Category Archives: Friends & Family

Our Family Christmas Letter – Volume 4

“Bah humbug!”

This is the reply you would get from my dad whenever anyone said, “Merry Christmas” to him. I used to get so mad at him. But now? I get it. Oh.my.god. I totally get it.

What the heck is so “Merry” about Christmas? Besides the fact that it’s Jesus’ birthday?

Well, really Jesus was probably born sometime in the summer because according to the Pastor at our church, it most likely took the three Wiseman approximately five to six months to get to Him. It gives a whole new meaning to “Christmas in July,” don’t you think?

Feeling duped? So did The Kid. That probably ranks up there with when our children found out we’ve been lying to them about Santa all these years (and the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy). I should feel bad about that, but I don’t.

Let me rephrase — I do not hate the actual day of Christmas. I love Christmas (although I like Thanksgiving better because…food all day. Need I say more?).

I just hate the month leading up to it.

It starts with standing in the living room trying to figure out which dang light on the three strings of lights is causing all of them to go out and then after two hours of trying just throwing in the towel and running to Rite Aid to buy all new lights and fighting the crowds to get them (and that’s before you get out of the car), it’s just really not merry.

Or the lines that start in the parking lot of Costco. The lists on top of lists of things to do. The cookies to bake. The 105 nieces and nephews to buy for. The Wrapping. The Christmas cards. The pushing, shoving, and absolute madness of the entire season.

Oh my gosh, how did I get so off topic?

Where was I? Oh yes. My Family Christmas Letter.

2016 was a fine year. And I don’t mean “fine” as in “ooh, yeah Brad Pitt is fine.” What I mean is that 2016 was “eh.”

It was the year where I proclaimed I was going to lose my double chin, when I actually gained a third one.

Also, my face decided 2016 was the year to start growing hair. That’s really fun. My tweezers are happy to have a daily chore though.

It was the year of me being a working mom for the second year. It went well. I mean, except for the fact that I had to shower every day, get dressed in something other than sweatpants, use my brain, and actually talk to people.

I suppose all those things right there are positive but I really do miss my PJ bottoms. And I get the feeling my brain may still be in sleep mode. But you’d have to confirm that with my co-workers.

DH started a new job that was nice enough to let him work 14 hour days and weekends. He also almost lost an eye, but he didn’t so I suppose that’s a positive.

The Kid finished high school and left me to go to college. Oh, I mean, she spread her wings and flew to where she will learn to be even greater than she is. So she can have a meaningful career and support herself.

The bad thing about that is our vacation money is being spent on an education. My body hasn’t seen the sun in ages. Seriously. My doctor says I’m severely depleted of Vitamin D.

Staying in a hotel two miles from campus for Parent’s Weekend does not count as vacation. Neither does it help with my Vitamin D levels because she is not going to the U of Hawaii or Stanford.

I suppose I could always OD on milk. But that’s a problem when your favorite drink is red wine. But hey. According to the American Heart Association, a glass a day has heart-healthy benefits.

Oh. A glass a day. So, math isn’t my strong suit.

Well, that’s about it. We are happy and healthy. We have jobs, a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and intact body parts. Overall, 2016 was decent, but looking forward to 2017. Here’s to hoping I don’t gain another chin.

Be well, my friends. Happy holidays and have a wonderful New year!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Getaway Part III – The Conclusion

If you need to catch up, click here for Part I, and click here for Part II.

Ready?

Needless to say, we didn’t go to Fire Island. The idea of us walking in the dark in a place we’ve never been to didn’t really appeal to either of us. Lord knows I love food, but I didn’t need to work that hard for it. Ocean or not.

DH remembered a restaurant someone recommended…an over-priced italian place right on the sound. We decided that sounded like a nice place to celebrate our anniversary dinner, so he called to make a reservation.

Unfortunately, the only open spot was at eight, but at that point we were pretty happy with anything so we took it.

Since we had so much time to kill, we decided to go into town to see if we could find a cute place where we could have a cocktail on the sidewalk. Well, not ON the sidewalk exactly. That would be weird and probably illegal or something.

