If I Gave A Tweet...

Twitter confounds me. It's right up there with the fine line of the facebook status update - either mundane and boring or extremely witty and funny. There never really seems to be a middle ground...and for the most part, I thought that "tweets" were silly cyber shout-outs - the online equivalent of a blog's poor WT trailer livin' cousin.

Then I read an article on TechCrunch regarding a Twitter account called "Shitmydadsays." The posts made me laugh so hard, I nearly peed my pants. With a lot of inspiration and an econo box of Depends, I composed the following "bon mots" as if I really gave a tweet - therefore, if I twittered this is what I'd say:

• I hate it when people stop me to say, "Wow! You look really great today." Then, I have to respond, "Thanks, I finally took a shower."

• Happy Birthday! I heard you're turning 40, but want to hear the best part...I'm not!

• Met a friend for coffee. First thing I said was, "I got dressed today...what the fuck happened to you?"

• If men can come up with remedies for conditions like Erectile Dysfunction, why the hell can't they fix "Man Boobs?"

• Am dropping the kids off at the pool...no shit...literally - I AM AT THE POOL...with the kids.

• Now that I've had three kids, I really should've rethought the location of that "Hamburgler" tattoo...

• WTF!!! WR R HR SPX? (Were are her spanx?)

• Too much green. Too much pink. Too matchy-matchy is what I think.

• Just fucked my husband...will he just get the hell off of me already!

• Why does Eli Manning always look like he was beaten with an ugly stick?

• Just farted in Starbucks and blamed it on the 5 year-old.

• Not all soccer moms are angry and vulgar...just me.

And the list goes on....because this is kinda fun....SO you can now follow me on twitter here.

All Roads Lead to a Good Moisterizer...

Much to my husband's chagrin, I am nothing if not predictable. For example, when there are two roads diverged at a major intersection...I will inevitablely travel the path to the closest retail shopping establishment.

So...as I sat at the stop light this morning, I had a major decision to make: Turn right in the direction of the car dealership to once and for all take care of the burnt out tail and brake lights on my car......or turn left into the town center to pick-up my much needed deep hydrating boutique moisterizer.

As the light changed, there was no hesitation. Despite my husband's almost hourly chorus of nagging emails, tweets, voicemails, texts and instant messages regarding the car - my actions were intuitive. I made a beeline for the "chi-chi," "fru-fru" cosmetics store. The sentiment, "A good moisterizer is better than any vitamin," echoed through my head. It sounded like some glorious and sage advice that had once rolled off the tongues of Diana Vreeland, Coco Chanel, Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, or at the very least, RuPaul. Yet, it was simply copy for a new skincare product advertised in a recent SELF magazine.

"Moisterizer!" "Vitamin!" "Brakelight!" The words riccocheted through my thoughts like ping pong balls. As I eased my car into a prime parking spot in front of Pottery Barn, I knew that what I was about to do was no small feat. To pull off the equivalent of a cosmetics "quickie," I had to be a woman on a mission - get in, get the goods and get out....without any upsell and purchase of additional products and services.

As I strode confidently across the street, just steps from the open shop door, the bark ring tone on my iPhone rang out. Shit! My husband! Damnit! I stood holding the barking phone as other shoppers gawked and stepped out of my way. "I will DEAL with the car, LATER!" I think I angrily said ou tloud and let the call slink into voicemail. But there would be no message, because, like clockwork, in five minutes, the phone would bark again.

It was now or never. I had a strict timetable to keep surrounding bus schedules and soccer practice. Circling back with kids in tow, was really not the best case scenario. The last time I drug the five-year-old, aka The Crazy Man, along on my quest for the perfect skinny jeans, he discovered eight new GapBody fragrances and to spite me, sprayed them all on his hair - at once. We both left the store smelling like potent combinations of Designer Imposters cologne, Deep Woods Off, rose hips and wet dog. On rainy days, when the lingering smell can be detected in the car, I am reminded of his hijinx and how it touched off everyone's allergies.

When all was said and done, I was able to pull off an impressive trifecta: got the moisterizer, got the car fixed AND got everyone to their practices reasonably on-time. But later, I knew I would have to patiently listen to my husband's monotonous "man-trum" (man tantrum) over car maintenance and why he didn't appreciate my cavialier attitude about brakelight safety. I knew that while, he wouldn't understand it, the explanation was elementary...While you can't go too far on the road less traveled without brakelights, you do, however, have a much better chance of talking yourself out of a fine, ticket or warning with glowing, dewy, well-moisterized skin.

