Where oh where, did Minivan gal go?

To say it’s been awhile is an understatement.

My life, in short, has exploded into a 6 ring circus:  sold a house, moved to a different state, gained weight, gained more weight, put out a few 5 alarm personal fires along the way...

And through it all, I've ended up at the crossroads of midlife...staring down the barrel of my 45th birthday.  I am left to survey the carnage of my life. The promises to myself that I never kept.  The hopes and dreams that were misplaced and watered down or spiked with too much alcohol.

Simply, I wish I had enjoyed life more. 

I realize now, I’ve been scared for most of my life.  I will get to a low point then push myself off the diving board and into the deep end.  Sink or swim.  I know I can swim.  

Yet, why on most days, do I really want to sink.

Honor, Empathy, Ignorance

To the Woman who told me, “It is certainly NOT NICE to meet you,”

I never thought I’d say this, but I’d like to apologize.  I apologize for not taking the time to properly introduce myself weeks ago.  I apologize that I was not as sympathetic to your side of the story as I should have been.  I apologize if my opinions came off too strong, or my tone was a bit emotional or too harsh.  And, I apologize, most of all, for getting caught up in the moment and for finding fault when I was guilty of the same.

You see, I am a mother, just like you; looking out for my children, in a similar way.  I’m sure you’d agree, that any formidable “Momma Bear” would be quick to flash teeth and show claws, when the well-being of her cubs is concerned.  If you had the courage to see, you would realize that we are alike, in far more ways, than we are different. 

Yet, with sincere gratitude, I thank you.  You have proven to me that the age-old adage of “the apple does not fall far from the apple tree,” really is true.  You have opened my eyes to the meaning of “when people show you who they are, believe them;” and made me sadly realize that in most cases, you can’t fight ignorance.

Thank you for showing me, in shining example, of how NOT to treat people.  Thank you for brilliantly illustrating the lessons I do NOT want to teach my children.  Most of all, thank you for reminding me to NOT let anger and bitterness seep into every fabric of my being.

I understand your need to spew hate….and to possibly attack my character, appearance, and individual family members.  I forgive you.  I understand that your anger comes from fear; and, I forgive that, too.  Because , if you knew me, and you do not.  You would know that I will not sit idly by when I feel an injustice has been done.  That I do not wield my pen or my sword lightly.  That I am a kind, loyal, brutally honest and funny person.  I would like to think, someone you’d want on your side of a battle.  Someone with an endearing soft side for the “underdog,” and who will gamely admit when she is wrong.

Yes, I have been known to rattle a cage or two in disapproval.  In the end, you will always know, exactly where you stand.  If you knew me, and you do not.  You’d see that we share more similarities, than grievances.  You’d see someone that wants to fix, not rupture.  Someone who tries hard to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.  Do not be mistaken, I am no doormat.  I do not need your approval or friendship.  I know exactly who you are and what you said.  I know myself and I know the truth.  And, that is all I need.

Popcorn, Cookies & Fundraising...Oh My!

“If you sell enough popcorn you can earn an iPad.” I said, only to regret the words the minute they escaped my mouth.  I knew that it was a mistake.  For a split-second, I had forgotten who I was dealing with and my “tech-addicted’’ 7 year-old quickly spun around.

“Really!” he cried.  “Let me see!  Let me see!”  As he grabbed the order form from my hand, my husband glared at me from the other room and gave the cut throat sign.  I stared back at the bigger “tech-addicted 7-year old,” who was watching football on the 60 inch HD flat screen:  new digital remote in one hand and his omnipresent iPad and iPhone close to the other one. At least they are both predictable, I thought, as the apple doesn’t fall far from the Apple store.

While the fall brings many wonderful things:  a new school year, changing leaves, football, crisp weather, Halloween and pumpkins.  It also signals the start of the academic fundraising season:  Girl Scout Cookies, Cub Scout Popcorn, High School Band pies, elementary school Walkathon, miscellaneous magazine/wrapping paper drives and my favorites, the to the point “just write the darned check” campaigns.

I understand the importance of fundraising and realize that it is all in the name of many wonderful, civic causes.  However, by the time I am encircled by the eighteenth Girl Scout troop on my way into the local diner or market, it is hard muster a polite “No thank you,” or my usual, “I’m so sorry girls, I’m a troop leader, good luck.”  Well, I was a troop leader, for over 4 years...but that ended 3 years ago.  Am I wrong to say that?  Maybe, but it’s the best excuse in my arsenal that doesn’t leave me looking like Cookie McScrooge amid crestfallen Daisy Scouts.
As this school year rolled around, my second grade son, a cub scout, was foaming at the mouth to sell something.  Last year, as first graders, his den was excused from fundraising.  For months afterward, I kept fielding questions from him regarding his selling status:  “Why can’t I sell the popcorn?  I’m a cub scout, too.  Our den could do something good with the money.  This isn’t fair.  Can’t I just sell some cookies?”  This line of questioning followed every scouting event that he participated in and tempted me to wonder about the legality of setting up a rogue sales stand somewhere in the vicinity of the gazebo in the town center.