We quickly settled on a trendy little spot (with some tables outside) with THE BEST margarita with muddled cucumber. Don’t knock it ’till you try it. I raved so much about it, the server actually got the bartender to write down the recipe for me.

But I totally digressed there.

When the maitre de showed us our street-side table, I noticed a woman leaning over the fence/wall, right where we were going to sit. I maneuvered myself around her bobbing and weaving body and sat pretty much right under her. I didn’t ask her to move because I don’t like confrontation. I was fine with her hair hanging down into my plate. Really, I was.

At first I thought she had an impairment. A disability of some sort. But then the stench of alcohol permeating from her pores was so intense I almost didn’t have to order a drink because I was beginning to catch a buzz off her breath.

After about five minutes, the man she was with was able to finally pry her off the wall/fence and into a waiting car. Just in time too. My blood alcohol level had most likely reached .08%. And that was before I ordered a drink.

We slowly drank our cocktails, but somehow we still had some time to kill. We stopped into a liquor store and picked up a bottle of wine to share for a nightcap later on our private balcony, then ducked into a dollar store to purchase a couple of wine glasses, and headed off to dinner.

img_0556It was dark when we pulled into the parking lot, but the restaurant was lit up like a Christmas tree. It was beautiful. There was a wedding going on and the atmosphere was lively. The way I like it.

DH spoke to the hostess and explained it was our anniversary and asked for a table out on the back deck. We were led outside to a table “on the rail” except the rail was a solid concrete seawall that came to my neck.img_0544

I know there was salt water on the other side because we were told so. I just couldn’t see it. Unless I stood on tippy toe. Even then it was so dark out, I would not even have known there was water out there save for the working lighthouse a mile or two out.

DH ordered a beer, I the house wine. My wine tasted like swill. I had barium better than that. Somehow I was mistakenly under the impression that the house wine in a fancy italian restaurant would be good.

Not sure where I got that idea from.

For dinner, I had the clams as an appetizer and the spaghetti and meatballs as an entree. Simple, sure. But I wanted something comforting for some reason. Besides, we were in an italian restaurant. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to order?

Needless to say, half the clams wound up in my napkin. They were so chewy, if I didn’t actually take them from the shell myself, I would have thought I ordered cow balls.

And the meatballs? My Irish grandmother made better. I made better and I don’t even make meatballs. As for the sauce, I was pretty sure it was taken right out of Chef Boyardee’s kitchen.

Sorry, Chef B.

We had a nice time though. It’s about the company, not the meal. We laughed it off. Anyway, it seemed to be par for the course that weekend.

After we got back to the hotel, we uncorked our bottle and sat on our plastic adirondack chairs on our private terrace, and sipped wine out of our dollar store glasses while overlooking our little piece of water.

But it doesn’t end there.

On the other side of the shore, there was a building. We didn’t know what it was because it was dark, but we did see a couple of cars pull into the parking lot and turn off the headlights while their vehicles were still in motion.

We immediately went into Magnum PI mode. Trying to crack a crime that may or may not have been happening. A couple of dark figures got out of their cars and walked into the shadows. Was it a drug bust? Disposing of a body? A heist?

Most likely just a couple of kids sharing a joint, but it was fun to imagine something sinister.

Fast forward to the next morning (because you don’t need to know the in-between…wink wink). That long-awaited spa-like shower I was looking forward to taking was not to be.

The faucet was broken. The water temperature couldn’t be regulated nor would it turn off once it was turned on. The water was hot and getting hotter by the minute.

Well, there was always breakfast.

After we got dressed, we made our way down to the 5×6 foot lobby to eat.

img_0561On our way down, we saw a lady come out of the front door with a package of Pop Tarts. I turned and made a joke to DH about it.

When we entered and made our way to the “buffet,” we saw that our choices were stale bagels, three types of cereal, and frozen Leggo My Eggo waffles.

I was desperately searching for the Pop Tarts that suddenly didn’t seem so bad, but the early bird catches the worm, and I lost out.

I settled on the bagel and cranberry juice when what I really wanted was a diner and a stack of pancakes. DH had the same but with a cup of coffee.