In a Bloggin' State of Mind

Last June, I jinxed myself. As I sat at the kitchen table on a lazy Sunday morning, sipping coffee and blocking out the sounds of arguing children, I read a New York Times article about the inordinate number of blogs that go fallow...abandoned forever in cyberspace with a tell-tale dateline/time of death and cingular, often arcane final headline such as, "I'm a playa, I'm a playa," "Looooooook at ma thingy," "Photos of the world's largest cookie cutter collection," and "Won't post again until we all get free weed."

I sat bolt upright, slapped the paper down on the table and announced, to no one in particular (as my husband is VERY good at blocking me out), and said, "This will SOOO not happen to me!"

Then the writer's block hit.

In reality, blogging is hard work. It is hard to be consistently witty and relevant and at the same time self-depricating while you wear your inner most thoughts on your sleeve. Yet, what is even harder, however, is learning to live with what you've put out there for all to read, reference, comment on, and email to friends.

I have, more or less, reconciled myself with the fact that I have willingly given a multitude of eyes and ears a peek into my life and bedroom. Therefore, the full scope of my online musings/actions never really registered with me.

Until....I ran into a friend and former colleague of my husband at the grocery store. There I was, at the deli counter, scolding my 5 year-old for sitting on the kaiser rolls - (Why do they keep them so low? Do the supermarket powers-that-be not realize that small children will want to stack them like legos to use as a step ladder?) - He came up to me with a big hug and kiss.....

"Hey," I said, "How are you?" and continued with the usual pleasantries about work and his wife. When the conversation had run its course, he just gave me a wink and a sly smile and said, "Oh you...how's it going...haven't checked your....(slight pause)...monologues...in awhile."

The full gravity and reality of what I was putting out there hit me in that instant. For a split second I couldn't move, paralyzed like a deer in headlights. It must have flashed across my face before I could recover, because he then gamely gave me a playful, "knowing" punch on the arm and said, "Ahhh...that hubby of yours....give him my best." Then he was gone.

As I turned back to order my salty meats, I felt both oddly violated and flirted with at the same time. Never, in all of my months of silly stories and vivid description, had I ever once stopped to think about how someone's view of me could be altered - for better or worse - regarding the stories I chose to share. And never had I given a moments thought to the typical male perspective on it all.

In my mind, my audience has always been smart, savvy modern women. Those with or without children, who wear many hats - mother, daughter, wife, friend, lover, teacher, sister, aunt, neighbor - and were fraught with many of the same issues prevalent in my life. I was never really trying to be provactive, just timely and topical and above all else funny. The only guy, I thought, that really read my posts was my husband....if he laughed, not a little tee hee, but a full, throaty, showing all his teeth, clapping his hands laugh - then I knew it was good - be it obnoxious, ridiculous, voyeristic or over the top.

But then, I am one to naively stand at the early morning school bus stop in my flannel pajamas amid a group of husbands waiting with their children then scurrying off to work and think no one notices.....or is offended, annoyed or even oddly turned-on.

Whether in a conversation or a blog post, I've always sacraficed social convention for a punchline. To me, funny is sexy. (Come on, would Paulie Shore have gotten any ass in his lifetime if he wasn't funny?....okay maybe funny is sexy doesn't apply to the Weasel...) And when the timing is right I will go in for a laugh, like a skilled boxer who has perfected her upper left hook. Most don't expect that it is coming and the mousey, four-eyed girl always walks away with the biggest laughs.

But then after my panic at the deli counter, I stopped. I stopped writing. I stopped sharing. I closed down. My opinions felt irrelevent and tired. Plus, I was a bit scared of the monsterous, over-sexed online corner I had become to believe I had painted myself into. Was that wave and smile from the neighbor that I knew read my blog really mean, "Hi! How are you?" Or was it really, "Oh yeah, she's a horny mother fuckin' freak!"

Then school started and we stopped eating lunch meat. The quick uptick in the family schedule left me cranky and tired and without time to myself. Without time to think, to write and to be circumspect about it all and my thoughts were relegated to the daily ebb and flow of email responses. And as I religiously checked my inbox, I began to get increasingly annoyed by the sheer speed in which some people could crank out responses. And not just a phoned in WTF LOL half email/half tweet, but the long circuituous way that they got to their point. I was so jealous of their use of words and quick chirpy verse.

