Mom Von Trapp's Christmas List

Here it is.....67 days til Christmas.  The Christmas decorations are in the stores already, juxtaposed with the Halloween candy and Thanksgiving trimmings.  Yes, Christmas is already in the air--the kids are dropping their hints of what they'd like and I'm thinking of what I will tell them when they ask me several days before Santa comes what I'd like.  I'm sure most Moms are much the same--we really don't want anything.  Tangible, that is.   Now, that doesn't mean that I wouldn't be happy to win the lottery, or I wouldn't squeal with delight if someone gifted me a pretty new Lexus with a big honkin' bow topping it.  Sure, those things would be great, but as far as material things, I'm good.  I have a job that pays the bills, we're all healthy, we have plenty to eat, and I'm able to take care of everything my children want and some of what they need.  No, I don't need anything that money could buy, but I've readied my list of what I'd like from my children this year.

And so, without further adieu, allow me to channel my inner Julie Andrews and break it down Sound of Music style..............
                                       

                                                                           

My Favorite Things--The Mom Version

♫ ♪  Caps on the toothpaste and towels that are picked up; ♫♪

Dog dishes filled and a clean and flushed toilet,

Rooms that are tidy and bathrooms all clean,

That's all that I want, does that make me so mean?

Fighting that ceases and kind words are spoken;

Dishes all washed and not one glass is broken;

Brushing your teeth with no prompting from me;

It's not about things, it's what you do, don't you see?

Boxes on shelves with some cereal still in them;
Keep your shoes mated and gloves in the right bin;
Color your hair red, that's okay I suppose,
Just don't get tattoos, or put rings in your nose.

Empty containers and dog treats in the icebox;

Water left running and "Mom where are my socks?"

Throw it away and go look for yourselves-

Remember I'm Mom and not one of the elves.

Pick your stuff up-

Keep your voice down,

Treat each other right-

Simply remember Mom's favorite things

and I won't need a gift, alright?

♫

Lessons From A Semi-Deprived Childhood

My youngest daughter, Sydney, asked me when we were going to buy a Halloween costume this year.  As the financial situation right now doesn't bode well for lots of incidentals, I broached the subject trying to plant the seed in her mind that we could probably make up a costume ourselves.  My mind wandered back to the days when I was a stay-at-home Mom with six children in the house and a husband with a very good job.  I made the children beautiful costumes having taught myself how to sew, and even after the divorce, I had a hard time telling the children they couldn't have something so small as a Halloween costume.  So, I didn't.

I began the conversation by asking Sydney what she wanted to be this Halloween.  "A Zombie!" was the reply.  The wheels in my mind began turning, and I remembered this past spring one of Sydney's dance numbers required the dancers to dress as Zombies.
 

There! We have a costume already.  Sydney, however, wasn't as enthused, but she's warming to the idea of using what she already has.  We have to.

I shared some stories with her from my own childhood.  As is the case with most adults who grew up in the sixties and seventies, we didn't get new things all of the time.  We used what we had, and when we got something new it was a treat.  And, if you grew up in a home where you weren't the only child, you shared.  A lot.

For at least six years, my younger sister and I shared two Halloween costumes. When it came to acquiring possessions, we didn't have much say in what was purchased, nor were there the myriad of choices as there are now.  We were pretty much at the mercy of whatever our parents bought us.  Halloween costumes were no exception.  My father, for reasons known only to him, bought his then two daughters two completely different Halloween costumes that were intended to last until they literally decomposed.   One was a pirate mask with a faux beard with a molded pipe at the corner of his mouth, and the other was a princess mask.  I am sure that these masks came with vinyl costumes to match, but as we grew, they fell by the wayside.  The masks, however, made it though Halloween after Halloween until we no longer wanted to wear them.    With two girls, you can imagine how we both wanted the princess mask, but only one could wear it.  So, every other year you wore the pirate mask.  I don't remember being too upset, as the main premise was to get my bag filled with candy, which we did, no matter what mask we happened to have the great fortune or mis-fortune to be wearing at the time.


This minimalist trend of buying new stuff wasn't just contained to Halloween costumes.  When my sister and I started school, my parents bought us lunch boxes.  What I do remember is going along to make the purchase, what I don't remember is being asked what we wanted.  I remembered the plaid lunch boxes with their thermoses, and most of the popular television shows of the day also had their lunchboxes:  The Beverly Hillbillies, Family Affair, Mannix, The FBI,  The Flintstones, and of course, assorted princess lunch totes. Musicians such as the Beatles, the Monkees, and the Cowsills had lunchboxes emblazoned with their likenesses and several popular movies of the day were also immortalized on lunchboxes, and since my father was along on this particular shopping trip, that is what he gravitated towards.  My sister and I watched in horror as he spotted the Mannix lunchbox, and breathed a sigh of relief when he put it down.  Then, he spotted it.  In all it's sexy, testosterone swelling, babe-a-licious glory, there it was:  The James Bond 007 lunchbox.



                                                                                     

  I can still see it-James Bond's likeness guiding a beautiful Indian Bond Girl away from the Taj Mahal, while in the other hand brandishing a Glock.  Think you could bring one of these into school now?  We watched as he picked it up, turned it around, opened it, checked the thermos, and plunked TWO into the cart.  For my sister and I.  I remember feeling awkward at first in the lunchroom with my bouffant pixie cut and my parochial school jumper opening my very manly little lunchbox.  Eventually, I got over it, and was able to see it for what it simply was:  Something that I brought my lunch to school in.


And so the years came and went, the Halloween's and the school lunches along with them.  Somehow, the trauma of not having everything, or everything exactly as I wanted it didn't traumatize me too much.  And then, there I was, standing on the precipice of young womanhood in fifth grade readying myself to go away from home for the first time ever.  To Girl Scout Camp.

