A rant about teenagers. It doesn't make any sense. Neither do Teenagers.

"It's normal," they say.

"You can get through this," they say.

"Don't take it personally," they say.

I know. I will. But I am. I am taking it personally. Because in no other time of my life have I ever deliberately sought attention from people who are consciously, and sometimes, vehemently pushing me away. If a person doesn't like me, I move on.

Living with two teenagers is like living with two of your closest friends who no longer adore you as much as you adore them. I mean, it's happened before where I have followed a friend around and asked to hang out and get together repeatedly, only to be met with "Sure,sure! Let's do that," and then...nothing. I don't ALWAYS get the hint quickly enough, and have occasionally dangled at the end of a string..wondering. Eventually, the hint takes hold and that friend fades into a memory.

I can't and won't do that with my kids. OBVIOUSLY. But man...

I don't care that it's normal. I don't care that I did this to my own parents. I don't care that they will grow out of it. I don't care that this is their first time being teenagers and first step into adulthood.

Right here, right now, TODAY, is what we have. The future? Who knows what it holds? Who knows if it exists? At this moment in time, my feelings are hurting and it sucks. All I wanted was something as simple as the happy presence of our family of five to carry out a tradition of cutting down our Christmas tree. Instead of sucking it up and tolerating it for 45 minutes, one teen stomped through the mud and shot daggers at my head and the other teen carried his winter coat instead of wearing it, occasionally muttering about how "all of the trees are FINE. Why do we have to do this??"

Thank God Patrick is so kind. I didn't engage any of their retorts and Pat made sure to tell me how much it means to him that I insist on traditions. Corinne, at 10, still loves the tree farm, and enjoyed all of the stories I was sharing about tree farm trips of years gone by. She distracted me from melancholy and deserved a happy mom, so I tried to shake off the feelings of inadequacy for her sake. But there were moments when I was sitting alone on the bench, waiting for our tree to be shaken and wrapped up, that I couldn't choke back the tears. Moments where I watched a toddler boy skipping along with his parents, dropping more cookie crumbs than he was eating, and the memories were so poignant and fresh...I was grateful for my sunglasses. I am grateful for the memories I have of my own toddlers and children skipping happily alongside me, but so envious of that connection and assurance that my children love me.

Xmas tree farm 2015. Alternate title: "Smile, guys. PRETEND you're having fun."

I consider myself to be a fairly kind and generous parent. Generous with my time, our resources, and patience. I don't ask for an overabundance from these kids, but I do expect a few things, without fail.

Respect. For me. For Patrick. For our family values and traditions.

Kindness. Tone of voice is a big one, especially with teenage boys. Just because I'm a mom doesn't mean I don't get my feelings hurt. I will NOT be spoken to with hatred or disgust. The words "I hate you" have not been uttered in my house. Lord help the child of mine who ever considers it. Their fate will not be pretty.

Accountability. Be where you say and do what you promised. I am grateful that this isn't a huge issue with my kids. They generally do what is required and have yet to truly be anywhere that they weren't supposed to be. (that I know of. The trust is not yet broken.)

My God, I have GOOD KIDS. I really do. I know that there are kids out in the world who push dangerous limits and make unquestionably BAD choices. In the grand scheme of things, I have little to complain about. I should grow a thicker skin, I guess? It's just...

I only have 14 months left with my oldest before he is officially an adult. Have I mentioned he's thinking about joining the military? So this means that I have one more Christmas with him as my child. One more birthday. One more Summer. One more first day of school. And then it's over...

16 years ago, it seemed like 18 years was a long time...

You cannot live in Tahiti and Italy at the same time

I never used to indulge in regrets. They're a waste of precious time and completely illogical. Why think about what you cannot change? And, if you COULD change something which you regret, what unforeseen adverse effects would that one difference bring about in your life? I've seen The Butterfly Effect; I am quite aware of the ripples caused by the smallest of moments.

This month has been... difficult. Why? Why, exactly. That is the question, to which there is no answer. I live a life full of love and privilege. It isn't without an enormous sense of guilty self-indulgence that I am allowing these feelings to be written about on this blog. I am fully aware that to complain about not being able to live to Tahiti when I am currently living in Italy* is a first world "problem." But to ignore it any longer isn't helping, either.

It's got to be the age. I am 39 years old. I have currently lived, hopefully, half of my life. Or more...Or less! Who is to say how many days or years we have left on this world? Within those 39 years, I know I have accomplished much and experienced every possible opportunity within my path. Within those 39 years, each time I turned left, I never once looked over my shoulder at the pathway that forked to the right and watched it slip further and further away. I knew that I couldn't go down each path; it's pretty freaking obvious. 

But this month.... THIS FREAKING MONTH... I have spent more time thinking about each and every pathway that wasn't explored. I have felt intense anger at myself; not for choosing the left instead of the right, but for feeling this overwhelming anger and regret. REGRET! WHAT THE FUCK?