We took our Top Shelf breakfast back up to our balcony. Across the way, where the night before the Crime of the Century was going down, we saw was actually a fire training center.img_0564

Yes, a building on “mock” fire with firemen trying to put it out with big hoses, and all the works. It was cool, but just the topper to the end of our weekend.

As we were leaving, DH told me how much he enjoyed our little room. Anyone who knows him, knows he is not a traveller and especially abhors hotels. His comment was worthy of a heart attack, but made me happy nonetheless.

Long of the short, but long story…I discovered that Long Island does not mean The Hamptons. After all that it was a great anniversary celebration, Hamptons or not.

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Cheers from our Dollar Store wine glasses!

Hormones vs. Hormones

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I woke up in a bad mood this morning. A real bad mood. Even the text to my mother was full of venom. I’m pretty sure she was praying. Thanking the good Lord that she was 639.59 miles away. Safely tucked away in the sweet plains of The South.

I don’t know why I woke up this way. I just did. It happens. So, when I told The Kid to empty the dishwasher, she replied through gritted teeth with a “PLEEEASSSE???” You know, the kind of “please” you say to your two year old when she demands a lollipop.

This was probably not the best day to get snarky on me. Peri-menopausal women are a force to be reckoned with. “Force” as in an Uzi With A Vagina. But what does she know? She’s only 16. So much to learn. Poor thing.

What was my reply? “I don’t think so, child. This is your chore. Why I feel the need to remind you to do your chore is beyond me. So no, I will NOT SAY PLEASE!”

When she was done with her chore, I told her she had an attitude and that I didn’t like it. “Mom, can I say something to you?” she asked.

The previous night I was at the high school for a seminar. It was about drug awareness. Three kids from our town came to speak about their drug and alcohol addictions. A child professional got up and spoke for a bit. One of the things he said is to listen to your child. Never dismiss her.

Usually when I am in this type of foul mood, I would say something really stupid and completely against what all child development people would recommend saying. They would not only cringe at my reaction, but would probably have my kid in some kind of therapy for the next 20 years.

When I am in this mood, it would sound something like this: “no, you can’t say anything because whatever you say right now will not help you. Now go upstairs and get ready for school.” But I didn’t. I stopped and I thought before I spoke. I know, this is a shocker. My mouth is usually louder and faster than my brain.

“Yes, you may.” I nearly had a heart attack at my own reaction. “Mom, why is it every time YOU’RE in a bad mood, we have to suffer?” I looked around for DH. So sure he was hiding in the shadows with a $20 bill.

I was rendered speechless. This is the second “attack” I’ve had from my family in a week. I use the word “attack” loosely. It was more like an awakening. The first time, when we were in the car going somewhere, it was what I like to refer to as a “come to Jesus” meeting. Except I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo. “We think you are going through menopause and we don’t like it. You’ve kind of been mean lately.”

They were as nice as they could be about it. But I sit here thinking about these occurrences. Yes, I have been pretty bitchy around here. Not always. I’m not one of those raging lunatics who should probably be committed. But I have my moments. Perhaps a little more than less lately.

And I know why. Sure, hormones play a part in it. I was born hormonal. You should have seen me as a teen. Think Regan without the complete head turn. Damned as I tried, I could only get my head to go 3/4 of the way around.

I haven’t been taking care of myself as well as I should. I stopped exercising. Exercise plays a huge part in feeling good. It’s got something to do with endorphins. Endorphins are your best friend. But I digress.

Whatever the reason, it’s not a good enough one to treat the people you love the most in this world the worst. No, I seem to save my best mood for everyone else. Friends, strangers, people who I try too hard with.

So, in my eye-opening last two weeks, I’ve decided that I need to lighten up on the closest people to me — my family. I can still be great to my friends. Kind to strangers. Civil to everyone else.

I’m going to save my good energy for my people. The people who, even though I act like Sybil at times, still love me back and never give up on me. Even in my peri-menopausal semi-crazed rage.

With that being said, we are still allowed to get upset with our children when they don’t listen. When they don’t do what we ask them to do. Perhaps I don’t need to spit blood, but I can be a little exasperated. And I’ll try to keep the Regan to a minimum. I promise.

