the end of the strap through the buckle. Know which I mean?  The single most complicated system for children who are struggling with fine motor skills, the inventor of which was a complete dick? Anyway, I was really having a hard time, almost in tears because I couldn’t make it work, and he walked out the door.

(Before you scream child abuse, my grandmother lived with us… I wasn’t alone or in danger.)

Again, my recall of this event, which is shadowy and tortured because, well, I was 6, is a little dodgy. I believe (but am not sure) I walked to school, which was 3 blocks away through residential neighborhoods; I had to cross two streets (again, not complicated or dangerous). I was exceptionally responsible, even back then — even if I couldn’t get my shoe on, I knew that not going to school wasn’t an option, so I made it happen. And in that moment, my little 6-year-old brain vowed to never, ever leave my kid like dad did.

Flash forward several decades to the early years with my first-born, AP. I recall being at the mall and hearing other moms bribe their children into attentiveness with the phrase “I’m going to leave without you, Stephen! Get over here now!!”. I would stand there, judging these moms, disdainfully thinking to myself how horrible they were for promising abandonment. I told myself that I would only ever threaten that which I would actually do, and I would never, ever leave my child.

Flash forward again to the present and this first-born is now 9 years old. She is a highly capable young person. She has 2 arms and 2 legs. She seems to do well in school or has learned how to bribe her teachers into saying so (either of which indicates a fairly high level of thinking/problem solving skills). She is potty trained and regularly feeds herself. And yet, she seems incapable of getting her god damned shoes and socks on without being told one thousand, two hundred and sixty-six times each effing morning.

You know what’s coming… I almost left her the other day. I was beside myself pissed off. We live 2 minutes from school – and my husband can easily take the kids on mornings I’m not able to – but when I plan on it, and she is huckity-pucking around petting the dog or counting the rice crispies that fell on the floor during breakfast… well, let’s just say my patience runs a wee bit thin.

That morning, in a seething fit of “through my teeth” talking (would.you.get.your.blasted.shoes.on.now!), I realized with a pang of horror and remorse that I, gulp, now fully and completely understood why my father had left on that day so many years ago. I now believe that had he not left he would have done or said something horrid. Something that I was fully prepared to say at that very moment.

In the end, I took a ragged breath and stood up straight (I had assumed a hunched monkey position, so that I could look her in the eye with that “don’t eff with mommy today” look). I slowly turned, walked out the back door and went to the car. “Walk out and she will come, walk out and she will come,” I thought to myself. And you know what? She did.

And then she left again because she had forgotten something.

I let out an anguished scream as she bolted for the house; lucky for her she was back in a flash (the car was already in reverse).  And after my little “in the rear view mirror so you only see my narrowed eyes and furrowed brow” speech about her responsibility-each-morning-old-enough-to-handle-this-without-being-told-a-million-times, we came to an understanding. So far, so good — or I should say, so far the required number of shoes and socks reminders hasn’t exceeded the low double digits.

I still have a hard time with the “do this or I’ll leave you” approach to child behavior management as it really pangs me to think about it from the kid’s perspective. But I now have far more compassion for my dad’s actions in that moment than I have had for the last 38 years.

It was a very good one. She instantly found the knot in my shoulder-blade that keeps lighting off every time I lift my arm. She had a firm but gentle touch. I could hardly believe I was at work.

And then I started to worry… how long had she been at this…were my 15 minutes up yet… wait, was that a “wrap up” move… she’s working on my hands, that must mean she is almost done…damn, I wish this could go longer… 15 minutes is so short…I wonder if I can have another appointment…

And that’s how I ruined the chair massage. I spent half the time in my head asking myself all these questions and worrying about the next moment. I wasn’t enjoying the massage itself or how relaxed I was able to get. I was thinking and thinking and thinking.