Honestly, I don't know how to "get over" this, other than to go straight through it. And so I'm allowing myself this space in time to feel the anger and regret when it comes to me. Not for long, maybe 15 minutes a day? And then I will force myself to count, LITERALLY COUNT, my beautiful blessings. The results of every decision I've ever made are right in front of me and I will not waste this 39th year in mourning for anything I didn't choose. I will feel the feelings and acknowledge the losses. When regret and anger begin to knock, I will not ignore it. I'll answer that goddamn door and look it in the eye. I might even let it give a slick sales pitch. But when it comes right down to it, I will shut that door in its face and say "No thanks. I'm not interested."**

*I live in Illinois, not Italy. This blog is full of analogies, people. I am a fan.

** Because you really should be polite to door to door salespeople. They're just trying to make a living.

Today

Knowing that my hormones are responsible for the crash doesn't make the impact any less painful. Kind of like knowing that the reason you got a sunburn was because you ran out of sunscreen. It still burns.

And so I am trudging through today, in this small but very significant portion of my life (approximately 6.7% of my procreative years. Yes, I did the math). I am plodding and plummeting and climbing back up and wondering why I can't just bring the dirty dishes to the sink, even though I didn't make them messy, so why didn't those who used them do it? In the midst of a full-on brain rant over the dishes, I brake everything to freak out over why it matters. WHY? Why do I care? I don't. I don't give a fuck if the house is a disaster, even though I DO, but "not really." Because, in the end, there isn't a score card for the dishes or the laundry. There isn't a prize for anything. Not academics or careers, or any sort of accomplishment we feel we can tack upon the wall and display for others to gush over. THIS IS IT. I was born alone, I'll die alone, and if I fall, only I can pull myself up. Alone. Alone.

Well, Fuck.

Haven't written on this blog in a regular fashion in over 2 years. Why? Is it middle age? Am I that predictable? Is being predictable BAD? DOES IT REALLY MATTER IF IT IS? The time I've wasted over wondering if I was good enough/funny enough/smart enough is mind-boggling.

I have so many things in my head. Posts about love and choices and equality and justice. Points that I want to make, even if only to my future self, about the Big Questions and revelations I try to hold onto, before they no longer matter. The Big WHY of life... Why are we here? Is it really as simple as "just because"  or is there some greater purpose? Is my life a long list of pre-determined situations and choices or as random as the splatters of paint thrown upon a wall? Which is more desirable? And if I was allowed to know the truth between the two choices, would I REALLY want to know? Which is a more depressing thought: that all that I do and am is at the whim of some omniscient being or that no one and nothing in the universe is able to account for the world within my mind?

Best part of this onslaught of hormonally charged questions is the knowledge that it is NOT unique. It is not particular to me as an individual but rather to all who are blessed with the ability to think beyond ourselves. Human existence is a blessing and curse. We are able to ask "Why?" but not ever able to receive a solid answer until the moment we die. And then? Will there be an answer or only silence?

Exactly.

I should learn to knit

Sometimes it feels like Motherhood is a ball of yarn that I coil up tightly each night, tucking the ends in under the bottom. I wake each morning all freshly wrapped up, ready to start the day with a cheerful disposition and happy heart. Occasionally, I will enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning light and reflect upon how awesome I am; how easily I can remain composed and courteous. Somewhere within that first or second cup of coffee, my younger children will awaken. If they wake with a smile and a skip in their step, all is good. All is well. I might even begin a chore or two before someone begins to tug at a loose bit of yarn.

Tug, tug.

Perhaps it's just a little fray, at first. An argument over a lack of cereal or adequate milk to pour over it. A foot that crosses over a "line" on the couch, daring to invade another's "space."

Sometimes those tugs can unravel my tightly wound yarn-ball. Like cats, they snarl and claw over the loosened strands and I can feel myself rolling about; fraying and knotting and snagging on the minutiae that young human beings feel so desperately passionate about.

I am not adept at crocheting a blanket from the yarn that spills about me each night. It is all I can do to simply circle it around my hands, breathing deeply as I unknot and untangle and unwind the snarls of the day.

Ever sit at a stop light and think about putting the car in park? Just parking it in the intersection and stepping away, through the traffic, and into anonymity...

There is much doubt in my mind that my children will ever write sweet platitudes about their patient and selfless mother. Their memories will contain moments of sweetness, for sure. After all, I am a person who WILL go to great lengths to help someone, my children especially. I want to make everyone happy, but not at any cost. I know what I need and I am not afraid to be vocal about it. Down time. Alone time. Writing time. Reflection time. Time to just talk. Time to have adventures in a space outside of our own. Time, time, time...

I have been asked why I blog quite often lately. The answers aren't a simple few to be paraphrased like a mission statement, but one reason is very clear: I need to be quiet and still, as though I were walking alone through the woods. I need to reflect and remember. I need this, especially during the days that unravel my peace while living in the constancy that is motherhood.

The concept of a ball of yarn came to me yesterday. I could feel it unrolling throughout the day, bit by bit, and by nighttime, all I wanted was to curl up within myself. All I wanted was to close the bedroom door and be with my husband and connect... Instead, I woke with a start in the early morning hours, having had no moments of reflection with Patrick. Head pounding behind my eyes and snow piling ever higher about our house, I fear for how quickly I may unravel today.

