flat on the couch

I've done it again. I've totally sidetracked myself. Once more.


In absolute honesty, I really had no intention of digging up all the Michigan dirt just yet. It's such a loaded topic for me, so confused and conflicted, a hodgepodge of emotions that will never have any resolution. There will never be official closure for this and I'm fully aware of that. My dad died - very suddenly - in August 2002. My step-mother and I haven't spoken in almost 16 years. And I have four half-siblings whom I don't talk to. We aren't mad. We don't not get along. We just don't talk. Some days this breaks my heart. Some days it doesn't bother me at all. But most days I just accept that this is the way things are.


Surely the culture clash had something to do with it, but I don't think that's the whole story. I think that both my dad and my step-mother would have benefited by perhaps marrying more nurturing types of people than they themselves were. Yin and yang. Balance and counterbalance. My step-mother really wasn't evil, or even cruel. She was just terminally self-absorbed, and this carried over into everything she did. She was also very young when they got married. My dad loved his children deeply and wanted the very best for them. He was just clueless as to how to actually interact with them. They were not a good match in any way except for the ability to throw money around the greater Detroit area. And the inevitable divorce, when Sasquatch was a baby, blew the roof off the building. Permanently.


What saved me was my mother. Always. That she was able to get out of the marriage at all is a testament to her guts. He fought the divorce. He fought her for custody. (He didn't want me. He just didn't want to lose.) When she wanted to leave the state and go to California, he fought her on that. And every summer when she put me on the plane to Michigan, it was with trepidation at what was ahead. But I didn't help my cause at all. I had really good friends in my dad's neighborhood and we kept in touch all year. I couldn't wait to get back to see them and reconnect. My maternal grandparents were right there too, and I spent a lot of time with them when I was there, which I loved. I would always shoo away my mom's worries and downplay some of the things that happened so as not to upset her. We talked constantly, and I always knew that any time I wanted to leave and go home I could. But he was my dad, after all. And it's usually in a kid's best interest to have a relationship with the non-custodial parent, right? At least that's what all the books say.


I'd like be able to say that I don't know where all these memories are coming from right now, but I'm well aware of the reason. I married my dad. And that puts me in a tough spot. On the one hand, it makes me crazy that I fell into that trap after bitching about my dad my entire life. On the other hand, it makes me hyper vigilant where my kids are concerned, because I was that kid. And on the third hand I think this partly explains my to the bone exhaustion the last couple of weeks. I'm forcing myself to go places emotionally that I've always been afraid to visit. It's a promise I've made to myself. I won't let the scab heal until the tissue underneath is healthy. And while it would certainly be more fun to jump headfirst into another relationship to keep from having to be too introspective, I think it's a horrible mistake. Sometimes the past has to be dealt with before you can move forward in any kind of a positive, non-selfish way. I'm dealing with it, but it's kicking my ass. I feel...beaten. On a daily basis. I've retreated into my little cave and I know it. I just can't help it.


The Michigan stories will continue, but in my usual half-cocked way. I promise to tell the whole story. Stick around - it'll take awhile.


But for now, here are two little vignettes that are both, in their own way, extremely telling. One tells on my dad, but the other one points straight at me.


The first scenario is one summer when I got back to Michigan, and asked my dad when we were going to see his parents, who had been living there for about five years at that point. He had managed to get everyone in the family who wanted to move over to the US, and I looked forward to seeing my paternal grandparents in the summer. My dad looked at me kind of puzzled, and said "Didn't I tell you that they both died this winter?"


The second one baffles me. Oh, I get the deep psychological implications and all, but the mechanics of it absolutely confound me. When I was learning to talk, my dad spoke to me in Arabic (and Chaldean), in addition to English. (Part of that was an attempt to shut out my mother, but I refuse to sidetrack myself again here.) I was fluent enough in Arabic that when we moved to California, the state certified me as bilingual. During the summers there I spoke what I call "kid Arabic", where I could tell you to sit down, shut up and chew with your mouth closed, but for the most part my second language went the way of a lot of second languages. Unused, unpracticed...forgotten. I can think of maybe ten things I can say right now in Arabic - and half of them are swear words. But at my dad's funeral, my favorite aunt pointed out to me that people were speaking to me in Arabic and I was answering them (perfectly) in English. Well, this can't be, because I haven't had anyone speak Arabic to me in thirty years, and I certainly wouldn't have a clue as to how to respond if they did. I told my aunt (in English) that she was hallucinating and then she pulled in another aunt who backed up her story. So. Evidently this language is still in there. Buried so deep I can't even touch it. Gee. Wonder what that could mean?