In a flash of insight, I realized a terrible parallel and asked myself a question I didn’t want to answer: How much of my life do I spend not in the moment, enjoying the sensations, but “in the worry”, anticipating what’s next? The answer? A lot. And I’m not ruining chair massages with this worry, I’m missing the small, intimate moments with those I cherish most. I have worked a lot harder the last 3-4 months to be more present with my husband and kids. To not work through my “to do” list mentally while with them. To actually just hang out and watch TV and not also feel compelled to dust or straighten up at the same time.  To not ask about what’s next while in the middle of what’s now. It has been hard.  I’m not used to that level of intensity and focus (or, for that matter, self forgiveness for things not completed). I am the product of our times, addicted to moving from one thing to the next, not penetrating (with attention or action) any one thing very long. Or worse, I’m a guilt-ridden working mom trying to do a little of everything to seem like I’m able to handle it all.

But my 15 minutes in the chair helped me understand the tragedy of this. Here I was at a physical level, feeling the difference between a massage where I was present and one where I was worried — and the difference was astounding.  I grew sad that I never fully recognized how diminished my mental, emotional and/or spiritual engagement was in other situations where I was sacrificing my present focus.

I know I’ve been doing better, being more present, and yet I still have capacity for more.   I’ve decided I’m done ruining the metaphorical chair massages of every day life.

But this time of year I am ever so grateful to be related to them. I’m working on my taxes right now (well, right now I’m avoiding working on my taxes because, well, they suck, see the title above).  We have a fairly simple financial set up. We own a home. No one is currently self employed. We donate a fair bit to charity. We itemize. Oh, and this past year, we sold some property we had acquired in a tax free land swap (also called a like-kind exchange) for which we now need to compare the original basis to the net proceeds less deductions for improvements made since acquisition.

Say what??

Yes, you read that right. Those are all actual words used to describe what I’m now trying to sort out in Turbo Tax. The problem is, I purchased Turbo Tax Dummy edition. With this type of property sale, however, they keep trying to get me to upgrade to the diamond edition for a further $163.61, so that that program can walk me through this type of transaction. No, thanks, I don’t want to upgrade.  I’d just like a simple way to reflect all this without going out of my effing mind!

Call in the CPA-alvary. Mom is usually the best to talk to in these scenarios. Although they all can answer my question, Dad tends to use short sentences and lacks a certain amount of TLC as he talks me through it.  My sister hates being a CPA, so my calls about taxes only serve to depress her which makes me feel guilty, so that’s not an option.  So it’s up to mom… and with her, I only have to live through the 14 associated tax related statues that impact my situation… and since I learned to tune her out in about 1981, I can still handle it.

But mom is currently at Wal-Mart. Dammit. When I get into my taxes, I don’t want to stop until they are done. My desk looks like a complete mess… the paperwork, prior year tax returns, closing statements (which are copied on legal sized paper just because lawyers like to annoy regular people) are spread all over the floor and desk but I understand where everything is, what I’ve already gone through and what is left to do.  But if I get up to do something (say, go to the bathroom or feed my hungry children) I will immediately forget where I was in the process and have to start the *&#$ over.

So instead, I’m going to sit here and wait for her to return and call me back. And she will call me back… about 30 seconds after I give up and finally go to the bathroom. Mark my word…

So, now I’m going to do this all at once. I know that this might make me seem brag-gy, but that isn’t my intention. I work full-time, I mother as much as possible, and I work on the writing in between, which means I must economize.  If you have a problem with this, then likely you haven’t enjoyed much of my blogging anyway, so let’s just part company now…

First, some thank yous:

http://shannonhowell.wordpress.com/ (Thanks too for the 7×7 award!)

http://imexcited.wordpress.com/

trippingdifferently.com

http://allaboutlemon.com/

Thank you for the Versatile Blogger Award. I really appreciate it.

http://beyondconfessions.wordpress.com/

http://thedonovanboys.wordpress.com/

Thank you for the Liebster Blog Award. Very thoughtful.

http://mightyinspiration.wordpress.com/

Thanks Barb for being a fellow traveler as we have some fun with this blogging stuff!