Girl’s Get-Away

At My Job, I have been helping to organize an all-women’s weekend retreat. This has been a dream of my Friend Boss (Susie) for a long time. Susie has her own, very successful blog called Not Your Average Mom. This is a weekend for women only to come and ease away the stresses of everyday life.

Anyway, I’ll be there. Of course. Because I’m helping to organize it. And it’s going to be fun. I don’t like to miss anything that is going to be fun.

If you’d like to hear more about it, click on this link and you will be able to read a nice post Susie put together explaining the whole thing.

But if you don’t feel like doing that, let me explain what it entails:

Date: February 27-March 1, 2015 (I really like how that date makes it seem the weekend is like, 6 days but it’s really not so don’t get excited)

Place: The Interlaken Inn, Lakeville, Connecticut (note: if you would be traveling out of town, no worries. We will have complimentary transportation to and from the airport/train station. It’s a first come/first serve basis so if you do this, let me know asap)

What’s Included? Well, besides a 2 night stay at the inn, I’ve broken it down for you below:

Friday: Meet & Greet, Dinner, Drinks, a singing man with a guitar (the only man allowed btw)

Saturday: Breakfast followed by three break-out sessions; a yoga class, pole dancing instructions, karate/MMA lessons. There will be a snack break in there somewhere. After the sessions, lunch will be served followed by a 3 hour break to do with as you wish. Some suggestions: a nap, a movie, a walk, a massage, a leisurely shower, hang out at the bar, go check out the sites of the beautiful Litchfield Hills. In other words, do whatever you freaking want to do without husbands and children and housework crap bugging you.

After your break, meet us downstairs for dinner. Then this is where more fun comes in…there will be karaoke, a photo booth, dancing, music, drinking, games, fun, hanging out, the letting down of hair, partying, more drinking and fun, fun, fun.

Sunday: Sleep in a bit then have a relaxing brunch before heading back home to well, home.

So, doesn’t an entire weekend of no grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and all else crappy sound good? I mean, you won’t even have to make your bed! Damn.

And you can come hang out with me. I promise to sing some karaoke. I promise! I warn you that I sound like a dying cat on its last life, but I love to sing and I will sing even though I shouldn’t.

I wish this was a video so you could get a real treat. I am singing American Pie. That song will never be the same.

Seriously, you need to grab a girlfriend, or two or three and come on down or over or up.

How much does it cost? This is how much it costs…

  • Single: $425
  • Double: $325
  • Triple: $300
  • Quadruple: $225

It’s totally affordable. And the reason it’s totally affordable is because today we launched a Crowdfunding campaign. (click right there to the left)

And here’s the Google definition because I’m really bad at explaining things: the practice of funding a project or venture by raising many small amounts of money from a large number of people, typically via the Internet.

So, if you would just love to help to make this a success, please consider a donation. There are perks so you’ll get some goodies in return! Here’s that campaign again.

How do you reserve a room? Call The Interlaken directly at 1-800-222-2909 and tell the operator that you are calling to reserve your spot for the Not Your Average Weekend retreat.

If you have a friend who will be calling in or has called in her reservation, just make sure you tell the nice lady/man on the phone who you want to room with.

Right now, all you need is a $100 deposit to hold your spot! Or you can totally go to the crowd funding link above and see that you can actually get an even better deal on your weekend. But act fast because there aren’t very many being offered at this price.

Leave a comment if you have any questions or send me a nice email at momfeld@hotmail.com and I’ll be sure to answer any question you have!

I would love to see you, to meet you, to party with you! It’s a great way to rejuvenate and catch a break from the winter blahs. Send me a message when you book your room! See you there!

Here’s a sneak peak of what happens when you eat their dessert alone without children hanging on you. And my acting debut:

Labor Day Equals Pineapple Juice?

This week’s writing prompt is brought to you (or me) by Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. She wants me to describe what I did this Labor Day. So, here you go:

Labor Day weekend, to me, starts on Friday and runs all the way up through Monday (of course). I don’t usually work Fridays but I did last week because I traded one of my other days. Because something must have come up. Another of many millions of perks of My Job.