Why Male Gynecologists Creep Me Out

Nobody seems to find this as big of a deal as I do. "What's the problem?" they ask me when I say that I don't like male gynecologists. "Why do you care? A doctor's a doctor."

Except, a male gynecologist is not a female gynecologist. A male doctor may have more experience with vaginas and cervixes and all of the other female bits and pieces in his practice than his female counterpart. He may have saved hundreds of lives, delivering thousands of babies and helping women for dozens of years, and that's fabulous. (In fact, thank God for male gynecologists because they have saved our gender through many generations where women weren't ALLOWED to actually doctor themselves.)

But try though he might to empathize with a woman, here is a newsflash:

A male gynecologist has never actually owned a vagina. 

Imagine you have a very special vehicle. It is your BABY, to be honest. You've pampered this car for your entire adulthood and it is everything you have ever wanted in a car. You bring it into the mechanic to have some work done and ask some questions about how it's been running lately. This mechanic has inspected every single curve of many cars. He knows all of the details of dozens of makes and models. Maybe he even grew up in a family garage of fantastic mechanic.

That mechanic can "quote" to you the way it's SUPPOSED to feel when you push your foot down on the brake pedal verbatim, but this particular mechanic has Never DRIVEN A CAR.

He has never known the fear you have when your brakes suddenly go smooshy on the highway while you're cruising along at 65 mph.

He has never had a flat tire on the side of the road on a dark, abandoned highway.

He has never known the pain of making hundreds of car payments and finally paying it off, only to have it sputter and die on I-55.

Tell me the truth: Would you REALLY take your vintage vehicle, your prized possession, your ultimate dream car to a person who has NEVER DRIVEN A CAR??

So why the hell would I choose a doctor who has NO FLIPPING CLUE what menstrual cramps or other vagina-related-issues feels like??




*Have I mentioned that I kinda sorta have "issues" with doctors in general?
*Inspired by a comment that I began on a random blog...

My Precious

It has happened.

I knew this day would come. It's inevitable, really. I live and work in social media. I stay connected to everyone via technology. Trying to exist within the world I work and live in withOUT a Smart Phone was tricky, to say the least.

Maybe Fate played a hand in the early demise of my Average Intelligence Phone? Maybe something Greater Than Myself forced me to reach for the phone while I WAS IN THE SHOWER? No rice would save this poor little phone. It has been recycled and replaced after a very long, very tiring day of trying to figure out what phone/plan I would be getting.

Here's something you have to understand about me: While I LIKE having a cell phone, I still don't feel that it's a NECESSITY. So, the idea of committing to a monthly plan that I can't get out of and costs more than a week of groceries isn't a wagon I'll be jumping on anytime soon.

Enter Pay as you Go plans.

I checked out Straight Talk through WalMart because my teen has a phone and plan through them. They would have been fine, but the phone I already had (via a T-Mobile social media event that I WON!) wasn't transferable and yadda yadda. Basically, they were SUPER nice and wanted to be accommodating, but couldn't really give me what I wanted; which was a smart phone plan for about $50 a month with unlimited everything without me having to BUY another smart phone AND with me keeping the same phone # I already had. I mean, Melisa had JUST BOUGHT new business cards for us with my cell # on them!!

And so? I headed to Cricket, which is where I had my old phone through. And in just a few minutes, I had a new smart phone (The ZTE Groove) with a new pay as you go plan which is $50 a month for unlimited everything on the same phone # without having to pay for a new phone.


So, if you are wondering why I am huddled in the corner of gymnastics or co-op or a social event, looking at my phone? Just know that it's all new to me. The speed! The music! The connectivity! I mean, did you KNOW that you can connect your email to your phone? And that different people can have different ring tones? And DID YOU KNOW that my Cricket phone comes with Muve Music which basically means I have FREE MUSIC every single day?!?! I have been making playlists and scanning through old photos from my blog and Gmail (because I CONNECTED IT ALL! LIKE A GROWN UP!) and ignoring the piles of dishes and the fact that I have a co-op class to plan for and papers to copy for history for the kids tomorrow and laundry and eating and talking to my family and bathing and EVERYTHING besides my phone.

My precious, shiny, lovely phone....

Ramblings on a napkin at Panera...

People watching... We all do it. Admit it. So it stands to reason that sometimes, people are are watching ME. This epiphany just popped into my head (as epiphanies tend to do) while I sit alone at Panera. My daughter has 3 hours of gymnastics, twice a week, and I try to fill those 6 hours in many different ways. But I can only walk so much, watch her cartwheel so much, and "work"* on the laptop so much before my brain explodes. So sometimes, I wander.

Occasionally, I find myself leaving a much larger carbon footprint than is necessary by driving in aimless circles, windows open, music blaring, and pretending it's 1994, where the biggest concern in my life was which parties I'd go to and what outfit I should wear to best showcase my butt and long hair. Other times, I'll sit beside the creek, throwing stones and composing brilliant** literature in my mind that will be forgotten once the van door opens to the din of my children's voices again. And some days, I can be found frantically scribbling on a Panera napkin, my breadbowl of broccoli-cheese rapidly cooling, in a cafe full of 20-somethings. I wonder if any of them are glancing my way... I wonder if any of them notice that I'm here?