Each of your blogs is inspiring to read and I’m a better writer for the time we spend together.  Thanks for reading and awarding.

Now, on to the particulars. Each of these awards has some rules.

First, all of them require that I thank the award-er. So thank you!!

Some require you to post 7 (Versatile) or 10 (Kreativ) things about yourself. I’m just going to start typing and see how far I get…

1. I was raised in a small Georgia city. Even though the accent is long gone, most of the words I say that end in an -ing only get the -in pronounced. E.g. I was thinkin of you the other day. How’s it goin? Otherwise, my accent is as midwest as they come. That’s what happens after 20+ years gone.

2. Related to #1, I believe y’all is perfectly ok to use in any context. I often combine it with “you guys” just to confuse people.

3. I met my husband via the personal ads, nearly 20 years ago. That was before there were computer dating sites. His was in the newspaper, and frankly most of them were creepy at that time (“large, strong,  ex-Marine, 58,  seeking petite Asian woman, 21-29,  for discrete fun…” ewww). I am really thankful I found a good one. (By the way, my dad still doesn’t know this is how we met, unless my mom finally spilled the beans. Let’s see if he reads this… I don’t think he does…)

4. I don’t really like other people’s kids, for the most part. I like my own, but that’s about it. (There are a few exceptions, and those reading this know who you are…) The older my kids get, the more of their friends I like, but it’s been touch and go for years…

5. I’ve kept my toe nails painted for 90% of my life since I was 13 years old.

6. I really like men.  I enjoy their company and think they are delightful. Despite their pig-headed-ness at times, they are worth it. Don’t interpret this to mean I sleep around or have an open marriage – not my style at all. Rather just know that if I were trapped in an airport, I’d be just as happy to be with a man as a woman.

7. I hate being asked if having children was the best thing that ever happened to me.  They are one of many spectacular things that have happened to me, but to rank order them does a disservice to them all.

8. I really don’t have a favorite movie or song, but if you made me pick: Star Wars and The Incredibles would be in my top 10 movies. Music:  March Slave by Tchaikovsky and any violin piece by Joshua Bell (try this Puccini; it will make you cry, plus Joshua Bell is dreamy).  It’s Raining Men by the Weather Girls and Enough is Enough by Barbra Streisand are great in the car and when I need a pick me up. Can you say “child of the 80′s”?

9. I’ve never read the Harry Potter books, but I’ve listened to them all the way through on audio 7 times (I think I’m currently in the middle of my 7th round). The best version is the UK version, read by Stephen Fry. I listen while getting ready in the morning and in the evening, and sometimes in the car.  Whenever I finish the 7th book (takes about 4-5 months to get through them all), I am a little sad that he isn’t keeping me company any more (which is why I usually start them up again in about 6 months or so…). Fry is exceptionally talented in so many venues. I wish I could meet him someday. Watch this tribute to him – great fun and I totally agree. (I know this nugget about me may have weirded a few of you out…)

Enough about me, ON TO THE NOMINEES! Each of these awards require you nominate 7 (7×7), 15 (Versatile), 5 (Liebster) or 6 (Kreativ) additional blogs.  I’m just going to nominate the ones below, doing my own math. Sorry if I’m screwing this up for everyone.  If you read my blog on roles, you know that writing just made it into my top 5 roles I have, and unfortunately blog “reader” doesn’t get near the attention it should. So I don’t yet have a large repertoire of blogs I frequent.  See below for the ones, other than those from the above nominators, that I enjoy and want to share with you.