He had patiently and not-so-patiently at times, sat through years of Girl Scout meetings and events as a default “junior brownie.”  Now that he had moved up in the “official” scouting ranks, he was not going to let his “sales” moment slip by.  

“Ugh, but the popcorn is awful, mom.” my twelve-year old daughter said as she shook her head in disgust.  “Why do they have to sell that?  And, why do we have to buy it?  Why can’t they just sell cookies?  At least, the cookies are good.  Shouldn’t they sell something related to the outside or nature or camping?”  

“Hmm,” I thought, “Lawn darts would be a good purchase right about now.”  But the former girl scout was off on one of her “I know it all” eye rolling, quick paced, adolescent diatribes.  “Are you going to dress up like a big popcorn?” she teased.

He pinched up his face, turned red and yelled, “MOM!”

“Because.  Because.  They don’t.  Yes, the cookies are good, but what do you think they should sell, tractor equipment?” I answered her questions in one long breath and the arguing temporarily stopped.  “The popcorn, by the way, is really very good.  You’ve never even tried it.  And no, he will not dress up like a piece of popcorn.”

“Whatev....Kernel Boy,” she said as she stuck her tongue out and retreated to her room and her iTouch.  

Now that she was gone, my industrious scout could focus his attention back to the order form and the potential iPad.  “How many popcorns do I have to sell to make the $3000.  Selling that much will get me the iPad.”  He was already hard at work, paper and pencil in hand, trying to find the median value for the various popcorn product price points, then attempting to divide that number into 3,000.  I vaguely heard my husband grumble that $3,000 would buy 6 iPads and it would be cheaper to just buy one for the kid, instead of using twice the amount of money to stockpile popcorn so he could reach his goal.

Watching all of this unfold made my head hurt.  “I only need to sell like 250 boxes of the regular popcorn.  But, if I sell more of the chocolate covered pretzels or that other stuff...”  I tuned him out as I reached into a cabinet for aspirin.

“Okay, can we go sell now, on our street.”  He was now calculating potential earnings by the number of houses in the neighborhood and children per household. It was 9 pm on a school night, scout uniform still on, he had just gotten back from a pack meeting. 

“No, not now. “ I said

“Tomorrow.” he countered.

“Probably not tomorrow.”

“This weekend.?” he asked.

“Maybe.” I said herding him up the stairs to bed.  

“Well, when?  Maybe means no.  Don’t you want me to win anything?  I thought you liked popcorn?”

“Look, bud, let me talk to daddy, first, ok?”  That seemed a sufficient answer, but more importantly it bought me more time. Tucking him in that night, I’m sure he had pleasant dreams of popcorn, iPads and magic marketing algorithms that would get him to his “promised land.”  I, on the other hand, could only conjure up visions of scouting past and a twelve-month supply of Thin Mint boxes in the freezer.

The following morning, my son was eager to bring his order form to school.  While he and his sister were finishing their breakfast and packing their backpacks, I put on the morning news to check the weather forecast.  The upcoming story, however, was on the Girl Scouts.

“Turn the volume up, mom,” said my daughter, “Maybe they’re gonna talk about how awesome the cookies are.” she smirked at her brother.

“A woman who managed money for the Girl Scout Council of Greater New York was arrested yesterday, accused of stealing over $300,000 from the organization. Sources say she used the money to purchase herself groceries, train tickets, gym memberships and expensive cosmetic procedures.” the newscaster said.

“That’s not fair,” my daughter said.  “Somebody had to sell a lot of cookies for that lady to get all that Botox.”

“Yeah,” my son said, slowly nodding, “I don’t think that’s gonna work with popcorn."

Powerless

I gave too much away.
Someone knows it all and I can't hide. The codes, the keys that keep me are not for me or mine alone. They are in....I am out...never sure of where I stand.

Is it fair or smart or real? Do I regret this loss of "voice"...and rue the days adrift, floating through the house in bliss?

I gave too much away.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Au Revoir Ma Grande Ta-Tas!