Oh, the excitement!  The list with everything I needed to pack and take with me for those four days and three nights was scotch-taped to our avocado green Norge refrigerator.  By this time, my father had been gone for two years, and the responsibility for gathering the appropriate gear fell squarely on my mother's shoulders.  I had no choice but to trust her to make sure I had everything that I needed.  Much of what was needed was already at home--no need to purchase a new flashlight--we had one.  Sleeping bag?  Borrowed from one of my cousins (I didn't need one of my own).  I don't think Mom had to buy much of anything, so her main responsibility was just to have it ready and thrown into the car when I had to go.

The day finally arrived.    As we made our way to the Girl Scout Camp almost an hour away, I was starting to have a little fear of being homesick. This was, after all, my first outing away from home for any considerable amount of time.  My Mother reassured me that the four days would go swiftly by. As we pulled up to the camp, my mother dropped me at the gathering place where the rest of my troop was, and went to deposit my belongings at another location.  After checking in, I bade my mother a teary farewell.  Then, off we went as a group to retrieve our belongings and take them to our cabins.  As we neared the area where parents had deposited their daughters gear, I noted the cute little zippered overnight bags some of the other girls had; the neatly square-knotted secured pink sleeping bags, the little vinyl overnight cases.  But where was mine?  As I scanned the area, I zeroed in on a behemoth leather suitcase that dwarfed everyone else's bags.  I recognized that bag.  My heart sank as I watched the other girls gather their girly belongings, and there I stood, blinking back my tears and staring at my fathers suitcase.  The suitcase he took with him when he left for Korea.  The suitcase that languished in our garage and I would stare in wide-eyed wonder at all of the pin-up girl decals from the fifty states on it.  My attempt to pick it up gracefully failed, so I drug it the hundred or so yards to my cabin.  I could feel the other girls' eyes on it and I could hear snickering.  I wondered if they had spied the bikini-clad Miss Idaho astride a baking potato yet?



                                                       

I personally think we give our children too many choices.  We spoil them.  We spoil them because we want them to have it better than we did.  I didn't want any child of mine to have to share a Halloween mask, or any daughter of mine to have a manly lunchbox or any son of mine to have to take a princess lunch tote.  I certainly would have never allowed my young daughter to have to anguish over taking her overnight things in a young man's semi-pornographic luggage for all to see, but at the same time, how do you learn to do without or make-do when you've really never had to?  The embarrassment I suffered at the time didn't affect my life now, and as a result, I have never been a materialistic person.  I think the reason that I am not is because in the grand scheme of things, I've learned that it isn't the stuff in life that matters.  I think the proof is that I can smile at the memories now.


And so, Sydney will re-purpose her dance costume as her Halloween costume this year.  You know what?  I think she's going to be okay with it.  Maybe this will start a trend in our house.

High Maintenance

Up for a challenge?  You've already got one if you're raising kids on your own.  Making bank on the bills, running the Mom Taxi and shuttling everyone where they have to go, keeping everyone fed and in clean clothes.  It's difficult, but somehow, you get it done.  Pat yourself on the back.

Now what about the "Big Stuff"?

If you are fortunate enough to be in a relationship with a guy who is handy and willing to help, you'll be fine.  But what if you're not?  What if it's just you and the young'ens all alone in this crazy old world and it's all you can do to trap the raccoons, tan the hides, harvest the crops, and shoot at trespassers?



Well then my dear, you're just going to have to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and attempt to fix some things yourself.


I have always been an independent self-starter.  As a matter of fact, according to my mother, the first complete sentence I uttered as a toddler was "I do it!"  And so I do, or rather I try.  More often than not, I can figure most things out, if only just to patch something up to limp by another day until help arrives.  I feel it is my duty to share not only the things I have met the challenge with and won, but also those fixes that I have met with limited success and those you should never, under any circumstances, try at home.


Let's start with the disasters for now, and fortunately, it's a relatively small list:

Yardwork

Up until my most recent divorce five-and-a-half years ago, I hadn't been on my own for twenty-five years.  I rode that gravy train of having in-home help with very few bumps in the road.  It was always part of the unwritten contract in my two marriages that I took care of everything in the house, and it was the wasband's responsibility to take care of everything outside of the house.  

Once I was totally on my own, yardwork was truly the least of my worries.  How hard can it be?  I can mow the grass; I can plant some petunias, I can run a weed-whacker like a boss.  What, me worry?  I kept my cavalier attitude on yardwork into my first year being on my own.  Then, I started getting kind of picky.  I wanted the yard to look nice, and it looked presentable enough, but the dandelions and thistles were really overtaking the grass.  Unfortunately, I didn't make the connection to that big green thing hanging dejected from the rafters of the garage being the broadcaster that the wasband used to distribute the Weed n' Feed all over the yard every spring and fall.  By the time the weeds started to skeeve the holy hell out of me it was too late to be proactive; I needed to kill me some weeds.  Now.

"I'm not sure, but I think there's something you can just spray on weeds to kill them"

There is, but this isn't it

I suppose in my hell-bent rampage to find the easy way out of my ever-growing weed problem, I neglected to see that the word "grass" is prominently displayed immediately after "Weed &"  and before the word "killer".  That's the only excuse I have, so home I went with a gallon of the extended use version.  Extended, I reasoned, would keep killing.  I was correct.

So there I was, that late June Saturday.  With nozzle in hand, a song in my heart, and my eye on the prize, I meticulously sprayed each and every dandelion and thistle I came upon.  For good measure, I also got the grass directly around the weeds.  Just to be on the safe side.  As you can imagine, traversing the average size yard spraying one weed at a time takes quite a while.  While spraying my yard, lugging my gallon container with "Roundup" emblazoned very noticeably on the front, several neighbors wandered by; a few even chatted. Some of these were men, and all were smiling pleasantly.  "Yeah--see me?  Single-mom on the block is taking care of business!"  I imagined them thinking what a take charge kind of gal I was and that their wives wouldn't attempt such a task. I was basking in the pride of home ownership and lawn maintenance.  Once finished, I disposed of the empty container.

I remembered feeling disappointed that I would have to buy more tomorrow to tackle the even larger back yard.