Since we ALL people watch, surely some one, somewhere, watches ME.

It's a mathetmatical improbability for it to be otherwise.

When they're looking at me, what do they see?
What do YOU see?

Do I warrant more than a passing glance? Do I spark theories of possible lifestyles?

Or am I easily pegged as Just Another Housewife who is looking for a flash of glory before the grays outnumber the browns and the smooth loses battle with the wrinkles? An obvious cliche?

Are my questions truly unique or are they merely repetitions of millions upon millions of wondering souls, desperate for a chance to carve our initials into a tabletop more permanent than a chain soup and salad joint?



*Social Media Work = The Work That Masquerades as Play
**The most amazing words I've ever composed are the ones that never make it to paper or screen. It's a sad, sad truth...

Techie Geek, I Am Not

For the longest time the question was "Tracey, why don't you have a cell phone?" usually uttered after I had gotten lost on the way to a function and couldn't call for directions.

You see, I had resisted. Yes, I, Social Media Loving Tracey had resisted getting a cell phone. I had owned a cheapo one a few years ago, and it was fine for the purposes served but it was a pain to text and I couldn't go online. So, basically? Just a phone, and we stopped paying for it so I stopped using it. Life went on and it was lovely to be disconnected from the world once I walked out the front door.

A few months ago, Patrick came home with a middle of the road pay as you go phone from Cricket/Samsung for me. It is remarkably easier to text/tweet but still has limitations on what I can easily access online. So I don't USE it to go online. It's basically just a phone but with Twitter capabilities. I have grudgingly adjusted to having my pocket vibrate every hour with burning questions from the kids. Yesterday the "emergency" questions that needed to be asked of me while at the Chicago Food Swap were "Can I have a popsicle?" and a whining "Tell Evan it's MYYYY TURRRRN on the XBOX!!" Money well spent.

A few weeks ago, I won a beautiful and slender smart phone from T-Mobile at an event that Kris Cain organized. And I have not gotten a plan yet or turned it on...

I am afraid.

I am afraid of the brain-sucking pull it will have on me. I am afraid of the time I will undoubtedly devote to this new toy as I figure out the tricks of navigating the internet via a touch screen (don't even get me started on my touch-screen disability...). And I am afraid of one thing most of all....

For when you have a cell phone; people can reach you. All. The. Time.

Did I say that loudly enough?

I AM REACHABLE 24/7 NOW.

Have I mentioned that I like not being reachable? That I kinda like to just go for a walk and, well, WALK? Without that buzz buzz in my pocket that pulls me back to the connections and responsibilities that I have? For some people (especially NOWadays) being without their cell phone feels like they are missing an important appendage. For me? I feel FREE.

So what will I do when I have a very expensive and very lovely phone in my pocket instead of my cheap and Average-looking phone? What will I do when not only the phone calls come in but also the Facebook updates, emails, tweets, and those funky Apps that will beckon me into the Internet when all I SHOULD be doing is walking the dog and interacting with MY OWN BRAIN??

And so the fancy phone remains on my counter. I'm sure it's confused and lonely; unable to perform the duties it was born to perform. I'd like to reassure it that it WILL be turned on one day soon. You'll know when that day arrives for I will surely be absent from blogging for a while...

Connections All Around Us...

The smallest of all moments can lead to the deepest connections. The swiftest pass in the hall or collision in the canned goods aisle may develop into a relationship that is more meaningful than a can of creamed corn would warrant.

When exactly did I meet Melisa? Did we like each other instantly? Or did she raise her eyebrows in confusion at that weird and loudspoken blogger chick (me) who sometimes swears a little too loudly after a few martinis at BlogHer?

Did we exchange more than a brief nod of Chicago blogger camaraderie? Did we know then, on some level, that we'd become friends? That we'd forge into a  new territory that would bond not only the two of us, but also (potentially) dozens and dozens of fellow writers through LTYM?

Photo credit Rob Krueger Photography

Nope. Not even an inkling. But somehow, through a series of small connections, we became blog friends, then partners, and now? She is one of my best friends (though perhaps that is unknown to her... until NOW. Surprise, Melisa! I LURVE YOU!).

I am so excited to be entering into yet another exciting endeavor with you! I am grateful to have you as a friend in my life and wonder at what we will encounter and experience in the following months (and years!).

That Which Shall Not Be Named

So, there's this somewhat biggish blogging convention in New York this week. Have you heard about it?

Harumph.

I harumph because I am not going. I am not going for a multitude of reasons but none of them are strong enough to quell this insane jealousy that arises whenever another blogger squeals "Are you going?!"

I generally answer with an expression like this:

Yeah. Jealousy on my face ain't pretty.

So! I am going to list all of the fabulous things that I will be doing INSTEAD of attending some silly little convention that hardly anyone ever even hears of:

1. I will be camping! In a tent! With my 3 children and husband! In a TENT! With one teenager who hates sand. And, did I mention we're camping on DUNES? SANDY dunes? Which will get all over my angsty, sensitive teenager?