As I was watching the controversial “Born This Way” episode of Glee on-demand, I kept thinking about the one or two things about my own physical appearance that I would want to change....my less than bodacious ta-tas.  Yes, I admit it, I have a big boob obsession....mainly because, well, mine are so not.   It’s been 6 months since I had the baby, and well, things have definitely flattened out and gone south. At breakfast this morning, as I sat, braless in my pjs, sipping coffee, my 7 year-old son was looking at me funny and pointed to my chest, “Ah, mommy are you going to do something about those……ah floppies?”

And I thought, “Oh no he didn’t! Oh no he didn’t just diss the twins! Wow, maybe he ISN’t gay.” But floppy is as floppy does and before anything would flap about in a breeze, I went up stairs to put on proper foundation garments. As I came back into the kitchen, decidedly not blowin' in the wind, my thoughts wandered back to a conversation I had had on the subject with my husband, just before the baby was born.  And come to think of it, it really wasn’t much of a conversation, but just me announcing my intentions amid the glow of big pregnancy boobs and, he, more or less ignoring it.

We had been sitting on the couch durning football preseason.  He was deeply engrossed in the HBO football series, "Hard Knocks," yet all I could think about were "hard knockers." Mine, in particular. The one true perk of pregnancy, is, let's face it ladies, bigger boobs. It's the one sexy thing we got...as if in some cosmic equation, they were a perverse consolation prize for the hemroids, heartburn, nausea, fatigue, extra weight and kankles...whoever complains about bigger breasts. (Except if you have DD hooters already, and if ya’ do….you’re not getting my sympathy anyway.)
The only downside I was experiencing was that my décolletage was becoming a collection bin for cookie crumbs, goldfish, loose earrings, dust, bugs, and the occasional spilt beverage. Thus, I have been taking great care to buff and moisturize my burgeoning cleavage. Late at night, while all in the house were asleep, I would slip out of bed to fluff and powder them until they gleamed with a high powered shine.

"I think when all is said and done with this baby, I want to get a boob job."

"Hmm, yeah...." he was well into the Jets' Revis negotiations.

"I said BOOB JOB."

"What? For who?" He was perturbed that his attention was diverted from the business side of football and driven straight to my breasts.

"For me....I dunno, after the baby....maybe." I couldn't gauge his reaction. It wasn't no, it wasn't yes...he seemed to think about it, but his furrowed brow returned to the TV, much like the time I had declared that I wanted to learn to play the harp, the time I felt I really needed to learn how to cook authentic Indian curry, or the times I wanted to learn to SCUBA dive, swim on a National Master's team, and hone my conversational French with a native-born tutor. None of which have come to fruition.

The real reason for my fascination with my “lady lumps” was that I knew that the effect was fleeting.. I knew the minute the baby came, they'd pop, and “poof’” I'd be back in the land of shriveled plums and padded push-up bras. I thought my request was reasonable, I wasn't going for anything over 3rd letter of the alphabet....Heidi Montag took all the appeal out of the letter "G" when she tweeted about having to massage her implants to keep them soft. I don't need bowling balls, just a little bit of bounce. Not looking for the added flotation enhancement or anything that I'd need to sling over my shoulder and tie back with a pashmina the next time I'd go for a run. Just a slight augmentation. A whisper, just enough to show the whole world my girls can still sit up and beg like the best of ‘em.

For the most part, my feeling of enhanced self confidence was fueling these silly boob job fantasies. I felt, in my on head at least, that I looked better and garnered more looks from men, more than ever before. This skewed logic completely ignored the fact that people really could have been looking, in confused disgust and/or pity, at the 3 unruly children hanging off me or my gargantuan belly as it would jump out from underneath my shrinking maternity shirts every time I hoisted myself in and out of the car.
Yet, my “a-ha” moment came at a soccer tournament on Long Island. It was the end of the day and we were packing up for the trek home. In the distance, I caught something slowly making its way up the side of the field. There was lots of movement as the game had ended. I was bending over, not to gracefully at the waist, folding up tailgate chairs, blankets and picking up random bits of trash. As I was doing this, I notice the object had stopped and a long shadow was cast over my collection of chairs and coolers...Still bent I looked up to squarely meet the gaze of a mid-forties man in a motorized wheel chair.....who had been very obviously trying to look down my shirt. I immediatlely shot back upright, preggo belly in full salute and trying to make sure I was covered in all the right places. The man feigned some type of mechanical failure and inadvertently sent his chair into reverse.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. It's never a hottie, celeb look-alike that you catch trying to seek a peek.....its always some pervy creepy “Danny DaVito” with no teeth, a jersey shore tan and a serious physical imparement. Or some odd ball in the grocery store, who makes a mind-numbing comment like, “Wow! You look like you’re going to have a good time with those!” as you are trying to fly through the express line with infant diapers, a bag of apples and garlic bread. It’s those moments when I realize, you really do, like Heidi Montag, need to be careful what you wish for. Bigger is not always better, and I guess I'll just have to learn to be more creative with what I do with ‘em and invest in a wardrobe of killer push-up bras. Yet before I play taps and carelessly fling the huge pregnancy brassieres into the fire....the one's that now look like Jared the Subway guy's huge pants... when I hold them up and for wistfully moment of silence and wonder how hell did those underwired cups ever get filled out..