So, inside I went to wash the noxious spray residue from my hands before making dinner for the family.  I couldn't wait to see how lush, green, and weed free my lawn was going to be. I should start seeing results in three hours!  I really couldn't wait for the next time my wasband came to retrieve the kids so he could see that I was managing just fine all by myself.

After dinner, I went out to see how the progress was going.  I'll be damned!  I could see some shrivelage and discoloration where I sprayed!  It's working!  Smug and proud of my efforts, I made a mental note to check tomorrow's flyers in the paper to see who was running the best deal on this godsend of a product.

I'm not sure what time I woke up, but it was fairly early. I know this because it was dark when I went to get the paper.  I walked out on my driveway, grabbed the paper, and in I went.  And so I set about my morning routine of reading the paper, cutting coupons, checking the ads, and drinking my coffee.  A piercing shriek came from my daughter. "Look outside, Mom!  What happened?"

Putting the paper down, I ran to the open front door.  "What happened to our yard, Mommy?"


                                               

I cannot put into words the devastation I felt.  I cried.  I spent all day the day before and a good chunk of change to do THIS to my yard.  I walked out, in disbelief.  Cars were going slower than normal as they passed my house.  People were out walking--gawking---smiling at my yard.  I ran to the side of the house where I deposited the empty bottle to see if I could find a clue why this had happened, for I was still in disbelief.  It was weed killer for crying out loud!  I dug the bottle out of the trash and feverishly scanned the label.  As God was my witness, I didn't remember seeing the word "grass" next to the word "killer" yesterday.  Then, I became angry, wanting to blame anyone I could. Why didn't the clerk at the store warn me?  Didn't he wonder why I wanted so MUCH RoundUp?  Why didn't any of those neighbor men stop me?  They surely knew what I was doing.

In desperation, I called my wasband to ask what I could do.  The answer was not what I wanted to hear--the quickest way to fix this, was to dig out the treated areas, replace the soil, and re-seed. Okay, but what if I can't do all that?  He then told me the grass would eventually grow in again.  In several years.  And so, for the remainder of that summer, the brown patches continued to spread. This was "Extended Kill" RoundUp, remember?  Our yard much resembled the footage sent back from the Mars "Rover".

I opted for re-seeding the following Spring.  I did that on my own, too.  I raked, I dug, and I cleared the area, I ordered the fill-dirt and grass seed.  Smiling neighbors walking about nodding in approval as I muttered, "Yeah.  Screw yourselves" under my breath as I toiled.  Unfortunately, the fill dirt was permeated with weeds, so weeds, along with the grass, came up and filled the barren areas in. You can easily tell where I re-seeded not only because of the weeds, but because I chose a different type of grass seed than what I had originally.   Well, Jimmy Crack-Corn and I don't care.  It's green. It (mostly) looks like grass. I'm not touching this again.

Five years later, my lawn is presentable.   Not award worthy, but presentable.  Thank God I never touched the backyard.

Never again, Wilson.  Never again.

                                                                         

99 Problems and Clearing Level 23 Shouldn't Be One of Them

I am a responsible adult.  I work ten-hour days.  I pay all my bills.  My kids are fed and clothed.  I have no warrants out for my arrest.  So why, oh why, have I fallen under the spell of that dark,cruel mistress that goes by the name of Candy Crush?

                                                                            

It seems a lifetime ago that I peered down my nose as I watched all of my co-workers hypnotically switch their computer screens to that popular game the moment lunch time came.  I vividly remember 'tsk-tsk-ing" as I went about my lunchtime routine of worthwhile activities such as facebooking and pinning on Pinterest.  "What a waste of time", I thought to myself as I drop-kicked request after annoying Candy Crush request into the cyberspace abyss while they congratulated one another, conspired to send one another lives, and foamed at the mouth about their latest boosters.  As Eve was to the apple, I was repulsed, yet intrigued.

And so it went, day after day as I received countless requests ranging from desperate pleas for lives to out and out invitations to join those who have chosen to drink the Candy Crush Kool-Aid.  I knew how Sam I Am felt:



            Not online; not on an app
            I do not play Candy Crush
            So quit flapping your yap.

          You friends of mine, you friends of mine,
          I've told you all for the very last time
          I do not like Candy Crush, it's true
          Send one more request and I'll defriend you!


I was getting rather testy about it.  Of course I could have blocked the requests from coming in, I suppose, but that took effort on my part, and quite frankly, I guess, I just didn't feel that I should have to expend any of my own to put a stop to this.  Plus, it gave me something to bitch about in the form of some facebook posts.

And then, as a virus attacks it's weakened host, so did this insidious game.  I found myself in a rather bad mood at the computer one night last weekend.  My children were gone, I found myself alone.  On the computer.  With wine.

Opportunity knocked.

"So-and-so has invited you to play Candy Crush Saga". Well, well, well.....what do we have here? What a surprise-another request to play Candy Crush. I took a sip of my chardonnay.  I hovered the cursor over the request.  I took another sip.  I clicked on it.

Spill the wine; clear that jelly.

To be honest, I cleared the first two levels pretty quickly and lost interest in it just as quickly. I logged off and found something else to do.  I may have just gone to bed.  The next morning on facebook, I noticed a notification from a friend to a post I had written just two days before poking fun at the whole Candy Crush thing.  She went on to tell me that while she was playing, scores for players who previously played came up and lo and behold!  There was my name.  She was poking fun at me, I'm sure, but now I felt like the ultimate hypocrite.  I went rapidly into damage control mode.  If she saw my name, EVERYONE who sends me requests and I offended about it in my post saw it, too. I wrote her back, doing my dead-level best to let her know I just wanted to see what the buzz was about.  I played a couple levels, so what?  I haven't ventured back on.  Get off my back.  I then felt it needed to be said to everyone, so I posted on my timeline about my Candy Crush experience, and how I must be of a stronger constitution than most, as I had absolutely no inclination to play again.  There. I no sooner posted that confession and absolution, than the notifications started showing up.  "So and so has sent you a life on Candy Crush". Gaaaahhhhhhh!