2. I get to cook all of my meals over a campfire or a tiny little grill. OUTSIDE. With bugs! No room service or overpriced New York restaurants for me. No way! SISSIES! I'll be ingesting extra protein from the bugs that die from the chemicals on my bug-sprayed fingers. (admit it: you're getting jealous, right?)

3. Instead of having to check my email and twitter every few seconds from all of the updates that hundreds of far-flung friends will be sending to me at That Which Shall Not Be Named, I will be virtually internet free. OH. JOY. Yep, living it up in the wilderness* with my family (including aforementioned angsty teenager) while you all are held hostages by bustling party schedules and interesting conversations with brands that want to give you free products. 

4. Plush hotel beds? Fine linen sheets? PSHAW! I am positively GIDDY that I get to sleep on an air-mattress with our scratchy old sleeping bag in an un-air-conditioned TENT! Gid.Deeeee.

5. Shoot. I'm spent. Making up fake lists is rough, y'all.

6.  I won't have to cart hundreds of business cards to function after fabulous function; mingling and mixing, drinking wine and laughing, being forced to be entertaining and amusing. Nay, I shall be carting bag after tedious bag into and out of our tent and van; shaking sand from every orifice of my body. I shall be relaxing on a lawn chair by a campfire with a s'more in one hand and a cheap beer in the other, talking with my husband, sister and brother-in-law after a long day outside with our children. (actually? The last part sounds pretty good...)

So, as you can see, I have PLENTY to do instead of jet-set to New York City this week. Plenty. Enjoy your silly little convention while I commune with nature.


*by wilderness, I mean a state campground with a general store and flushing toilets.

Just Like That

And just like THAT, my perspective is altered.

Just like that, when I'm walking my dog

at night

alone.

Just like that, when the carload of men drives past,

the SUV slowing

the men leaning out the window

their voices loud and commanding,

their intent a little above a general cat call.

When they turn around

and pass again,

and slow down,

and the calls become more suggestive...

Just like that, I forgot to be depressed.

I forgot to be woeful.

I only focused on the speed of my feet

the beating of my heart

the fear I could taste

as I frantically put more space between myself and them,

and less space between myself and home...


And now I will always remember to bring something sharp and pointy on my night-time walks. The leering and creepy men of the world will not deter me from enjoying the evening air; but they sure did remind me of my vulnerability when I am alone.

But just like that, I remembered to recognize the value of each day, and how I can't let another one mindlessly float away...

That there are vastly more important issues to focus on besides the lack of hormones in my brain...

What I COULD be writing about...

There are a lot of things I could write about today.

I could write about how frustrating it is to start exercising and watching what I eat, only to find myself at a ball game, then a bbq party, then Chinese food surprise by my husband, and then a neighborhood party. And then I find I have gained 6 pounds in the course of 3 days. And I begin to wonder how I'll ever drop this piddly 15 pounds I'm trying to lose. And then I am amazed by my friends who have lost 3,4, or 5 times that. I cannot imagine the willpower that requires!

I could write about how it sucks that I can't take my dog on several of our really long walks today because, at just before 8 am on our morning walk, it was 81 degrees. She would literally pass out if I took her out for 6 miles in the sun and 95 degree heat. So we will be at the pool, instead, and I will be the weird mother who is doing some random jumping/arm-swing motions to try and burn off the nachos from last night.

Have I mentioned that I hate exercising? And sweating? And peppy aerobics instructors? They bother me almost as much as doctors and dentists and anyone else who is "well-intentioned". It may not be evident on this blog, but I have a bit of an independence issue. As in, "don't TELL me what to do! I'll do what I feel is best!" and then I (used to) do the opposite. (I say "used to" because I actually HAVE matured since childhood a LITTLE and WILL listen to an educated piece of advice if it makes sense to me. Doesn't mean I'll follow it, though.)

I could write about the fantastic week I have ahead of me. A reunion with my LTYM cast, a Cubs game with Evan, a breakfast with Universal Studios with the kids, and my special birthday trip to St. Louis with Evan this weekend. I am a little lot overwhelmed with how much I need to arrange and organize so that everyone has the best week possible. Clothes to have ready, sunscreen available, schedules and phone numbers clearly recorded so that the other kids can be where they need to be on time while I'm gone... I'm wiped just writing it down!

I could write about all of that, but instead I shall entertain you with photos from our neighborhood party. It really was a fun time. And with unlimited cotton candy, sno cones and dunk tank turns, the kids had a blast!

 Evan was the only boy playing the dunk tank game for a while. He didn't mind that set up ONE BIT. Especially since he managed to get 5 girls soaked in a row. Ahhh.... my little boy.

 Do you like Corinne's accessories? The beads? The shades? So stylish. I woke up to her stringing the beads and clipping them to her hair yesterday. :)

 Patrick playing bags. It never fails.

 I wanted a cute picture of me and Corinne but she kept putting the cotton candy in front of her face...

 So I had to snatch it away and hold her down. Mission accomplished.

 When Evan saw that his sister was in the "hot seat" for the water balloon game, he was first in line.

 And he got her. He got her good.

 So proud of himself.

 After drying off, Rinny saw the face-painting lady and got her standard butterfly face art. Every year, she gets a butterfly!