To those of you I’m nominating: you decide which award you are getting from those above. You decide whether to pass it on or not (some of your blogs don’t really work with accepting awards, I get that…). I won’t be offended if you do nothing with this. Those of y’all reading, please check these guys out because that’s what really matters in this awards business — to share the great work of fellow bloggers. And these are ones I think are pretty great.

http://frominside2out.wordpress.com/ - a wonderful daily reminder of how to approach the world. Plus, check out her mandalas. This is a dear friend of mine, Lynette, whom I’m grateful for knowing and grateful for her teaching for over a decade.

http://mandalasofplace.wordpress.com/ - a companion site to the site above. More Mandalas, and you can see where the pictures originated. There is magic in here.

http://badlandsbadley.wordpress.com/ - The Life and Times of Nathan Badley. He is a very funny man. Someone I’d like to get stranded in an airport with for sure.

http://creepypants.wordpress.com/ - The Chronicles of Creepy Pants. I haven’t made it all the way through this, but this serial (not sure what to call it, a chapter blog?) makes me laugh, as well as be thankful I work at the company I do.  I also love love love the title of the blog.

http://michaelashleypoetry.wordpress.com/ - His poetry is amazing. If I were a real poet and had more angst in my life, this is what I hope I could write. Please don’t take this to be sarcastic… I really, really like his poetry. Thank you for sharing your work and yourself.

http://dubsism.wordpress.com/ - If I were 20 years younger and still on the market, I would read his blog and pretend his insights and commentary about sports were my own, just to impress a guy I liked. I don’t always understand his points since I don’t really follow sports, but they are well said and entertaining. A good read.

http://gingerjudgesyou.com/ - I like her writing. Plus, she defended me to someone who was quite negative about my freshly pressed posting. She didn’t have to do this, so bonus points to her.

http://susanwritesprecise.com/ - She just seems to be having fun and I like that.

http://psychobabblepants.wordpress.com/ - wonderful writing and a fellow Aquarius…

http://immacraftybitch.wordpress.com/ - Fun read (yummy food), plus one of the best blog names out there.

So that’s it. Enjoy!

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We recently went an abnormally long time between trips to the grocery.  One night, as we gazed into the pantry for inspiration, I was struck by the extraordinarily bad choices we’ve made in terms of food selection. Let’s take a closer look…

Water chestnuts. There is only one dish these are ever used in and they always seem an afterthought. I’m sure someone who knows how to cook with them will set me straight. In the meantime, I can’t imagine these will ever get used.

2 cans of asparagus. Whoever invented this hates vegetables a lot and the people who consume them even more. I like fresh asparagus. Eating canned ones is like eating a skinned, half alive snake.  No where in the history of canned vegetables are the canned versions so different from the fresh.

Artichoke hearts. I know I bought this in order to make a party dip.  But no one invites me to parties. And if I bring this, no one will ever ask again.

9 large cans of chicken.  I have to chaperone my husband when he goes to Costco from now on. Canned chicken is by far one of the most disgusting foods out there. It has a gelatinous covering and the springy feeling of something you step on in the lake (we called that graw-doo where I come from, don’t ask me why). Ick. He puts it in canned soup to get the protein count up. I put it in the trash when he isn’t looking.

Six cans of baked beans. We clearly hate each other, the children and the dog.

Four boxes of stir fry rice noodles.  Frank dreams of making the perfect Pad Thai recipe. It appears that the recipe starts with “Buy as many boxes of rice noodles as your spouse can tolerate.” Once day, he’ll actually make the damn stuff.

24 oz package of Wild Alaska Smoked Sockeye Salmon. Expiration date of December 2017. This isn’t a shelf life, it’s a half-life. And who eats that much smoked salmon (do the math – it’s nearly 2 pounds! the box is the size of a standard mud flap!). I am so dreading when he does open this in 2016, insisting we eat it before it goes bad (“It’s fish! How can you tell??”).  Exhibit two of why he shouldn’t go to Costco alone.

dinner fork shown to provide perspective

That’s it. Throw in some dry goods (flour, sugar), more pasta (a gross of boxed mac and cheese, also from Costco), some crackers (mega box of Goldfish, the official snack of single-digit kids) and several varieties of tomato based products, and you pretty much have our pantry scoped out.   I’m just going to pretend that we eat mainly from the perimeter of the grocery store, just like “they” tell you to do, and not worry how woefully bland and uninspired (and a wee bit frightening) our pantry is making you right now.