Several days later, I found myself again without children and a bit of free time.  I got online, paid some bills, read and answered a few emails, and got onto my facebook.  The first item on my feed was an item shared by one of the myriad of "Crush Heads" in my inner circle.  "So and so has just cleared level 26 on Candy Crush Saga".  Big deal.  I posted something myself, and uploaded several pictures from my daughter's band competition the previous weekend, and busied myself.  I have no explanation of what transpired after that time, all that I can tell you is that I was overtaken with an overpowering urge to see if I, I, could get to level three.  "I'll just get on, see how fast I can do it, and get off", I said to myself.

And so, I cleared level three.  And four, five and six.  I was really good.  But, it's time to stop.  Just one more, let's just clear lucky level number seven and THAT'S IT FOR TODAY.  This is where I ran into trouble.  I didn't pass level seven.  I clicked on to "Play Again", but it wouldn't let me, not without putting up bank, anyway.  What?  What do you mean I can't play?  The timer clicked the seconds down.  I had 28:57 until I could attempt this again.  "Okay, OKAY.....I'm calling bullshit on this right now!", I said I believe out loud to the computer screen.  What do I do?  What do I do?

Well, golly gosh gee willikers, there must be someone online right now that knows what to do.  I decided to put it out for all my facebook peeps to see and get the message out.  "Hey! I guess I need a life to continue playing Candy Crush.  Can someone send me one?  Thanks!"  I sat back and waited.  It wasn't long before a notification came back.  A friend sent me a life!  I also noticed she commented on the post.  "Welcome to the darkside, LOL"  I'm alive!  I live to clear another level! 

And so it has gone for one week, now.

I am ashamed to say that I spent nearly an entire Saturday that could have been immensely productive clearing virtual jelly and bringing ingredients down level by level.  My eleven-year-old felt ignored.  "Can we have lunch, Mommy?"  I suppose.  I ran out of my last life on this level and I have 23:16 until I can play again.  I loaded her in the car and drove a mile to a car dealership up the road that had a radio stations promotional hotdog wagon there.  I screeched in on two wheels, got her a free lunch and sped home just in time to claim a new life.  I am despicable.

 I am now on level 23.  I'm stuck.  I can't clear that bastard no matter how hard I try.  What exactly is the lure of this?  There are similar games, but what is it about Candy Crush?  Is it the large, icons for the vision challenged?  Is it the lilting "Oom Pah Pah" tune that accompanies it?  Is it the pseudo-sexy male voice purring "Sweet!"  "Divine"  "Sugar CRUSH!"?  Who knows, but I'm losing interest in my appearance, I'm eating like crap, and I'm not flossing as often as I should, all because of THIS.

"My name is Sheila.....and I play Candy Crush"

You May Not be Lucy, But You Sure Got Some 'Splainin' To Do

Children can be the biggest joy of our lives.  They can also jack things up for you when you expect it, and need it least.  In my experience, the old saying, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy" has been severely distorted by my children.  I think my kids heard it wrong and misinterpreted it as saying, "If Mama's happy, in a good mood, and feeling good about herself, I ain't doing my job", or maybe its "If Mama is unhappy because she is having a bad day, what can I do to ratchet things up and make it a little more interesting?"

I don't have bad kids, but I do have children who have a warped sense of humor.  They like to see me squirm, and when they can, they seem, for a while, to relish getting the best of me and the upper hand. Oh, I end up rebounding and recovering, but once it happens, it can't be undone. At that point you have a couple choices: Laugh it off, or be ready with an explanation to exonerate yourself.


After going out with someone a few times, you're ready to have him over to meet your kids.  You made sure the house was spotless, and you went over the expected code of conduct.  Before you answer the door, you glance at your children standing off to the side, angelic looks on their faces, their hands benignly held behind their backs.  "Please God", you pray silently, "just don't let them embarrass me".  And so the evening goes--you all sit down to dinner.  Right in the middle of dinner, and interrupting dinner time conversation, your fifteen-year-old beauty queen daughter will channel her inner competitive-eating construction worker and belch a belch the likes of which no one has heard before.  You feel the blood rise to your face and your eyes begin to twitch as you politely admonish her. She will reply with the unthinkable, "At least it's not as bad as you passing gas all the time, Mom!"  She will smile at you and narrow her eyes, looking first at you, then at your date, gauging his reaction.  You will want to die, but don't.  You'll leave a messy kitchen.


The teenage daughter is not done yet.  Dinner is over.  Dishes are washed.  The kids have all wandered away to their rooms.  You and your date are watching television in the comfort and the quiet of the family room.  It remains peaceful for approximately twenty-seven minutes, at which time your teenager will enter the adjoining kitchen and begin rummaging loudly through your junk drawer.  After a few minutes of the unpleasant background noise, you will ask, "Can I help you find something?  What are you looking for?"  To which your child will put her index finger to her lip as if deep in thought, and then after carefully choosing her words, she will answer you.  "The itch cream.  I need the itch cream.  You had it the other night--it's probably in your bathroom".  Horrified, you stand up.  Your date stands up.  He never looks you in the eye as he mumbles his pleasantries, thanks you for dinner, and leaves.  "I wonder if I'll ever see him again?", you think to yourself as you unconsciously begin scratching an imaginary itch on your leg.  You won't.


You're on the way back home from a dance recital three hours away.  On a Sunday night.  You have to be up at the butt-crack of dawn for work, and your daughter has school.  In an effort to save time, you allow your child to remain in her leotard and full dance make-up for the long ride home.  By ten o'clock, you still have two hours until you hit your driveway.  Your child has fallen asleep in the back seat and in an effort to stay awake, you insert a CD and begin singing. Loud.  As we all know, you can't drive slowly while you're belting out tunes meant to keep you awake.  On you caterwaul through "Love Shack", "Copacabana", "Highway to Hell" (you have very eclectic musical taste), and just as you begin the opening strains to "Mas Tequila", you see lights flashing behind you. `Arriba!  With a lump in your throat you calmly slow down, and come to a stop at the side of the highway.  You gather your registration, license, and composure. You are amazed to find out that you were going 87 miles per hour.  Hell, you weren't even sure your car was capable of going that fast.  Where am I headed?  Very good question, officer.  And so you explain how your daughter had a dance competition and you're trying to get home to Fort Wayne.  She's got school in the morning, and you have to be at work.  At this point the officer realizes you have a passenger back there. He shines his flashlight into the rear of your car.   Your daughter sleepily emerges from under her blanket, with her smudged black eyeliner, red lipstick..... panty hose,body suit, and hair extension flopping in her face. She's quite disoriented, and looks in bewilderment at the officer, then to you, and back at the officer, and cries, "Are you going to take her to jail?" she asks the officer, looking at you.  That was not the correct question to ask.  You're lucky if all you get is a ticket out of that one.