lots of boring backstory

My dad was married to my mom when he met the woman who would become my step-mother. He was friends with her father, and ended up hiring her as a cashier at one of his grocery stores. As part of a very tightly knit group of immigrants to the US, this was a bunch of people who stuck together all the way. They worked together, the bought businesses together, they socialized together - it went well beyond insular and tipped into incestuous. They were not, to put it mildly, a group that particularly liked outsiders.


Which was my mom. My dad came to Detroit from Kirkuk, Iraq by way of Britain. The eldest son, his job - explicitly laid out on the table - was to get both of his parents and his eight siblings to the US. Along the way, he was supposed to make a boatload of money, marry a good obedient Chaldean girl and have lots of Chaldean babies. He was certainly not supposed to marry a strong-willed eighteen year old American woman who came to Detroit via Alabama, a woman who was well aware of the definition of the word obedient, but didn't necessarily find the concept relevant to her own life.


My mom you've all read about. A lot. My dad, not so much. If this was a movie treatment, I'd describe him this way: Brilliant, sarcastic, funny man who from the time he was a toddler was second in command only to his father in the family hierarchy. Mathematical genius who could have had a full ride at Cambridge, but instead had to come to the US and bag groceries. Generous with his money, stingy with his time. Always had to look like the top dog, and could talk anyone into anything - and I mean anything. Tall, dark, quite handsome, with almost black hair and eyes and pale olive skin. Sexist beyond belief. A true narcissist, he legitimately believed that he was always right, and when anyone dared tread on this belief would, quite simply, cut them out of his life without a backward glance.


The marriage, obviously, didn't last, but it did produce me. And only me. I've forgotten how many times my mom was pregnant, but it was quite a few. One stillbirth, numerous miscarriages...and me. Six weeks premature, a girl instead of the much revered first boy, and half American to boot. They stayed married until I was (I think) six, when, during an argument my dad hit my mom across the face. Not his brightest idea. She picked up a lamp, cracked him across the head with it, and while he was at the hospital getting stitches we moved out. Two years (and much drama) later, the divorce was final, my mom had gotten custody, and we headed out to California to live happily ever after.


Re-enter my step-mother. Now she swore, up until the very last time I spoke to her in 1993, that she and my dad had never gotten together until after his divorce was final. My mom (and her family) say that was a bunch of hooey and that my SM had been plotting her way into the picture for quite a while before they even split up. Whatever the truth (although I'm firmly in my mom's camp here - big surprise), at the end of my first school year in California my dad took a long look at dealing with a nine year old on his own all summer and did the only logical thing he could think of. He married her. Over the violent objections of her parents, who, although they had started out as his friends, had some serious issues with him. The fact that he was ten years older wasn't a problem, but he was divorced. And had a kid. Who had an American mom. Good lord. It was enough to send any good Catholic to confession. Permanently.


The Chaldean culture is a culture that takes its weddings very seriously. Very, very seriously. The fact that they had to elope in Vegas was probably not the best start. (So much of my dad's life starts a downhill slide in Vegas, so the irony of this has never failed to amuse me.) No family present, no wedding gifts, no priest. Just the gaudiest wedding ring this side of Married to the Mob - a $10,000 (in 1970) umpteen carat marquise cut diamond set that could blind you from across town. (My step-mother had very expensive tastes. When the FX and I got married and I was still thrilled with my quarter carat diamond engagement ring, she flicked it with her fingernail and said "I have twenty of those in a bracelet - and it looks too cheap to even wear." "Yes," I replied sweetly, "but I like my husband.")


Over the years I had learned to fight back and stick up for myself. God knows, my dad wasn't going to do it for me.

locusts

My mother made a pot roast for dinner tonight. A four pound pot roast cooked in the dutch oven on top of the stove, surrounded by whole potatoes, carrot pieces and an ocean of beef gravy. I made a chicken and gnochi stew with shitake mushrooms, carrots and broccoli. For Gumby, I made the chicken stew with fake chicken, hold the mushrooms. The idea was that we would have food for lunches and dinner for the next couple of potential hell days. The reality was different.