The Kid had field hockey practice until 4:30. Then Driver’s Ed until 8. So, I had to sit and behave and not have any wine because, well, drinking and driving don’t mix ever. But most especially if you have a kid that you need to pick up.

Friday. No score. No party. No fun. Damn kids.

Saturday was better. We had two parties on the calendar. The first one was an annual event thrown by good friends of ours. It’s always sure to be a great time, we can count on that. The host with the most at this annual party always serves pineapple infused vodka. I’ll get back to that in a minute.

The second one was a themed party. A “Redneck” party thrown by my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. This is also turning into an annual affair. Again, another great time.

I know you can't tell, but that's me.

I know you can’t tell, but that’s me.

Now getting back to the pineapple infused vodka. It’s delicious. And dangerous. I started out at the friend’s party drinking 2 glasses (maybe 3…okay 3) of the vodka. After about 5 hours we left there to go to my in-law’s party.

At that party, I drank two glasses of wine (no pineapple vodka because they didn’t have it, a blessing in disguise. They did have margaritas, my favorite, but I steered clear of them because vodka and tequila? Probably a “NO”). We stayed at this party for about 3 hours, then left to go home to our beddie-bye.

It’s late. I think I’m tired. On the way home, I get a text (or did I text her? Hmm.) from my friend with the vodka letting us know that they are still partying and if we’d like to come back.

Hells yes, of course. I am not one to turn away from a good time. Ever. I show up in my Redneck attire and guess what’s waiting for me? A nice cold glass of pineapple infused vodka. Also, it turns out I’m not tired at all suddenly.

I do not have one, but two more of these glasses of pineapple infused vodka for my enjoyment and everyone else’s because by now I’m three sheets to the wind (whatever the hell that means) and I’m at my best in the comedic sense, according to me. It’s a good thing I kept my clothes on.

Actually, I’m not known for doing that when I’ve had a few too many. Pee my pants? Snort a little? Dance up on a table or two? Say a little too much about just about anything? Sure. But the clothes, they always stay on. Pinky swear. But I may subject my peeps to something like this:

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This may or may not be my friend. Whoever this is has been dramatically changed to protect the innocent. Could it be Gene Simmons? Perhaps.

The night was a blur after — count ’em — 7 cups or something of alcoholic beverages in as little as 12 hours. Oh wait, that’s not so bad. That’s less than a drink an hour. And just so you know, I drank plenty of water in the in-between. In between what? Who knows. I just did. This I remember. Let’s just say I tried to pace myself. I really did.

Sunday was a day spent with The Kid watching old classics like The Breakfast Club (my fave) and Mean Girls (hers). It was a good thing too, because I needed the couch pillows to keep my head from spinning.

Sunday. I could say “bust” but it wasn’t totally because I spent it with my daughter watching movies. I ate nothing because a spinning head makes a girl nauseous. And I went to bed at 7pm. So let’s just call it a partial bust.

Monday. The actual day of no-Labor. Eh, let’s just say it was kind of a bust. I was still feeling a little funky (not horribly bad, I mean I could have mustered up the energy to do something, but glad I didn’t). There was a chance of rain, so we didn’t go on the boat. DH kept saying stuff like, “let’s do something” but then we didn’t because, well, I was still a little dizzy to think of anything and so was he I guess. Well, not dizzy. Just…I don’t know. I can’t answer that.

He did make a trip out to Kentucky Fried Chicken and came back with an extra treat called A Dozen Donuts. So, we ate our sorrows (or my sorrows for having too may pineapple vodkas that is not really juice even though it tastes like it) and I gained about a pound and a half past what I probably lost from not eating the day before.

Was the weight gain from the vodka? Maybe. But it was more likely the fried chicken, jelly donut and whatever went down the hatch on Saturday before the big spin. But it was good and it was fun and I don’t regret it. Except at my age, I really can’t hold my liquor like I used to. This I know to be fact.

So, there you have it.  Hope you all enjoyed your Labor Day. See you next year. Same place, same time, same freakin’ pineapple infused vodka I’m sure. Except next time I’ll only have 2 glasses. Maybe 3. Okay 4. Damn, do I love that stuff.