Oh no… It just occurred to me that he’s probably going to buy capers to go with the fish. Which we will forget we bought come 2016. So we’ll need to buy another jar of them. Because everyone needs 2 jars of capers and 2 damn pounds of smoked salmon…

“““““““““““““““““

Yesterday was my birthday. And it was a fabulous day. I don’t have a history of great birthdays.

Long time ago; with Kaye, Melody, Stephanie's sleeve... others?

As my parents are CPAs and my birthday falls in Tax Season, my birthday wasn’t always celebrated on the specific day. It was usually deferred (with my awareness and somewhat reluctant agreement) to a more convenient day. Growing up I can remember spending the actual day in several less-than-celebratory ways:

-          Working at my parents’ office. Nothing says happy birthday more than bookkeeping or data entry.

-          At a college class with my dad, who was getting his degree. In one memorable biology class they were experimenting with mice. I’ll leave out the details here lest any PETA people see this.

-          Watching the Brady Bunch and wishing I had MarciaMarciaMarcia’s hair.

As a result, many years ago I made the terribly mature proclamation to my husband that no matter what – come wind, rain, appendicitis or Armageddon – we would celebrate my birthday ON THE ACTUAL third of February. He has no issue and has obliged.  Birthdays have been better since then.

But this one was borderline great. It didn’t end in a zero or involve gifts or parties, so why was it so great? Here is what I did…

-          I told everyone it was my birthday. With arms spread wide, I boldly declared it and basked in the well wishes from people I knew as well as complete strangers. Two guys in the elevator at work thought I was a little mad, but they complied. In a meeting where half were visitors from another company I didn’t know, I found a birthday buddy – it was her birthday too.  The people at the hibachi grill sang to me with gusto.  Now I didn’t walk around shouting this or wearing the birthday crown like my kids do at school, but you’d be amazed at how easy it is to slip it into otherwise natural conversation topics.  Meeting introductions are a perfect way: “Hi, I’m Maureen and I work in HR. Been with the company 22 years and speaking of that, today’s my birthday.”  Or in chit chat: “Yes, it is Friday. I love Fridays. This is an especially good Friday because it is my birthday.” See, not awkward at all.

-          I shared my age when asked, 44, and left it at that. Usually I share this expecting someone to say “Surely not, NO! You couldn’t be that age! You look far too young!”  When you have that expectation and no one says such things, it can be a real downer. This time I had no such delusions. I officially look about my age. On a well rested day, I might get away with late 30’s/early 40’s, but Friday wasn’t a well rested day. Regardless, I’ve lived 44 years, I have a good life, and if you think I look older than that, I’m learning to be ok with it. (Don’t get me wrong, I slather 7 different potions on my face each day and really believe they make a difference. I’m not so much into embracing my age that I won’t impede its progress with hair color, good skin care and a decent bra.)

-          I left work early to surprise my daughter by picking her up from school (my son was already home). My company allows really great flexibility – and since I had put in a 12 hour workday the day before, I had no qualms about leaving at 3:15. Seeing my daughter’s face when she was expecting a black car and not my red one was a treasure.  When I got home, the weather was such that I all played outside for over an hour with both kids, something else I rarely get to do during the week. Glorious.

-          We ate cake first. Since it was a date night, I wanted to be sure I celebrated at some point with my kids. So at 5:30 the Bonbonerie Opera Cream Torte came out of the fridge, a candle was lit, the kids sang to me and I read my cards. Then we ate. Nothing like cake before dinner to make any day special.