 The husband; almost as elusive as the 13-year old who actually DID attend the fair long enough to grab some pizza and then head back home. No photographic evidence exists to prove this occurrence;  you'll just have to take my word for it.

 A dragon on the arm. Because chicks dig guys with dragons on their arms.

My son with the dragon tattoos, surrounded by girls in bathing suits, in a pizza eating contest. He was in heaven.

411

Desperation won. Cracking beneath the strain of new motherhood, I balanced my infant first born in one arm as I shakily dialed those three little numbers that were the Google of the 90's.

Hello, this is Information. How can I help you?

Hi. Um. Heh. I really need a number for a group... for moms? Do you have anything like that?

Sure. City and name, please.

Heh. I, ah. I don't know a name. My home town is Small Town, Illinois but I can't find any groups for moms and I just wanted some, um, help? Can you help me? Please?

Baby Justin begins to fuss. I jostle him in the universal baby dance that all mothers seem to learn without lessons. He quiets and I can feel the tears catch in my throat.

Please? I really, really need.... friends.

She's quiet. I can honestly feel the pity through the phone.

I'm so sorry, but without a name or city listing, I can't really search for you...

Isn't there any way? Anything you can do? I'll try anything... a baby group? A play place? Somewhere for mothers to meet?

I'm... I'm sorry. No.

Oh.... oh. Thank you, anyway....