Mama’s Losin’ It

The Case of the Ninja Children

I have a friend who has 7 children.  SEVEN.  It’s not like I never heard of that before.  My dad is one of 7.  His parents are from Irish Catholic descent.  They did not believe in birth control.  This is the 21st century.  I didn’t think people still did things like this.  I freak out when a woman I meet tells me she has 3 children.  Seven?  Holy Hell.

Anyway, my friend had to go out of town.  I helped to sit some of her children.  With another friend.  Because that shit cannot be done alone.  I don’t care if your name is Mary-Freaking-Poppins.  For the record, I adore her kids. They are awesome.  Full of personality and life.  Amazing.  Did I get baby fever (or toddler fever)?  Almost.  But then I realized that if I still had a uterus, it most likely would have jumped right out of my body.  I’m seriously not sure I could do that all over again.  Actually, I’m AM sure I couldn’t do that all over again.

This friend of seven has a blog.  I have spoken about her before (www.not-your-average-mom.com).  She’s funny.  She’s real.  She says it like it is.  She doesn’t hold any punches.  When her kids get into something (which is quite often), she documents it.  Shares it with the world.  There are haters out there.  People who say shit like, “you should be watching your kids more closely.”  Blah, blah, blah.  I do not judge her.  I am a mother of one.  And I remember when The Kid was a young child, sometimes crap would happen.  You could have your back turned for 3.5 seconds, and crap just happens. It just does.  I don’t care who you think you are.  It happens to all of us.  The best of us.  Even the haters.

It happened to us yesterday.  Her living room is divided in half by a sectional.  Behind the sectional is a play area.  With a rectangular kid’s table.  Her youngest child seemed to want to go back behind the couch and take a nap under this table.  My friend and I checked on her.  She was out cold.  A few minutes later her brother decided to join her.  He laid down next to her and seemed to be passed out as well.  We checked on them.  Even called out their names.  Not a flinch.  They were out like a couple of burnt out light bulbs.

We were sitting on the couch.  Not 2 feet from them.  10 minutes passed and not a sound.  Not a freaking sound.  You could hear a pin drop.  No rustling.  No nothing.  Do you understand?  Not.A.Sound.  They suddenly appear and this was our surprise:

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That is nail polish, lipstick and Lord knows what else.  The little girl had it all over her princess dress.  Her older sister (not pictured) was a bit worried that the stains would never come out.  I was absolutely amazed and although I have the utmost respect for my mother of 7 friend, the level of respect was raised by 2,000 decibels.  If that is possible.  These kids completely and utterly bamboozled us.  They deserve an Oscar.  It’s like they got together and spoke in their toddler speak or something.  I can hear them now, “Show’s on mo-fo’s.  Let’s blow their minds.”

We sat there completely dumbfounded.  These children are Ninja’s.  They are stealth.  They are like nothing I have ever seen in my life.  They have their craft down to a science.  Seriously.  That is some crazy crap.  I hope they do some good with that someday.  Because it is a gift. A real gift.

When I got home, I sat on the couch and fell into a deep sleep.  A coma-like sleep.  My daughter had to nudge me because I was snoring.  At 4 in the afternoon.  An 8 hour shift at My Retail Job doesn’t exhaust me as much as watching those beautiful children for 4 hours.  Phew.  With that being said, I would do it again in a heartbeat.  Great experience.  Good job, Friend of 7.  Good job.

One Moldy Oldie

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Soul Asylum. I think that’s their name.

There are many, many things I am too old for.  I’m too old for drama.  But I will not discuss that here because this blog is for fun and inspirational subject matter.  I’m too old for My Retail Job, even though I have to admit I’m having a blast among all the aches, pains and “you’re a mature woman” comments.  I am too old for roller coasters, which pisses me off because I would go on one a thousand times in a row if my brain didn’t scramble into a million pieces after the first 30 seconds of the first ride.  And as much as I love my new sport of running, I may be too old for it because my knees feel like they have been through a war.  Maybe even 2 wars.