What pushed me off the ledge, however, was a series of novellas written and sent by a soccer coach. His emails were like long idle walks down a country road, meandering yet quaint and full of Norman Rockwellian antecodes. He prattled on about the joy of autum and mulling spices, crisp leaf peeping and soccer playing weather, the unabridged history of the soccer ball (Who knew they were once oblong rocks?), seminole moments in Pele's athletic career (Where would Brazilian soccer be if he hadn't flunked out of law school?), and the unconfirmed story that Posh has been secretly drugging Becks with low doses of Viagra.

I was dumbfounded. As I hit delete, I may have even thrown up in my mouth. This person had written more in one email, than I had blogged about in months.....hmmm....dare I start looking into guest bloggers? Nah......because, just as Jay-Z raps that "I'll be hood forever," the allure of an online persona will always lead me back and compell me to share my voice and hopefully a laugh about life, love, sex and the insanity of it all.

The Spin Cycle of Life

My mother has cancer. There I have typed it. I can't take it away. I can't erase it. I just have to put it out there and let it hang, because it has been sitting on the tip of my tongue, at the back of my mouth, at the base of my thoughts. I will say it again, my mother has cancer....and I am scared.

I am scared for her, for myself (selfishly), my children, for the future. And in the quiet moments, when I get off the phone with her, a flood of memories rush back. Ones that I thought had faded or had been lost somewhere amid the other happier moments in time, like my wedding day or the birth of my children or vacations at a far off exotic locale.

I check in with her everyday, sometimes its a long talk. Sometimes its just a quick temperature read. Her chemo has started and she is tired. Yet, everytime I end the call, I am 9 years old again. It is early December and I am in fourth grade. Old enough to know something is very wrong, but not mature enough to completely grasp the gravity of the matter. I was in between the ages that my two older children are right now.

I finish my homework and kiss my grandmother goodnight. She was dying of breast cancer and after my grandfather had died of a heart attack she came to live the last two years of her life with us. I didn't know this at the time, but she had signs and symptoms and a tell-tale lump for some time. She was a proud old world lady who didn't trust religion or doctors and kept everything to herself. By the time my mother could intervene, it was too late, the disease had spread.

That night as I lie awake thinking about horses and basketball and Christmas, I could hear her slow, labored breathing, which turned to gasps and the low, muffled tones of my parents. My father had closed my bedroom door and called the ambulance. When I heard my mother crying, I reached for rosary beads in the dark and began to pray. It seemed like it was late into the night when I heard the clank of the stretcher on the steps. The creak and groans of the EMTs as they ferried her from the bedroom, down the steps and out the front door.

"Please!" I prayed. "Please, help her!" The metal from the beads pressed crows feet into the heel of my hot, sweaty palm. I fell asleep at last with them wrapped around my wrist, while desperately asking God for some grand intervention. I realize now that my act was all in vain, all for me. She was already gone and I felt lost.

Now, I am lost again, caught between my parents and my children. Trying to live each day as it comes, because it, life, is too short, too fleeting and in the end always astounds you by coming back full circle.

Where Did My Happy Go?

At dinner one night, my nephew, who is three, could not sit still. He was a little ball of energy, hoping on and off of his chair. My sister-in-law, tired from a long day and busy feeding the baby, was at her wit's end. She sternly reprimanded him and reminded him that he needed to sit correctly and eat his dinner. Sitting squarely on his chair, he looked up at her and said, "Momma , you took my happy away!"

I've been thinking about that story a lot lately, because everything, it seems, has been taking my happy away....the end of the school year, too much family togetherness resulting in possible permanent scars, multiple trips to the dentist, global warming, reports of John Stamos' attempt to orchestrate a "Full House" movie deal, Michael Jackson tribute coverage, all of the golf and cycling my husband has been watching on the weekends (I don't give a fuck about Lance and the old guy.....and why aren't women allowed to complete in the Tour de France?) followed by complaints of my cooking chicken for dinner again...

My husband with his infinite wisdom suggested that in those moments of extreme stress - when the 5 year-old has drawn zebra stripes on his arms with black Sharpie marker, when the 8 year-old has managed to cover the entire floor in the family room with his ecclectic and obsessive collection of matchbox cars, when the 10 year-old can't understand why for the 10,000th time she can not have and iPhone and tells me that I am ruining her summer - I should put myself in a self imposed "time out" and try to envision a happy place.