Fifty-One

Next week, as hard as it is to comprehend, I will turn fifty-one years old.  The number alone just sounds old.  Prim.  Humorless. Decidedly sedate.  It conjures up images of degenerative backs, orthopedic hose, fiber, and grandchildren (although I have none).  It is sobering, to think that you likely have lived over half of your life already, and I suppose, if you looked at it only that way, it's kind of sad. I have always looked forward to birthdays.  You know how kids always round up to their next year? I never stopped doing that.

 I'm ten AND A HALF!  I'm ALMOST 16!  I'll be THIRTY-FIVE in three months.  This year I TURN FORTY!  I'll be FIFTY in six days!

I always embraced the next age, eternal optimist and ham-handed self-promoter that I am.  I'm telling you I'll be sixteen soon so you'll realize I'm ALMOST an adult.  I'm telling you I will turn thirty-five in three months so that you can marvel that I am a responsible parent and I have arrived squarely into adulthood.  I want you to know I'm turning fifty so that you can express astonishment because, well, you know......I don't look a day over forty-seven.

I never had a problem with any age.  No mid-life crisis; I never felt the need to try to hold onto my youth because I have been fortunate through my exquisite genetics to still look fairly decent for my age.  I've always been proud to make it to the next milestone, and fifty was no exception.  I talked about turning fifty non-stop.  "Can you believe it?  I'll be fifty!!"

Honey, I rocked that tiara.

                                                                      

I know, right?


And so, here I am, almost fifty-one.  If I were a "the glass is half-empty" kind of gal,  I could dwell on the fact that without question, some doors are now permanently shut:

I will never again experience the joy of giving birth.

Not only can I not give birth, I can't even donate my old eggs any more.

I cannot, under any circumstances, join the armed forces.  Any branch.  Hoo-ah.

I cannot go to school to become a doctor.

I can no longer tell the difference in the morning between the jar of coffee and the Comet without my bifocals.

Coloring my hair is no longer optional.

I can't jump on the trampoline anymore with the kids without wetting myself.

I will probably never remarry.

I could no longer be a believable cast member of Thirty Something, unless I played the bitchy recluse spinster next door.

I have missed the window of opportunity to compete in the professional pole-dancing circuit.


Instead, being "The Glass is Half-Full" gal that I am, I can skid sideways whoopin' and hollerin' with a martini in one hand through a few that have not completely closed on me, and dwell on what is still pretty positive:

Guys in their thirties dig fairly attractive women twenty years older than they are, and they ARE NOT afraid to tell you.

I cannot, under any circumstances, join the armed forces.  Any branch.  Hoo-ah.

I still have to pull out my ID to prove I'm over twenty-one when I buy wine.  Yes, it's the law, but it's a damned good one.  Let's not ever get rid of it.

Throw it at me.  Bring it on.  I've seen it all, I've been there and I've done that.  Bring it.  I won't crumble.

I'm twenty-five years older than Marilyn Monroe got to be.  Twenty-five.

Madonna will always be four years older than me.  Always.

 I've never been arrested, and I don't think I have the energy or the desire to do anything remotely deviant enough to put me in jail now.  But if I did, it would have to be bad enough to give me front page notoriety.

I don't mind being on my own.

I've contributed five beautiful human beings with worthwhile lives to the world.

I can look someone dead in the eyes, never raise my voice, and get much more than I ever could when I was half my age.

Bifocals are dead sexy.


So, next Thursday, I turn fifty-one, and I will be in New Orleans. Celebrating.   I'm going to whoop and holler and drink wine in the French Quarter.  And why not?  The years are a gift; no one knows how many we're going to get.  Enjoy them and be thankful.


I'm going to run laughing into that sunset.

Try to stop me.  Laissez les bon temps rouler.



















                                                              

Desperate. com

Face it-- the sad and sorry truth is, at some point in our adult lives, most of us will find ourselves alone.  Bad marriages, good marriages gone bad, death of a spouse--why, some of us will never marry at all.  Whatever the situation it was that brought you to this point, you are here.  Now what do you do about it?  When you're young, it can mean a time to explore and grow, and then worry about finding someone later.  There's plennnty of time.  But what if you're, you know, not a spring chicken anymore?  You are acutely aware that you are running out of time.  Maybe you're like me, and you're at the mid-point of your life, but you are still deeply entrenched in parenthood, going to school, and taking care of everything everyone else seems to have TWO people working together to take care of.  You're just too damned tired to go to social functions.  You are smarter than falling for letting someone set you up on a blind date.  You are running out of time and you simply don't have the luxury of joining the full-blown dating circuit.

But, you don't want to be alone.......What do you do?
                                                                                                   

How about a night out bar crawling with your girlfriends?

                                                                                           


                                                               Oh, HELL no....don't even make eye contact..









Have you thought about online dating?

Online dating!  Of course!  What could be easier?  For a small fee, (or no fee for the dicey online sites), you can browse the human catalog at your leisure.  See someone you like?  Send them an email, or a cute message and show them you're interested.  They'll email you back, you'll meet for coffee, and BOOM!  You got yourself a date with no muss and no fuss.  No awkward blind dates, because.....he's got a picture, and a good job, and youuuuu LIKE HIM!

It sounds great, and the answer to a busy woman's lonely life, but speaking as someone who worked the online dating circuit, online dating can be........well, not what it's cracked up to be.