The connection lost, my heart breaking, the loneliness closed in and the weeping commenced.

~~~

I was utterly alone in my new motherhood. Well, not utterly. I had plenty of family who loved me. I had friends who adored my son. But there wasn't a single, solitary soul who was home during the day to talk to. There wasn't anyone who was marching through the infancy stage with me. Justin was rapidly nearing his sixth week and I was rapidly approaching my return to the office. Torn by the overwhelming desire for human contact and the primal need to stay with my baby, I was a gigantic mess of hormones and mood swings.

I am so grateful for the Internet. What I wouldn't have done for its instant connection to similar people and similar issues.

I love you, Internet. You beautiful, shiny, brilliant creature.

Muwah.

O Happy Day!

Truly, it has been quite some time since I last felt such elation; such anticipation. In fact, I could probably trace the most recent incident of this extreme happiness to somewhere in the winter of 2000, when I purchased a leather coat that I still love and adore.

My friends? It was well past my time for joy...

Flannel. Is. Back.*

I KNOW!

I literally leapt out of my seat and clasped my hands together when not one but TWO TEENAGERS and an adult who works at a high school (an even BETTER fashion advisor than the teens!) confirmed this revelation in my fashion-ignorant head. How did I miss this development? Why didn't I see it coming when the 80's reared its ugly head in scrunch boots and over-sized sweaters?**I mean, it makes perfect sense NOW, in retrospect, that after the 80's big bangles and flourescent colors would come the NINETIES!

Ahhh... the 90's. A time of perfect fashion. A time of flannel shirts, body suits, jeans I understand and hand-beaded necklaces. Bring it ON!

I am so pumped for this comeback! Not only because I may just look "fashionable" for once, but also because I can now stock up on the styles that I LIKE, before they are out of style again. I totally understand why women tend to pick a style and stick with it. This whole "changing the fashion rules every 5-8 years because teenagers want to appear 'unique' and 'special' even though they're really just repeating the styles from a couple of decades ago but using different colors and fabrics so everyone completely KNOWS that the outfit you're wearing and trying to pass off as 'new' is 23 years old instead of purchased yesterday" SUCKS. I want off of this fashion wagon! I don't want to ride anymore! Just let me fill my backpack with ample Grunge-worthy clothing and I'll watch it drive off into the distance. I'll laugh from the ditch in my flannel the entire time the next generation tries to twist bell-bottoms and pedal pushers into some weird concoction made out of see-through fabric that has Wifi capabilities.



*Ok, It has come to my attention that flannel has actually been "back" for quite some time now, but I must argue that it couldn't have been really, TRULY "back" if I hadn't noticed it. I.E. I am confirming the actual START of the Flannel-Come-Back movement. Let your Grunge-wearing commence.... NOW.

**The truth is, I kinda like oversized sweaters but they really only look decent on the very tall, very thin, and very hip. I fall short (literally) on all 3 of those counts and the result is a lumpy potato with hair that is showing its grays...

If you don't see me for the next 6 months? THIS is why.

I must be insane. Well, I AM definitely touched in the head, that's a given. But my insanity must have been matched with off-the-charts hormones when I excitedly threw my name (attached to Melisa's name) into the hat for considerations to host the the Listen to Your Mother show in Chicago in 2012. And Ann PICKED US. Maybe it's Ann that's touched in the head? (silly me; that's also a given).

Crazy or not, This Is Happening. And I am beyond excited and a bit overwhelmed but so thankful for the opportunity and SO THANKFUL that I am doing this with Melisa Wells. Sending you a virtual fist bump, Melisa. You rock.

What is LTYM? You really don't know? Have you been living under a rock with that guy who didn't know that Geico could save you 15% or more?

Sigh... Well, Listen to Your Mother is the very groovy* show that Ann began in her hometown of Madison, Wisconsin (go cheeseheads!) in May, 2010. It was a group of writers speaking about their moms, being a mom, yo mama, you name it. It went so well that she expanded to a few more cities in 2011 with raging success. And now, for Mother's Day 2012, LTYM will be in 10 different cities across the nation! Go Ann! She's a genuinely kind and funny person, online and IRL.

So. Hoping to see lots of you Chicagoland writers at our auditions this year. LOTS. We need good, heart-rending, hysterical-yet-meaningful, material. Also, I think Melisa and I will need lots of good, fruity-but-not-too-sweet wine to get us through the list of 437 items that will be on our checklists...

*Yeah. I said it. You gotta problem with that?

In which I test what I like to call "The Bloggess Effect."

The Bloggess Effect, (heretofore* known as TBE) is a phenomenon understood by all low-key bloggers who enjoy the humorous writings of Jen, aka The Bloggess.

TBE most often occurs when said low-key blogger finds herself*** opening the sitemeter of her blog's stats to find that the page views have increased dramatically overnight.

"Halleleujah!" shouts low-key blogger. "The Internet is finally realizing my awesomeness and I will soon have thousands of followers which will then lead to a Famous Blog, following which I will get my own t.v. show!!"

Naturally. This IS what we all think. Maybe some of you don't actually yell it out at the screen? Yes?

Moving on.

As Low-Key Blogger jumps onto her desk chair to shake her middle-aged bootie, she clicks onto the "referred by" line.

And pauses.

And climbs down from her rickety chair.

And weeps just a bit as the truth becomes evident.

No Famous Blog in sight.

Thousands of Followers will not be arriving anytime soon.

And that t.v. show is definitely gonna have to wait.

Because the truth is there in that referring URL line:

http://thebloggess.com

You were witty on a comment on her awesomely famous blog or managed to have a funny blog post title at the time of said comment, thus garnering a tiny portion of her massive amounts of readers' attention.

Thus proving my theory.


*heretofore? Henceforth? Adam told me not to use fancy words. Or did he say to be creative with English? I don't remember.**

**Ok. That's a lie. I probably just wasn't paying attention.

***Defiitely HERself. Because all bloggers are women, right? Except for Jim, Adam, Lou, Mark and that handsome backpacking dude with the eyebrows.

To top it all off, I was wearing a Thong...

I've been working and shopping at the same Children's Toy and Clothing Resale gig for quite a while. 12 years, in fact. Once I was turned onto the benefits that buying used children's clothing could bring (i.e. extra money for wine and coffee), I became a die-hard volunteer. Every September and March, you will find me waiting in line to stampede the fairgrounds' gates; eager for my chance at AMAZING DEALS.

This year was no different.

I stood in line in the light drizzle, dressed for success: comfortable shoes, t-shirt that breathes, and pants that allow freedom of movement, but still have pockets for the wad of cash I use to pay for my loot. I was armed with my laundry basket on a belt (to pull along behind me when the pile of shoes, jeans and winter gear becomes too heavy to carry) and no purse or jacket to weigh me down.

The doors opened, and I wasted no time. No hemming and hawing at the tables for me. You have to know what you want and where to find it.