-          My birthday dinner was kid-less. I know I just spent several lines talking about how much I like my kids, but my birthday dinners with them, I have learned, historically suck.  Dinner with small/medium kids are “squat and gobble” meals.  You eat fast, don’t really know what you’re eating and at the end are shocked at how much it costs since you barely tasted anything. Either that or you park your kid with your smart phone playing Angry Birds while you finish your meal, hoping the people at the next table won’t think you are a horrible parent and report you to some kid-snatching state agency. Neither are appetizing.  This time we left the kids with our well trusted babysitter and the two of us went to a new Japanese Hibachi restaurant and shared a meal with strangers. It was delightful! The younger couple next to me were soon to vacation in London and thusly had to endure a list of recommendations from us (we lived there for 3 years). The older couple next to Frank had grown kids who had gone to the same school our kids attend (and have also lived in London) – more story swapping. She was also a writer who hadn’t yet embraced the web and gave me her card and asked me to get in touch about writing blogs. We all had too many things in common for it to be mere chance. It was just great birthday karma.

-          I had two Cosmo martinis at dinner. I don’t drink often, but I enjoy its effects when I do. That’s all I really need to say about that.

-          Facebook. Why? Because people I haven’t seen in 25 years take the time to wish me happy birthday. I know people don’t really remember my birthday, they just see the reminder, but there is something fun about seeing a few dozen birthday wishes from the people you call friends, regardless the tightness of the relationship.  Add to that that this posting might result in even more people I don’t know commenting with “happy birthday”, well, I’m back to my first point – bring on the well wishes!

So that’s my recipe for a great birthday. I’m ever so hopeful I remember this come next year. It will be a Sunday thanks to leap year – hey, I just realized, it will be Super Bowl Sunday!  Maybe I’ll have a Super Mo Sunday party!  You will all be invited.

There are no longer cute raccoons in my life. There is only the asshole raccoon that has been living inside our porch roof rafters. We’ve been hearing him off and on for a while. Thought perhaps he was a rat. We’d get geared up to do something about it and then he’d go all quiet on us… so we talked ourselves into believing it was our imagination or noisy pipes.

Then he came back. And started making a lot more noise. He was building a loft, moving in furniture, making himself a right cozy little nest. Something had to be done.

You might ask how we was getting in. Well, apparently he can either levitate or, like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, he has unimaginable talent for hanging upside down by his fingertips and then pulling himself into a small opening in our soffit (the underside of the roof overhang). In any event, there was a clear place he was getting in, we just didn’t really think that was how he was doing it. Oh well, score one for the raccoon.

So, yesterday, my beloved closed up that hole. He hoped like hell that the raccoon was not inside when he did this. Does hope actually work for anyone? Because it sure did not work for us.  My sweet was wrong (normally I would relish seeing that in writing; not so much today). He trapped the critter in.

And so, last night, we heard him scampering all over. The way our house is made, he had a lovely walking path from the porch, directly over my desk in our home office toward another porch. And by the sounds of his walk, he was pissed. Frank went to bed, but I was up working late and I swore, based on the noises he was making, the coon had somehow acquired power tools and a hammer.  When I came to bed, Frank assured me that the varmint wasn’t going anywhere, that it wouldn’t chew through our concrete and lath ceiling and come visit us durng the night. And most importantly, he promised he would get him out of there the next day.

Today is the next day. And Coon-zilla struck overnight. That little nuisance did indeed get out. He chewed his way out. But not down, into the house as I feared, but up, through the freaking roof. Yes, I said he chewed through the roof.  He chewed through plywood and shingles to free himself. We now have a coon sized hole in the roof over the porch.

Apparently I was right about the power tools.

The only good news in all this? The porch had a leak we couldn’t isolate, but the new skylight in the roof clearly points out the soft spot. So we can now add this roof repair to the top of the “many things we have to spend money on because this is an 86 year old home” list. Oh joy.

As I head to bed tonight, I rest happily knowing the hole has a temporary patch on it (only Arnold SchwarzenCoon could get back in), the ceiling has been quiet, and the ”have-a-heart” trap by the pond is armed with giant marshmallows. Score one for the humans.