Online dating was going to prove to be tricky for me, because I am PICKY.  I have some guidelines, and if someone didn't fit those guidelines, well, it just wasn't going to work out.  I can't and I won't apologize for this, because, dammit, no one should settle.  I didn't have many rules, but here were some of them that I just refused to compromise on:.  Spelling and grammar.  I can tell anything that I need to know about someone from just a couple of sentences.  Transpose an i and an e?  You're done.  Unemployed?  Sorry.  Speak to me in a matter that resembles that of a gutter-crawling horn-dog in an email?  Block!   Present yourself on your profile with a picture of you standing proud and tall in front of what appears to be a mattress on the floor, in nothing but your Speedo that is obviously three sizes too small, with a dresser off to the side bedecked with Strawberry Shortcake and My Little Pony dolls, and a Lion King poster on the wall? I'm calling the cops.

Once I eliminated the men who fell into those categories, I found there was another problem that I had not anticipated.  The younger generation.  Yes, it seems while I was busy being a Mom and a busy adult who didn't watch Sex and the City, I was completely unaware that I had wandered off (quite involuntarily) into Cougar territory.







I know, right?.....♫ Bow chicka-wow-wow ♪


For some women, this is all very flattering.  For me, a woman who already had a houseful of kids at home, this was quite annoying because, dammit, why, oh why, oh why can't  I seem to go ANYWHERE without kids following me?" And so it went.  Every morning, I could look forward to several emails from guys anywhere from 18 to 29. As a matter of fact, for the duration of time that I was on this particular site, that was the MAJORITY of the email I received.  It got to be so bad, that I could tell when their mothers were gone, nothing good was on television, or there was a snow day, by the surge of email from my young admirers.

For the most part, I really had no real luck on the online dating site to speak of.  It seemed that when you found someone you were interested in, who seemed interested in you, you would email back and forth feverishly for a few days, then....NOTHING.

And then...just when you think, after four months on this dating site, you are doomed to non-stop email tag and never actually meeting anyone.......he contacts you.

It's been several years, but I am going to do my best at paraphrasing this email to the best of my ability.

Allow me to set the stage:

The kids were at their Dads for the weekend, and I had worked overtime that Saturday.  It was February. February 9th or 10th, I think.  It was cold, dark, and drizzly for early afternoon.  My mood was as dark as the day. Stopping at the store on the way home for some SlimFast and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (don't judge), the hearts, flowers, and candy were all over the store.  "Happy Freaking Valentines Day" I sniffed to myself.

Once home, I put the SlimFast in to chill, and put a whole Reese's cup in my mouth.  It was good.  "Let's see what's in the ol' dating inbox", I heard myself say out loud, as I settled into the chair at my computer, shoving another Reese's cup into my mouth.   I logged on.  I had several emails, but one in particular stood out.  The subject line had one word:  URGENT.  Curiosity got the better of me that date-less weekend, and I opened it.

I should have just stayed off-line, ate the rest of the Reeses, and went to bed, because what I read in that email should skeeve anyone off of online dating sites.  To this day, I shudder when I allow myself to ponder what the outcome could have been if I had allowed loneliness and desperation to take over common sense.  If I can save just woman from actually falling for a ploy like this, then my job here is done.

"I don't have much time" the email began. (The time stamp on the email was less than an hour before).  "I like your profile and you seem like really good women (WOMEN!) I live in Gas City and I can be in Fort Wayne in about an hour.  Send me your phone number and where u live and I will pick you up and take you to Hoosier Park Casino.  I show you a good time and I will try to have you home no later than 3 in the morning.  I can't stay out no later than that because I have to drive the truck to Alabama tomorrow.  I know you might be worried, so here is my social security number and drivers license so you can check me out." True to his word, he indeed went on to supply me with personal information that most people guard with their lives.  Having no access or the ability to run a police report to calm any fears I was having was beside the point.  I was mesmerized by the sheer audacity of it all by now.

He wasn't done selling himself yet, so he decided to skip formalities and go right to the nitty-gritty--

"I know you don't know me but no reason we can't have a good time.  I'm a pretty good guy--I have a good sense of humer.  I'm a widower.  I've been married twice, and both of my wives died unexpectedly.  Would you like to be number THREE?  LOL!"

"LOL", indeed.

Thoughts of dental records and chalk outlines danced in my head.    Since I didn't have a gun permit or a tazer, I slept with a cordless drill that night.

But, HEY!  Chin up, Buttercup-- don't let my bad/less than successful experience dissuade you--if you choose to forge ahead and check out online dating for yourself, go right ahead....some people have a lot of luck with online dating--I didn't.  But look for a good, reputable site, will you?  Hey!  Look at those couples for Match.com.  They seem to look pretty happy.

Yeah, it must have just been me.

Wait for it......

Despite what my children think, I am their biggest fan.  I don't care who tells them otherwise, I am, and always will be their biggest cheerleader.  Which is why, when my adoration isn't acknowledged, and worse, rebuffed, it hurts.  It hurts like hell.  Of my five children, three remain at home.  Two of these three are teenagers, namely Landon and Lauren, my twins.  Landon, with his dark hair and eyes, looks like his Dad.  Lauren, with her blond hair and facial features, resembles me more every day.  I don't know if it's a "guy thing" or not, but Landon really has never gone through the stage where he denies my existence; Lauren, on the other hand, has gone to great lengths, just short of demanding a DNA test, to sever any ties to me whatsoever.

This behavior, I know, is typical.  I've been through it before, but nothing to this extent with a child.  When she turned fourteen, if anyone pointed out physical similarities between her and I, Lauren's eyes would well up and she would look as if she would cry.  She decided to erase as much linkage with me as she could, and so the request came to dye her hair dark brown.  Well, you can't fight city hall, so I went along with it, admonishing her that someday, when she wanted the blonde hair back, it would be difficult to do.  However, it is well known that along the way to fifty years old, my brain cells have deteriorated to the point that I am classified a borderline incompetent idiot (unfortunately, not to the point I can display a handicapped parking tag on my rear-view mirror, though), so my advice was never heeded.