Happy Mother's Day to "The Worstest Bestest Mom Ever!"

"You're the meanest, worstest mom, EVER!” my 7 year old son announced. “You don’t ever listen to me. You don’t ever care about me.” He screamed and stomped up the steps to his room. Over the slam of the door, I vaguely heard him shouting something about how I was ruining his life. I stared up the darkened staircase, sheepishly sighed and thought, “And the award for most dramatic response to the question, ‘Did you do your homework?’ goes to….”

By now, the baby was crying, as the noise and commotion had woken him from a very brief nap. On to the needs of the next one…because just a squeaky wheel gets the grease, the child who screams “MOMMMEEE,” the loudest and shrillest, inevitably gets the pleasure of my undivided attention and/or disciplinary wrath.

Motherhood is definitely not for the fragile of ego. With four children in my house, ages 12 years to 6 months, the pendulum of emotions swings in an instant from “I love you! I love you! I love you!” to “You don’t understand me! I hate you!” or in the case of my tween, in an eye roll.

I fully realize that just as the storm clouds gather and erupt, they quickly dissipate. And as I feed the baby, my 7 year old will quietly come back down, apologetic, with hugs and kisses. Once an evil ogre, I am again the White Queen of his small world. (Though, when straightening up his room a day or two later, I will undoubtedly find an angry crumpled note, in which he vents “Mom is mean. This is a story of my Meanie, Meanie Mom!)

As Mother’s Day approaches, I haven’t, to date, ruined the lives of my 12, 10 or 7 year olds. I know this because Sunday will bring a small stack of handmade cards, each stating that I am “The World’s Greatest Mom,” or “I love you Mommy, because” or “U R Awesome Mom,” and possibly a random shaped pasta necklace or coupon to ‘help fold 1 load of laundry.” Small consolations for 364 days of misbehavior and mayhem, but I’ll take it. Along with the burnt bagel, my daughter will say she toasted, but did not, and the afternoon of quiet that ensues after my husband loudly wrangles all four kids into the car under the auspice of “OR ELSE!” I will sit back, reread the “Meanie Mom” story and laugh…..then call my own mother and apologize.

Immaturity Trumps Midlife Crisis

When I went to bed last night, I knew the morning wasn't going to be pretty.  Before I had finally fallen asleep, my husband had said, "Okay, so if I'm working from home tomorrow, you need to figure out when you are going to go workout."  Aggh, I groaned.  The alarm went off at 6 a.m., but what woke me was the poke from my husband.  "Just drop the kids at school and go right to the gym," he said as he pushed the covers onto the floor.

Fast forward two hours. It's 8 a.m.and I'm sitting in the parking lot of the local Y. I'm angry, really angry...royally pissed off. Pissed at my husband for pushing me out the door to workout. Pissed that I didn't go to bed earlier and as a result am so damn tired. Pissed that I am completely unorganized and had an argument with my pre-teen daughter regarding socks vs. no socks with Uggs because she couldn't find any clean socks to wear.  Pissed that my workout clothes are too tight and pissed that I can't afford new ones. That I couldn't set a schedule and stick to it. Pissed that I had let my self go, that I let my weight run unchecked, launching my pantsize into the double-digit stratosphere. Pissed that 99% of women depicted in the media are glossy and flawless and perfect.

I can't be perfect. And I'm pretty damn pissed about that, too.

Yet, everyday I buy into the "perfection trap."  I get up and fool myself into thinking that the aphorism "Today is a new day, I will try my best," will somehow work.  I turn a blind eye to the thought that "trying my best," is really code for "Bitch..Be perfect."  There is no alternative.  Cee Lo Green could be the soundtrack of my life:

As I sit in a far corner of the parking lot, covered in flakes of butter croissant and nursing a luke warm latte, it is hard to keep my eyes open.  My eyelids are heavy and I long to go to sleep.  My mind wanders back to my anger and I vow that I will just go through the motions.  Sit here and pass the time, while I let him think he got his way...got me out of the house and into the gym.   But the more I thought about it, the stupider my plan seemed.  I was the brat, the immature one....having my very own little inner temper tantrum. Throwing excuses around my head with reckless abandon. Looking for every reason why this moment supremely sucked and why it was not my fault. .