But, what was my happy place? A clean spot on the beach were we vacation - too many memories of the kids encroaching upon my sense of zen. Yoga class at the local Y - too many pretzel-like poses. Running on a cool day down a country lane - too many shin splints. A relaxing soak in the tub - too many damn Spongebob toys up my ass. Maybe it is too many viewings of "Confessions of a Shopaholic," but standing in the handbag section of a local TJ Maxx, I realized my happy place. As I touched the price tag of a last season Cole Hahn hobo, I closed my eyes and whispered "va bene!" and invisioned myself half a world away....cue music.....at the Fendi store on Via Condotti in Rome.

My happy place, a stone's throw from the Spanish Steps, was nestled just across the way from Hermes and next door to Gucci. Now I realize that since my last trip to Rome, Fendi has opened a beautiful, new Piazza Fendi flagship store, but my memory still holds true to my late afternoon sojourn down Via Condotti in 1999. It was the height of "Sex In The City" on HBO and I wanted to visit the shrine to the holy grail of "it" bags, the Fendi baguette.

It was all very intoxicating....the smell of the leather, the crisply folded, hand-rolled silk scarves, the decandant disdain of the staff and the pungent scents of the Fendi fragrance line. My trip could have started and ended in that one spot and all would have been golden, except for the impatient and annoyed whining of my husband for dragging him into what he called "his fashion hell" complete with absolutely NO electronic devices whatsoever.....and I can still hear him guffaw over the exorbitant prices...

"Girlfriend, I have seen a lot of weird shit go down over in men's boxer briefs, but please, CONTROL YOURSELF! You can NOT sniff the half price pocksetbooks." The TJ Maxx Lay-Away Clerk snapped me out of my reverie, and I quickly pushed the purse away from my nose and cheek and hung it neatly back on it's hook. I looked around the store hopping no one else had noticed and slunk off in the direction of my back-up happy place, ladies clearance shoes....

The Drought Explained.....

Apologies! Apologies! As you can see, my output on this blog has slowed considerably over the past few months. The fact that this has occurred in conjunction with the end of the school year is no coincidence. With three active children, summer always seems to be a combination of breaking up arguments, chaffeuring the kids to their various day camps, and counting the minutes until bedtime. But this summer has been very different, as I have had legitimate reasons for my lack of posts.

First, I was quite excited when I was presented with the opportunity to sign me and the kids up to star in "A Chorus Line Jr." at our local theatre. Our youngest, aka The Crazy Man, has always shown a penchant for naked dancing around the house, and my middle son, he who is obsessed with France, recently exhibited an odd curiosity for "jazz hands".

I'll admit that my daughter needed a little convincing, but after about 7 repeated viewings of the "Sound of Music", I convinced her she could be the "Lisel" to my "Maria" in this production (and that "Cookin' Mama 2: Soul Food Edition" might be in her future for her DS). Plus, I checked, and there was little opportunity for that little attention hog to steal precious spotlight from me.....bonus! The impromptu tribute to Michael Jackson we performed during the finale will be talked about for years to come in our town, no doubt!

Next, was the unfortunate incident you may have read about around the 4th of July. We were going to do a water balloon toss during our annual BBQ, but my husband thought it would be a bit more exciting if we did it with sparklers instead.

As you can see, that bastard miscalculated that after a few Coronas his aim might be a bit impaired. Don't worry, the Crazy Man is doing fine...though my husband did try to blame it on all the "fruity dancing" he had been doing lately instead of improving his eye-hand coordination. I am so glad our last performance of "A Chorus Line Jr." was the week before, otherwise I would have had to scramble to find a kid to do the moonwalk during the finale.

Then, this past weekend we had some drama here after we broke out the Slip and Slide.....We had a bunch of neighborhood families at the house for some summertime fun, and one thing led to another, and my husband thought he would show off by giving the kids a head start "midget toss" style....

Unfortunately for one of the two year olds on the street, my husband was busy talking about the god damn Tour de France or something with one of the other guys while mid toss and you can see the result. Who's got the poor eye-hand coordination now, asshole?

Soooo....it has been a pretty busy summer here as you can see. Please bear with me.....school is just around the corner, and that means plenty of bus stop time.....which is blogging gold for me!

Best. Father's. Day. Ever!

My husband said he wanted to keep it simple this Father's Day. No Vineyard Vines ties, grilling gear, or "family coupons" for "free" hugs or car washes that the kids will forget about by the end of the day.

Nope -- he just wanted to be left alone in the tub with some of his favorite comfort food. How could we deny the man who regularly makes my heart skip a beat (and has been known to press magnetic letters into my ass) this simple pleasure?

I did get a little scared when he asked the eight year old to help him find the ketchup packets though.....