That was the year that the twins entered High School, and both children became involved in the Marching Band--Lauren, in the color guard, and Landon playing the sax.  Our Marching Band, by the way, is one of the largest, and most acclaimed in the entire State of Indiana.  And I have TWO children in it!  Proud, yes I was.  So, when the first performance at the first home football game half-time show came that fall, I couldn't wait.  Once the show was over, I hurried down to where the band was gathered to get pictures and to see my children.   Landon, my smiling, loving son, complied quite readily:





                                                                   


In sharp contrast, was Lauren who found that she could run, but she couldn't hide.  Smiling through gritted teeth she hissed at me as soon as the flash went off, "Done?  Happy?  GOOD.  DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!"






                                                                   




With tears filling my eyes, I slunk back to my place at the bleachers, never to venture out after another half-time show that season, or for that matter, the next two seasons.


And, so, sophomore and junior years came and went.  The attitude remained much the same as far as Lauren was concerned.  I toughened up and resigned myself to a distant relationship where I heard no "I love you's", and hugs were verboten.  This was my baby, she wanted nothing to do with me, and that was that. On my morose days, I groused to myself..."Maybe she'll come to my funeral", and on better days, when I listened to friends that I confided in, "Maybe she'll come around".

"Maybe she'll come around".  Yes, but when?


Perhaps, even though I've gone through raising a few teenagers in my lifetime, I still have a lot to learn.  I remember as clear as day the moment when it happened. The moment when Lauren woke up and realized that maybe, just maybe, her mother wasn't so bad.

We were at the hospital a year ago when my father had taken a bad fall.  I had taken the children up to see him, and to be honest, no one thought that he would make it.  As we stood there in that hospital room, I watched as Lauren, who in the past few years, showed little emotion and even less compassion, allowed tears to fall silently down her face. We said our good-byes, and left the room.  As we walked down the hospital corridor, Lauren lost all composure and fell apart, sobbing uncontrollably.  What do I do?  Instinctively, I held out my arms as I used to when she was hurt and  sought me out for comfort.  To my surprise, she fell into them and buried her face in my chest and allowed me to hold her.  Although my heart was heavy for my Dad, I felt joy that my daughter not only needed me, but allowed me to need her as well.

Little by little, the indifference and the attitude has steadily chipped away this past year.  I get "I love you's" again.  She asks my opinion.  She confides in me.  She is kind of, sort of, my friend.  But, unfortunately, "God!  I'm STILL so annoying!"

And now, here we are in our Senior year.  Landon, is no longer in the band, but Lauren is more excited than ever, and savoring every bit of it, knowing she won't get to do this next year.  It's bittersweet for both of us.

Our last first football half-time performance was this past Friday, and it was the most humid day of the summer.  After the half-time show, I ventured on down to use the ladies room, and I passed by the area where the band is sequestered after the performance.  With my hair matted with sweat, and not looking like my usual perky self, I really had no desire for anyone to see me.  To minimize the chance of that happening, even though it was dark, I kept my sunglasses on and moved swiftly to my destination.  "Mom!....Mom!!!...MOTHER OF MINE!!.  Oh. No.  Lauren darted after me and pulled me over to a waiting friend.  "Shay--this is my MOM!", I sheepishly took my sunglasses off, and as I did, my daughter pulled my face to hers and said to her friend "Can't you see the resemblance?"

As I walked off to the cinder block restroom after that, I mused silently how good it felt to be the one who is sought out, finally.  In that moment,  I forgot all about being an un-presentable, sweaty, messy mess.  Instead, I felt beautiful.  I felt beautiful, because I resemble that beautiful girl. She said so herself.




                                                               

One Diversion

I don't know how your weekend has been, but this is how mine started out yesterday:




                                                   

Know who these guys are?  Trust me, if you don't already, you will.  If there are any teens or tweens in your life, you are up to *here* with One Direction, or as the hip and trendy on this planet abbreviate it, 1D.  My eleven-year-old, Sydney, has been enamored with these little Brit-Shits since last year.  I can't pass a box of Pop-Tarts, a canister of Pringles, or a bottle of Dawn dishsoap in the store without seeing the mop-haired five staring back at me.

All of this in-your-face promotion has been leading up to one thing:  The much anticipated release of "One Direction---This is Us" this past week.  This is literally all I have been hearing about since February.  That, and "Mom!  Don't you think One Direction is the greatest band ever?" Um...no "Mom! Which one do you think is hot?! Isn't Harry hot?! I think Liam is an idiot, but Harry is HOT!" Well, to be honest, Sydney, I have a hard time finding anything "hot" about a nineteen-year-old whose voice is probably still changing and who appears to weigh about 101 pounds.  "Mom!!! All I want for my birthday is One Direction stuff--that's ALL!"

And all I want, my darling daughter,  is for you to come out of this little phase and realize that by this time next year, all of the One Direction stuff you want and are filling your room with will be put in bags for Goodwill, because you will outgrow them and be on to something else, and you won't want it cluttering your space.

Try and fight it.

I remember in the mid-seventies, THIS was who I was besotted with:










Oh, shut up.

I suppose if it was a picture of Shaun Cassidy or Donny Osmond there wouldn't be a problem, would there? See the similarities?  Five scrawny, British (okay, they were Scottish) guys who, like One Direction, realized meteoric fame almost overnight. I bought every Tiger Beat, 16, and Teen Beat magazine faithfully and plastered their stupid little mugs all over my room.  Clothes shopping for me had to have been a nightmare for my poor mother--all I wanted was plaid.  I hated plaid, but I was their number-one fan, so I wore it.  To be honest, that was really all of the adoration that I could afford back then.  There was no facebook, no Twitter to track their whereabouts, no YouTube or cable television to entertain myself with the Bay City Rollers all day.  No there wasn't.  But, what there was was a turntable and 33 1/3 LP's that I played.  Non-stop.

Wait--back it up; did I say "meteoric fame?" Pfffft!