As others went about their routine, I sat and sulked. This was something that I envied - something my profound lack of discipline prevented my success....at anything.  I was displacing the anger I had at myself and projecting it onto my husband.  On the cusp of midlife, I was silently acting more like a spoiled toddler than mother of four. My discontent was with myself....but why? What was I afraid of? Why do I keep holding myself back? Will I ever know the answers to both questions?

I hope so....
But until I figure it out - the best I can do is multi-task:  brush the crumbs off my fleece as I move the car closer to the entrance, and hop on a treadmill for 30 minutes with a smart phone to walk and blog....

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Days like this...

So Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johansen are divorcing after 2 years of marriage....I mean come on....Really? I admit, my first thought was "whatever..." but then I thought about it and just got mad! Two years of marriage and now divorce! Really?

Two years of marriage, in terms of a lifetime together, is metaphorically, a rain drop in the ocean. Ryan and Scarlett, you bailed without even trying to figure the whole marriage thing out...It's the equivolent of standing on the customer service line at Walmart for 45 minutes for a return, then deciding to say "Fuck It!" and leave just as you make it to the cashier.

Marriage is hard. Relationships are hard. It all needs constant work and attention and revising. But that's life. Isn't that what most of us signed on for? Aren't we in it for the long haul? Believe me, after 13 years of marriage, I know, the whole experience ain't for wimps!

No one tells you about how you will fall in and out of love with a spouse, then passionately back in again. No one tells you there'll be times when you feel your pulling all the weight, or that you'll be so overwhelmed you want to pull the covers over your head and give up.

No one tells you that for every great day together, there
will be two that will bring adversity and challenge. No one tells you how to deal with in-laws or jealously or illness.

Or that you need to hold tight to the history you share as a couple, because those memories will keep you sane, keep you grounded, keep you in each others arms.

Almost anything you purchase comes with insructions....an owner's manual. Why isn't there one for marriage? Somewhere along the way we've all bought into this Hollywoodized version that neatly ties up relationships with a witty "meet cute" and a white pickett ending.

In reality, there is nothing neat about it. Spousal relationships are raw and visceral...like make-up sex. The answers lie hidden in the stolen moments, when you lie in bed together intertwined....just hold on and breathe.

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It's Not Always What You See

You don't know the all of me,
you only know what you can see. Sometimes, I am sweet, sincere, devout. Then other times I'm just inside-out.

Gruff and frustrated, simmering, too. Not sure to tell you off or give in to an angry screw.

The world is big and wide and full of doubt. You only see the me you want - heartfelt, subservient, with little thought...

It's not that I want to run away, just have you see the all of me, that elusive enigma that even I don't always see. And maybe one day, we'll all agree.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Not Tonight Honey, I'm On A Diet....

A recent poll published in USA Today cites that "for some women, weight control is more important than sex."  I had to read that sentence twice.  Honestly, I did....because I'm dying to ask those ladies, "Are ya' doin' it wrong?"

There are many things that I would give up if the Ab Genie granted my wish for a rock hard core, or if a plastic surgeon took me on as a charity case.....like lying about my age, cheating at Monopoly, rolling through stop signs, making my kids do silly dances for me before I will feed them, removing from my head the word "ruh-tard" when I see a mentally handicapped person, looting and pillaging my neighbor's collection of mail-order catalogs, hoarding and eating the kids Halloween and Easter candy.....but sex (for many different reasons).....would be no where on the list (despite my current knocked up condition).

Don't get me wrong, for as much as I love my husband, his penchant to grab my breasts in greeting, "just because he can" can actually be a turn off (side note: I mean, seriously, what is up with guys and boobs?  We were walking in Fisherman's Wharf in SF a month ago and a fat old guy walks past us wearing a T-shirt that said "I love boobies"....what up with that?!?).  So when I get really fed up, he whines that I can be a one woman sex excuse generating machine: 

1. It's too hot. 
2. It's too cold.
3. I have to poop....and it can't wait.
4. Odd days of the week are such a turn off.
5. Ugh, you didn't change the channel & I'm so NOT watching Leno, good night.
6. I just moisturized.
7. I think one of the kids just puked, better go check.
8. Poking me on facebook does not constitute foreplay.
9. I'm just 146 pages away from finishing up "Pride & Prejudice" for the 18th time.
10. You really shouldn't have had all those onions with dinner.
11. Oops, I forgot to put the laundry in the dryer.
12. I'm too worried about the economy and why Bill O'Reilly keeps picking on poor Jennifer Aniston?
13. Ooh, "Castle" is on and you know how much I love that Nathan Fillion....
14. This is a really hard Sudoku puzzle...I just want to finish it
15. John Mayer has been tweeting like crazy today....I can't wait to see what he says next!