Last night I met a friend of mine for dinner about an hour away from where I live.  A very old friend.  She’s not old, our friendship is old.  We were having a great time, having great conversation as always.  Halfway through dinner she asked if I wanted to go with her to meet some of her friends at this theater outside of town to see a band.  Who am I to pass up a good time?  PLUS it was an opportunity to meet new friends.

We trekked on over the border into the next town to see this band.  You may remember them.  Soul Asylum.  I was never a grunge band follower.  I am classic rock and moldy oldies all the way.  After singing half a dozen songs, they sang ONE song I vaguely recognized.  But every person in that room had gray hair.  If they didn’t have gray hair, it was colored I’m sure.  So, I didn’t feel out of place.  A Justin Timberlake concert I would feel out of place at.  This concert?  I just felt old among the old.  And the music was just too effing loud.  I mean, how is a mature woman supposed to have an intellectual conversation with all that noise?

Me and my old friend

Me and my old friend.  And that would be Sprite in my cup.  I swear.

Me and my new friends

Me and 2 of 4 of my new friends.  And my Sprite.

Sure, I had a good time.  Sure, I danced to music I never heard of or even liked.  Sure, I had a drink.  Ok, half a drink.  Ok, a quarter of a drink.  Because after about 20 minutes into being there, I hit a wall.  Not literally.  But the “holy shit, I need my bed NOW” kind of wall.  As much as I was enjoying these women, my new friends among my old one, I felt a very strong urge to put my head on a pillow.  In fact, if there was a pillow somewhere in that place, I would have had my ass in a corner on that floor.  Even amongst all the racket.  And it wasn’t even 10pm yet.

And the band?  They have to be at least my age.  Where, may I ask, do they get their energy?  I guess from their hair.  Because they had plenty of it.  Hair.  Good for those guys.  But I will bet any amount of money that they went home, slathered a crapload of Ben Gay on their joints and fell into a deep coma.  Because that’s what I did.  And I’m not too proud to say so.  I mean, who needs pride when you pee your pants every time you sneeze and, well, never mind.  Anyway, I think I’ll stick to James Taylor.  He gets me.

I Got a Easy Peaceful Feeling

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I spent the day with my best girlfriend yesterday.  We have been friends since high school —  almost 30 years.  We don’t get the chance to see each other as often as we would like.  Besides living about an hour away from each other, we have busy lives.  But when we do get together, it’s as if we never missed a beat.

This chick knows the good, the bad and the ugly about me.  I can say what I want and act how I wish when I am with her.  I can be 100% me, no questions asked.  There is no judging going on.  There is no weird jealous crap.  There is just pure friendship.  Do you know how refreshing that is?  Yes, you do.  Because every one of us has a friend like this.  You may even be lucky enough to have a few.  But just a few.  Because honestly, that’s all we need.

We were talking about a lot of good shit yesterday, as we do.  And the conversation soon turned to the differences between men and women.  Particularly between a man’s relationship with a good friend vs. a woman’s relationship with a good friend.  Here’s what we came up with:

  • Men will not sleep in the same bed together.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve squished my ass between some friends on a bed.  No problem.  And no funny stuff.  I just don’t swing that way.
  • How many men will share a blanket with 3 other men to watch a Meteor Shower?  I’m guessing the number is pretty low.
  • There are not too many “selfies” posted of guy friends laying in the grass.  Unless they are women men, if you catch my drift.  Nothing wrong with that, I’m just saying.
  • I’ve never seen DH laugh so hard when he is with friends that he pees his pants.  I pretty much do that almost every time I am with someone I feel comfortable with.  Of course, I may suffer from a bladder condition.  After all I’ve been peeing my pants since 1979.  “Peeing My Pants Since 1979.”  That should be my tagline.
  • Conversation between men is usually about anything with an engine, golf or weather.  Ok, so we did ponder the reason for a Meteor Shower.  But we were drunk, so that doesn’t count.  Other than that, our discussions range anywhere from sex to menstruation, the color of our poop to stupid crap our kids say.
  • They don’t share clothes.  Or lipstick.
  • Women are very affectionate. When we see each other, we kiss and hug.  Men?  Well, they don’t do that.  I’m guessing because it makes them feel gay or something.  Again, nothing wrong with that.