Did you know that the Bay City Rollers were being touted as the next Beatles?!  How stupid a claim was that, but remember, this was 1976, and as you know, the Beatles had been disbanded for a few years by that time and people were hungry for a replacement, and this my friends, THIS, was the replacement. Sounds rather rick-frickin-diculous even typing those words right now, but in 1976, to my lovesick, fourteen-year-old heart, this was some serious shit.

So, I do have something in common with my daughter after all.  We both are/were rabid fans of popular boy bands.  I will have to concede, though, that the boys in One Direction seem to have a little more going for them in the looks department, and dare I say talent?  So it kind of made me think:  Where will One Direction be in 40 years? Well, if history is any indication, that can go a couple of different ways.  Lets look at the Beatles and the Rolling Stones for the sake of argument, shall we? The Rolling Stones, bless their hearts, still tour.  The Beatles, although two have left us (may John and George rest in peace), remain successful solo artists.  Paul can still sell out an arena, and Ringo....um,...yeah.

Now, how about those "Next Beatles"?  Remember,The Bay City Rollers?  I happened to take the liberty and do a little investigating on my own, so I will mercifully spare you the unpleasant details.  If you're really that interested, look it up yourself, but be forewarned:  It's pre-tttty bad. And that's just their personal lives and the trouble some of them have been in since plummeting to earth after their meteoric rise to fame that lasted, oh, all of about EIGHTEEN MONTHS.

So, off we went to the 11:30 am showing yesterday.  I was expecting a crush of tweenyboppers carrying posters and placards, but the parking lot and the movie theater were suspiciously silent.  That's probably because all of the good Moms insisted on taking their families to church on Sunday morning, instead of hitting the cinema.  We got our tickets, (which by the way, at ten dollars a pop were a bit pricey, but to be fair, we did get some kick-ass 3D glasses) we settled in with our smuggled in snacks in a theater that had only two other little girls sitting in the top row.  We were there for about five minutes when the shadowy figures above started chanting "Sydney!  SYDNEY!!!"  It seems the kid can't go anywhere without being recognized, so I was being systematically blown off by my own daughter, since she apparently preferred their company to mine.   Now I was sentenced to what I thought would amount to a nice nap in a noisy dark place, but at least I wouldn't incur Sydney's wrath for doing so as she had better things to do than sit with her Ma.

You know what?  I know, I'm just as surprised about this as you will be---I didn't sleep at all.  I couldn't keep my eyes from this movie.  If you didn't know, there is actually a pretty interesting story about how One Direction came to be and their meteoric rise to fame.  I had no idea Simon Cowell was involved, but I will say I have gained a little respect for the man and how he stuck with these kids.  Throughout the movie/documentary/whatever you want to call it, I was pulled in by these kids' personalities, tenacity, and overall, well.......decency.  I was surprised, and I have to say, there are a lot worse musicians or acts that my little girl could be in the throes of lunacy over.

And yes, Sydney, I must concur.....Harry IS hot :)

Trial and Error

I have finally decided to jump on the blogging bandwagon, because....well, because facebook just isn't enough, and writing something a little more substantial is starting to look rather attractive to me. There are some things I'd rather not broach with a facebook audience, but those are precisely the things I need to write about.  I need an outlet, and this is it.

I go by Mom, most of the time, and when I'm not Mom, I'm Sheila.  I am a divorced mother of five children.  I live in the soybean belt of Indiana.  I am employed at one job that actually gives me a paycheck, and another job that requires just as many hours, but alas, no paycheck.  While the pay for that second job isn't so great, the benefits can be awesome sometimes, and other times--not so much.

 Of the two jobs that I have, the job as single mother running a household is definitely the most difficult. Some days are better than others, some drive me to tears, some drive me to a glass (or three) of wine.  I will be the first to tell you that I secretly cringe at Mothers who appear to have it all together--I don't. I try to avoid them at all cost because they make me feel kind of inadequate and I certainly can't relate to those Moms who are perfect.  We all know who that one perfect Mom is--she's the one who is able to deftly handle her 60-hour work week as a busy executive, and she is the novice horticulturist whose yard wins "Yard of the Year" every year.  She volunteers at her children's schools so often that everyone thinks that she is a member of the faculty. Her kids are never in trouble, and they seem to do everything right.  She also, in her spare time, runs in every damned 5K, 10K, and triathalon, never breaking a sweat.  She actually weighs what it says she weighs on her drivers license, too.   Then, just in case you don't feel shleppish enough in her presence, she has the nerve to don a tiara and ride in a top-down BMW in the parade, having been crowned "Mother of the Year" by the city newspaper because her children, husband, friends, and relatives sent in so many stories, essays, and anecdotes about her that they decided no other woman could possibly be fit to wear that crown but her.

Yeah, I'm not her--I'm not even close.

I'm more of an "every Mom".  I sometimes struggle to pay the bills, and my lawn is still recovering from an ugly RoundUp incident five years ago.  I will be the first to tell you that I have shirked my fair share of responsibility as far as the school volunteering goes--unless there's something in it for me like a free lunch, or if I can fill in as a chaperone on a bus going to a band competition so I don't have to use my own gas--then I'm all over that.  At the time of this writing, I have one child sporting an ankle bracelet for home detention, and one who received a dress code violation on the first day of school.  I couldn't run if a pack of wolves were chasing me, but I appear to be in pretty good shape, for a fifty-year-old Mother of five.   Mother of the Year?  Only when used as a sarcastic barb thrown by one of the kids in anger--  "Wow, Mom! Way to fail at being Mother of the Year! AGAIN"


So, to recap:  No tiara; no perfect life; mouthy and sometimes disrespectful kids.  Actually, when you throw in some wine, it's really not so bad.  Even the Moms who seem to have perfect lives, really don't, but don't hold your breath waiting to hear that from them.  Even in the hardest times, there is humor to be found and a story to be told. That's what keeps me going--it's my therapy.  Now, excuse me while I attempt to make some kick-ass lemonade from some of these here lemons.