And the list goes on.....I'm sure you all have other good ones to add to the list (please feel free to share!)....

According to eHow, "30 minutes of intercourse will burn 195 calories."  Isn't that a much better way to burn off that late afternoon grande mocha? So why take one option off the list that would actually help keep those rockin' abs a rockin'.  Granted, it's no Zumba class, but it actually can be fun, when you get out of your head and let it.  Besides,there's a reason the book is called "Skinny Bitch," there are more health benefits related to sex than starving yourself, such as better body image, feeling sexier, stress relief, ....did I mention STRESS RELIEF?

I bring up stress relief, because we are becoming an increasingly angrier and angrier nation.  Workplace shootings; pissed off flight attendants; Kelsey Grammar (who, btw, recently dumped the wife who convinced him she had something called "irritable bowel syndrome"...and made him go on TV and talk about it...damn, why couldn't I pull that one off!); all those greasy, sweaty, hairless, leather-like gorilla Jersey Shore guys "creepin'" all over the place; the incompetent New York State legislature; and more and more Kardashians coming out of the woodwork each day....we are awash in a perfect storm of a listless economy, general overall resentment,  tawdry voyeurism through 24-hour gossip sites (LUV U PEREZ!) and global warming.....so I must ask, is anybody out there (other than me) having any sex?

The Steven Slater Effect

Yesterday, at a local diner, I recieved the shock of my life.  As the middle aged waitress (not to be confused with the Bitchy Waiter, btw) brought out our food, I lightly touched her arm and asked, "Could you bring us a new bottle of ketchup?" The 6 yr. old, Crazy Man, was already eyeing the, for all intesive purposes, "empty" bottle on the table very dubiously.  I thought I would ask, in an effort to head off the volley of questions that would spew from Crazy Man's mouth. 

She turned on me with angry glazed-over eyes and announced, "Do I look like ya' mutha?  Do I look like I have the time to go all the way back to the kitchen, then come all the way back here with a new bottle of ketchup, FOR YOU?  Look, look around.....does it look like I'm not busy today?"

I did look around, and was embarrassed to see the majority of the restaurant staring at me. "No...it's okay, don't worry about it," I mumbled.  But she had already turned hard on here heels, loudly saying, "But here I go, getting you another mutha-fuckin' ketchup, like I'm the f-ing Heinz 57- St. Paulie girl...."

"Quick, before she comes back.....grab the bottle from the table over there....AND HIDE IT." I told my 9 yr. old, fearing that if she saw, we'd be pelted with small packages of orange marmalade or even worse, the germ-laced mints at the register. Then it hit me, in one angry, curse-laden mouthful, I had been Steven Slater-ed.

Like the pissed-off JetBlue flight attendant, who according to Jimmy Fallon, "grabbed two beers and jumped."  I believe I was the victim of a walk by, table side "Slater-ing" - one, in what I fear might be a rash of copy cat acts from employees in the service industry, most of whom are fed up with the general douche-yness of their customers and the lull of modern life.

Now granted the flight was coming in from Pittsburgh....need I say more, but I feel that Steven Slater could've behaved in a more professional manner.   Let's face it Steve, if you can't handle the luggage, then get off the plane.....which you did, after you smartly threw down your very large carry-on bag, which I'm told looked like it would NOT fit in any of the overhead bins.

Let's not canonize the guy for re-gurgitating the "take this job and shove it" mantra and turning it into a glittering broadway revue.....soon to star Hugh Jackman as a down-on-his-luck singing, dancing,disgruntled sequin-clad air steward. Because we all know that the fanny-ing about with the drink cart has its perks, including making thinly veiled passes at married men, trying to secretly seduce them by coyly slipping them an extra Dr. Pepper, or two.