I love men, they are awesome and I’m sure they have great relationships.  But we women just know.  They do have to be the right person though.  Because men will argue that they don’t stab each other in the back or are catty.  And they are right.  So just choose wisely.  My BFF wouldn’t do that.  Would yours?

Wedding Dress Blues

photoWhen I was preparing to get married, my wish was to wear my mother-in-laws wedding dress.  My own mom’s wedding dress was out of the question because my parents got married shotgun style.  Catholic + pre-marital sex in 1966 = pink suit.  My MIL’s dress was gorgeous.  I mean it.  It was made of the most exquisite Chantilly Lace, with beautiful long lace sleeves.  The skirt was hooped like Cinderella’s ball gown.  It was every young bride’s dream.

When I shared this wish with her, the woman couldn’t run fast enough up the stairs to the attic to retrieve it.  I think the gesture made her happy.  After all, she is the mother of 4 boys and none of them like to wear women’s clothing.  To my knowledge anyway.

It was stored for well over 30 years in a large black garbage bag.  Rolled up in a ball.  I don’t blame her.  What else was she supposed to do?  And remember, she had 4 boys.  I ran into the bathroom to try it on.  I could barely get the arms up.  And zipper it?  I’d need a crow bar.  I was 122 pounds and pretty damn fit at the time.  All I could wonder was what did this woman eat?  Cabbage?  For every meal?

Besides that, it wasn’t in great shape.  The lace was torn as if it lost a fight with a paper shredder and had started yellowing like old teeth.  My heart lurched.  I was incredibly disappointed.  But there were options.

At a bridal expo I had recently attended, I met a man who preserved old wedding gowns.  I can’t remember exactly what we paid, but it was a bit pricey.  The dress came back with the same tears and it may not have been as yellow as old teeth, but it sure wasn’t white either.  Not even close.  And I did not want to be an ecru wearing bride.

Her dress was a Fink Brother original.  Lucky for us, they had a store in the big city.  We schlepped down there one day to meet with Mr. Fink himself.  He remembered that gown and told us the lace came from France and resembled a large round tablecloth with just a hole in the center for the waist.  No seams.  I could have the lace replaced but it would cost thousands.  Thousands I did not have.  And since I didn’t have any rich uncles laying around, I had to give up my dream gown.

This is what I wore instead:

My dress is a Fink Brothers as well

My dress is a Fink Brothers as well

Not exactly Cinderella’s ball gown, but it did the job.  And it was white.  MIL’s dress is neatly folded in a box in an upstairs closet.  I should have made a Christening gown out of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to cut it up.  Who knows?  Maybe the kid will pay thousands to get new lace.  Anybody have any rich uncles they’d like to share?

How About a Nice Hawaiian Punch?

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This story is not about me exactly.  But since I told you a little about my brothers earlier this week, I thought you might enjoy this story.  Literally I could write a novel just based on the stunts they pulled.

I’m going to guess that the year was about 1977’ish.  My youngest brother Mark was assigned to bring in 2 cans of Hawaiian Punch for a class party.  You remember the type where you had to puncture two holes with a can opener into each end of the top so the juice would flow easily?  The big 46 ounce cans?  Those.

On the day of the party, Mark forgetfully left them at home.  After school that day, he panicked and asked our brother Ed for help.  There were plenty of ways to remedy the situation.  Flush down the toilet, pour in the sink, dump into the backyard.  My wiseass middle bro told my baby bro that he would have to drink both cans to hide the evidence.  After all, mom spent her hard earned money and time so he could have a nice class party.  He was totally being selfish.  So Mark did as he was told.  He drank both cans.

At the time, the boys shared a room and slept in bunkbeds.  Mark in the top one.  In the middle of the night, Mark woke up with stomach pains.  He put his head over the edge to wake up Ed.  Ed in turn, put his head out to look up at Mark.  Ed got hit with 92 ounces of red regurgitated punch.

Karma is most certainly a bitch.  You just never know when she’s going to come to get you.  In this case the big brother got to take a bath in her.  Lesson learned?  Of course not.  Like a said.  A novel.