I zeroed in on the clothing for Justin. At the age of 12, his clothing is the most expensive in stores, so the greatest money is to be saved at that section. I totally scored on jeans, long sleeved tees and a dress shirt for this winter. Doing a happy little jig, I moved on down the table, and found that there were plenty of winter shirts and tees for Evan, too. Feeling quite proud of myself, I turned around to check out the shoe situation before hitting the girls' department.

Aha! Winter boots for Corinne and they're only... $2.50!! Ka-Ching! I could practically FEEL the condensation from the bottles of wine in my hand as I squatted down to snatch those boots up...

And then I had the strangest sensation...

Almost as if my skin were being drawn upon by a pen, all along the backside of my leg and rear...

The telltale "rrrrriiiippppp!!!!" had me freezing in mid-boot-grab. When I reached around behind me to survey the damage, my hand felt nothing but the soft fuzz of my bare thigh.

Oh yeah. And my ass, as well.

That's right. I had ripped my pants. But not just "ripped" them. Nay. My beloved capris had shredded themselves into a gap so wide that my entire thigh and left cheek were now COMPLETELY exposed.

In a room full of women who were all trying to get MY DEALS.

What to do?

Well, in a situation such as this, there is only one answer: Go with it, girl, for there are no tears in Resale.

It was lucky for me that I had shopped for Justin's clothing first. There was a soft, long-sleeved tee on top that easily tied around my waist. I tugged it low enough that no flesh could be glimpsed and I continued about my merry way, securing the jeans and Christmas outfit that Corinne needed in addition to a cute ballet leotard and a puzzle on the U.S. states, all the while enjoying a cool breeze down below.

Because that's how I roll.
Note: View of "cheeks" may be slightly altered to remain PG and to spare your precious eyes.

Crrrruuuunch. Crrrruuuunch.*

See this? These 12 rows?I MADE THAT.**

For realz.

See these?***

And these?

I GREW THEM.

With my hands.

I grew them and these herbs and I just mix that shit UP and have been making the best pasta sauce EVER from my garden.

That I GREW.

Just like God.

I feel POWERFUL. I feel.... Inspired.

Got a problem? LET ME AT IT.

I feel as though I could create anything and solve any issues you can throw my way. Just me, my crochet hook and my garden hose.


*That's the sound of my crunchiness factor increasing by 34%.

**Be kind. I learned how to crochet at 9:30 last night and only have the basic step down. I am going for the enjoyment of the PROCESS here, folks. Not the exactness of the stitch. I asked Corinne if she was going to wear the scarf I was making and she hedged, very kindly, "Um... Maybe. Maybe if I can't find any other scarf, and I am really cold, I will wear it."


***Next year: Grapes. If I can make tomatoes for my own sauces, I can sure as hell grow grapes for my own wine. I AM LIKE GOD. Let's just hope the wine doesn't taste the way my "scarf" (I'm using that term loosely) looks. i.e. lumpy and confusing. But LOVELY. Oh so lovely and pink and soft and I am WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR NOW LET'S GO CREATE SOMETHING RAWWWRR!!!!

I am SO Over..

I am SO over shaving my legs. Italian DNA requires that I perform this hideous task every freaking day when shorts weather is in season (lest I rub up against you and cause lacerations) and a healthy sex drive has me moaning and groaning with a razor through the wintry months. I'd like to find the person who decided that shaving was a necessity and force him (because you KNOW it was a MAN) to have to shave every hair on his body every day.

I am SO over explaining what "Because I Said So" means to my kids. IT'S SELF-EXPLANATORY.

I am SO over buying new shoes for my rapidly growing 12 year old. Do you think I could just buy a pair that is 3 sizes too big and stuff the toes with tissues? Would that be "lazy parenting?" Or just frugal?

I am SO over Spam mail regarding all of the single black women who are apparently dying to meet me. That's fabulous. I'm honored. Really. But I'm kinda married and kinda straight. Both kinda scream "Not Interested!" (Also on this email list: the repeating notification that THIS email is the final notification for a grand prize/invitation/Life-Altering-Choice. I get my hopes all up that it truly IS the final notification only to see 3 or 4 more "final notifications" following it. Methinks the Internet requires a definition of what "final" means.)

I am SO over setting unrealistic goals for myself. Phhhbbbbtttt. Done with that shizzat. I am keeping it real, dudes.

And now, for something completely different, a favorite montage of mine.

Make a video - it's fun, easy and free!
www.onetruemedia.com

Happy Happy, Joy Joy Indeed

Required Post-BlogHer Inundation of Pictures of Bloggers

Ok. Wow. Very, very tired from BlogHer. So tired that I don't even want to blog. Maybe this whole "blogging conference" idea is counter productive?

Whatever. Here are a few pictures of me and people that you may or may not care to look at but mean a whole bunch to me because we BONDED, yo. Whether they remember me or not.

Also, for some reason, I put my pictures in reverse order and I am not going to rearrange them because it's MY blog and I'll do what I want to.

Ka-pow, beeyatch.

Alexandra, Jessica, and Lela chatting it up at the Aiming Low party. I was getting quite ridiculous at this point and I think Lela may believe that I write a humor blog or something. Surprise!
Momo Fali aka Diane is da bomb. She did this thing with her hand that I won't write about but which will be forever embedded in my mind. You're totally wondering now, aren't you?
Jim aka Busydad likes me. He really likes me! Which is good because I am a crazy stalker of his blog (which he doesn't update often enough because he has a "Job" and is "Important" and shit. Whatever. I'll still pimp him out because his blog posts are worth waiting a month for. Seriously.)
Ooh! That's me! I look all relaxed and Californian'ed. Because I WAS. I had a margarita by the pool and nobody was asking me to hold anything or to watch them cannonball 42 times in a row. I was Chilled. Out.

I put my Big Girl Pants on and went about a strange city by myself before the conference started. That? That is one of the highlights of the entire week. I hit the Maritime Museum and went on a freaking pirate ship. And I ate fish tacos with a Corona at a restaurant without anyone beside me and LOVED it. I kinda adore the idea of individual vacations. Not ALL the time, for sure. But occasionally, it's freaking awesome to just exist without anyone around you.
My newest BFF, Trina, aka Lynn, aka Walking With Scissors. She has a lot of names. It's one of her "Special issues" but I'll overlook it because she and I got along so well. Muwah! Alberta, Canada is too far away...
Heh. BACKWARDS pictures because this is me and Lisa right after we met up on our first day, enjoying lunch before our Hornblower cruise around the bay (Awesome!). I highly recommend having a wingman on a BlogHer trip. Someone who has your back should you text "I'm all alone! Help!" and doesn't think poorly of you.

ALSO!! I did a Flash Mob on Friday during the lunch session. You can watch the video here to see ME the best... It was AWE.Some. I am really visible around the 3/4 mark and on wearing a green and white tank dress with my hair all down and crazy and messing up the arm motions.

And that's about it for now. I have about a hundred more photos but most of them are a little embarrassing (I have a tendency for taking really silly pictures of myself). Also? I'm done typing.