And while air travel has become increasingly no frills - no pillows, blankets, food or leg room - the flight attendants are there to set a friendly tone and to gently remind passengers that we're all in this together, so let's make the best of it. Having recently flown from coast to coast in my "fragile" state, it was not only an uncomfortable experience, but an extremely eye-opening one.....NO ONE....I repeat NO ONE helped the very visibly pregnant woman hoist her bag into the overhead bin, then once again, hoist it back down at the end of the flight.  Of the 4 flights, (I connected each way), NOT ONE of my smelly, agitated fellow passengers, or any of the "friendly" flight attendants so much as lifted a finger to help, or ask if any assistance was needed.  I realize that pregnancy is not a handicap, and women were long ago giving birth on the job in rice paddies and farm fields, but I thought modern manners would have garnered me a little help, and not comments like, "Oh my, you have to pee AGAIN, dear?"

I could have put any number of people in my pregnancy-fueled hormonal-cross hairs, but I didn't.  Propriety brought me back to my seat to do numerous sharp reps of kegel exercises.  As I counted and clentched, my anger subsided, though, sadly, the urge to pee did not. Now with every new news item about Steve Slater (or the now inevitable View appearance), working class hero, or t-shirt with Steve Slater in the likeness of Che Guevara,  or Facebook tribute page, I just want to scream!  Because if he had only "Queen-ed" up, done his own version of a kegel exercise and turned the other cheek, he could've been trolling for a sugar daddy on the next flight to Boca....like tomorrow!

Knocked-Up.....AGAIN!

I stared in disbelief at the three pee-soaked sticks on the bathroom vanity....two thin lines, then just a plus sign, then finally, the nail-in-the-cradle....a new-fangled digital LCD display that arrogantly flashed "YES!" ....As in "Yes, you stupid bitch, the rabbit died...YOU ARE PREGNANT!"

I fumbled for the test instructions, reading and then re-reading again in Spanish...then French....hoping some shred of information regarding false positives was lost in translation. But I quickly realized, that "You're fucked," pretty much means "You're fucked," in any language.

And on many levels I was....or had been...very vigorously (but not memorably) sometime around the beginning of February. Now it was April and I was pregnant. But before the reality crept in, before I told anyone, before I let my mind begin to ponder what color would we have to repaint the guest room....I began to oddly rationalize my way out of this situation, because hadn't my husband once famously announced "We have three....you're not having anymore, at least with ME anyway."

Afterall, maybe the pregnancy tests that I had purchased at the local CVS were wrong. Maybe all of the pregnancy tests in the state of Connecticut were wrong. Or maybe, I shouldn't have purchased that one with the lines at the Dollar Store. Or maybe I have some syndrome in which your body only THINKS its pregnant. Or maybe this is just the final episode of LOST.

It wasn't any of those and I started to mentally live out my own variation of the movie "Knocked Up"....but my husband is much cuter than Seth Rogan (though probably just as hairy), and we ARE married...doesn't that count for something....AND.....no one in the house had a raging case of pink eye.

We should have known that somewhere between my husband's horniness, an astonishing disregard for any kind of birth control, my fertile Irish peasant genes, and my cast-iron uterus (which has known to go by the moniker "Ole Reliable") we were playing with fire. And so we sat dumbfounded in the Obstetrician's office when he confirmed what I already knew and then flatly stated, "I thought you said at your last visit, you were done?" I didn't know what to say, because honestly, a year ago, I thought I was. It was my husband who spoke first, visibly peeved by the comment, "Yeah, well, that's what Brett Favre kept saying, but he still signed with the Vikings."

As we walked out of the office, I had a sinking feeling that I'd hear that comment alot. That the question of "I thought you said you were done?" would be dogging me until November. And really, how DO you respond to that? "Well....it sure beats a 9 to 5." Or, "It was either a baby or a dog....and we know my husband's not allergic to babies."

Slowly, I began to test the waters with my news....by telling total and complete strangers. People that I knew had no connection with any friends or family members. Random people that I knew, a Russian Reflexologist, an Asian yoga teacher, my Israeli therapist, the mentally handicapped bagger at the grocery store....all who had no idea who my husband was and had very thick accents....So there was little chance of any of them running in to him with a chorus of congratulations and VERY little chance of him understanding them if he did. Thus mitigating the "What the hell, why did YOU tell HER" arguments from my husband.

But as June rolled around, and maternity jeans loomed in my near future, we anxiously waited for the Amnio results before we told our kids about sibling number 4. But when we did, one night at dinner at a local diner, after the 6 yr. old's short stack of choclate chip pancakes arrived, their reactions were not what I had expected. Crazy Man, the 6 yr. old, was at first excited, then turned very serious and asked, "So, where is it going to sleep?" My third grader, who up until this moment was the quintessential middle child, was very worried, and looked at my husband and said, "You're kidding. This is a joke, right?" But the 11 yr. old rejoiced to hear the baby was going to be a boy, and her Queen Bee status would remain intact. "Well, I feel bad for those two.  You know, I'll get a lot of attention, because I'm a girl and the oldest....and the baby will get a lot of attention because he's the youngest....you guys are on your own." she said and pointed to her two brothers.....because yet again, in her middle school mind, good news, no matter whose it was, was always, in some way, about her.

To make matters worse, reactions didn't get any better when started to tell family members, each dumbfounded in their own way, all seemed to offer up different versions of "You've got to be joking!" or "Better you than me." However, the most unusual comment came from a neighbor who remarked, "Well, it's good to know that someone on the street is still having sex." I'm still trying to figure out if that last one was a backhanded compliment or just plain creepy.

Now it is August and only a few more months to go and we have finally reconciled ourselves to refer to "The Situation" as a pleasant surprise, and not a covert military op (i.e., shock and awe). But, I fear the little playful jabs will linger...at a BBQ this past weekend, a friend remarked, upon hearing of our recent trip to the West Coast, "Well, at least when the two of you are alone together between now and November, you can't possibly make #5."

Oh silly friend, where there's a will, there's a way.....and if not, there's always the fear of osmosis.

The Game of Life

Viva la vida.

If only life truly was like the board game.  And all that you needed came in one bright, shrink-wrapped box.  One little pamphlet of instructions was all you needed, in English and Spanish, to start you on your way. One spin and the decision is made and your path decided...all by the caprice of a mini multicolored roulette wheel.  There are no heavy sighs, no pros and cons to weigh....just an eagerness to get on with the game.  There are no arguments in your little plastic car about money, the children, sex, who didn't take out the garbage and who left the toilet seat up.  Even during the mandatory marriage stop it doesn't matter if the front seats are occupied by pink-blue; pink-pink; blue-pink; blue-blue....come on, is anyone REALLY  going to stop the game to protest the coupling of same sex plastic pegs???

And while the stakes are high, someone always wins and someone always loses, they are not serious.  There is always the promise of next time when the game is put away and taken out again, days, weeks, months or even years later.  Perhaps what I've been craving is that intangible ability to hit the reset button and play anew with a different and exciting outcome....the way you can only do in a game or at a sporting event.  Each time a team takes the field, be it soccer, basketball, football, etc., there is that wonderful unknown promise of a possible victory...of possibly pitching a perfect game, or running for a record number of yards.  And while much may be chalked up to luck - being in the right place at the right time - this luck, this fate, it is also ours to make....or break.

And while eternal optimists will drum up slogans to make you feel good about life's incongruities and the mistakes you've made along the way, such as.....

"Life is a cabaret." - Liza Minnelli as Sally Bowles

"Life is like a box of chocolates."  - Forrest Gump

"Life is what you make it." - Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus
"Life is one long menstrual cramp." - Snooki from "MTV The Jersey Shore"

The paradigms are all pretty much bullshit. Life is good. Life is crap.  But in the end, it pretty much is what it is....real life, not a game, full of emotions and tough decisions with countless wonderful moments in between.

And so while I wobble in and out of the blog-o-sphere, I thank you for your continued support and well-wishes, because life of late has thrown me for an unexpected loop and a brand-spankin' new infant seat will be in the minivan come November!  (Yes, baby #4!) But more on that to come.....C'est la vie!

Adversity

Everyday, we make choices. Some are agonized over, some are as simple as what should i have for breakfast or do i want butter or cream cheese on my bagel....and with all of the seemingly irrelevant decisions, how often do we really think about their universal impact on who we, as a person, ultimately are.

Yet, today, I have to make a decision that will have profound impact on every part of my life....on every part of my soul.

I am faced with 2 roads to walk down. One decision will bring my entire family along with me. It will not be easy, there will be bumps and hills and challenges for everyone at different points along the way. Each will be effected both positively and negatively at various times in there life because of this choice. Because of my choice. But, we will all be in it together.

The second choice will only truly and adversely effect me. It will be my cross to bear and it will be a dark and infinitely windy road. The decision will be made and locked away in some far away corner of my mind. It will be my memory and mine alone. Life will go on for those around me because they never knew...and I will never tell. I know for everyone this might be the right choice. Why disrupt life for so many on the whim of just one. Is that really fair?

And through all of this, my heart and my head rally for two different choices. What I want, everyone says is impossible or ridiculous or selfish. What I want should not be an option for consideration.

I look at my family and my heart aches. In the end, they will not know what I faced and how I agonized and cried...I will change and they will not and it is so. It is not fair, either way. It just is. It is life. And life is full of adversity.

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