Sasquatch and Surfer Dude polished off an entire four pound pot roast in about ten minutes. My mother, who claimed she wasn't hungry and wanted to wait a while, never had a chance. I hear a lot of complaints that I never make roasts for them to destroy, and this was why. My locusts had arrived. The two of them hoarded beef for lunches tomorrow, while at the same time pointing fingers as to who had eaten the most food for dinner. It was ugly.


As soon as I realized what happened, I made the boys pony up their lunch beef for their poor starved Nana. She declined, half incredulous and half gratified at the power of grandma food. I wasn't incredulous or gratified. I just kept walking around saying, "It was a four pound pot roast. Four pounds." This is why I put mushrooms in everything I want to eat. Locusts don't like mushrooms. At least my locusts don't. It doesn't taste so good when it's brownies I'm hoarding, but at least I know they'll be left alone.


My mom is now eating a bowl of my chicken and mushroom stew, and, fueled by a little pre-debate wine, looks up at me periodically and says, "They really ate the whole thing?"


I raise my own glass as I nod that yes, they did indeed eat the whole beefy thing.


Thank god for shitake mushrooms. I won't starve this week.

bail now...

If you are reading this blog on a regular basis (or even if this is the first time you're slogging through it), you should know that I love you dearly for it. I love you for your loyalty, your good will, your fabulous hearts and minds. Most of all, I love you for putting up with me and my BS. So few people are willing to take that load on.


In light of this, in fairness, I have something I have to say.


Get out.


Get out while you can.


Because the cloud over my head is growing and I can't guarantee that it won't reach its little tentacly fingers out to those I associate with. Or those who associate with me. Or anyone in my zip code, tax bracket, gene pool, blog carrier or time zone. I'm well aware that it really isn't all about me...but I'm going for caution anyway.


On top of the mice invasion, we now have a wasp influx in Gumby's room. You're not seeing things. I said wasps. When my mom and I went in to deal with them last night, I ended up with one crawling up the leg of my pants and stinging me on my leg. I never even saw it. Oh, alright. I saw it. I tried like hell to kill it dead and then it slunk away unseen and crawled up my pant leg. And frickin' stung me. There I stood, ripping my pants off and yelling...kind of makes you wish you were me, doesn't it?


Get out while you can.


I'm pretty sure the locusts are next.

my mother looks NOTHING like this

Dear Mom,

Man, I bet you wish you'd never picked up the phone today, don't you? Such an innocent sounding ring, and on the other side of it your sometimes reasonable daughter in head spinning, bile spewing mode. I'm sorry. I truly am. I know I was supposed to phone you today - so I did. You're usually on to my dodging and hiding out routine, so I knew I was toast if I didn't call like planned. I had all the best intentions of keeping it together and not dragging you into my soap opera. Obviously, my plans fell through.


I totally blame it on the mouse.


It wasn't just the fact that my household is imploding in around me.


Or that my two days "off" have been a bill paying, chore doing, kid driving, teenaged feuding joke with me bleeding money from every pore.


Or even that in the two days "off" I've been to work three times - once for a committee meeting, and twice for doctor's appointments (once for Surfer Dude's cast and once for my -whoopee - annual exam).


It wasn't the almost seventy pounds of apples going south on my kitchen table because I don't have the time to do anything with them.


Or the pile of clean laundry completely covering my dining room table just begging to be folded and put away.


Or the fact that the guy I bought a bunch of firewood from vanished into thin air.


Or the bill from our "marriage counselor" demanding back payment from frickin' March. No note of explanation, no nothing. When I called him - incensed - he blamed the insurance company for being so slow with their co-pays and then asked me how the FX and I were doing. I'll spare you the rest of that conversation, but suffice it to say I'll get a big laugh out of it eventually. 2016 sounds good.


No. It was definitely the mouse.


A few nights ago, Gumby came into my room to tell me that he had mice crawling up his television cord. Being half asleep at the time, I hoped I had misunderstood. I hadn't. I've had two boys in my bed ever since. I went into his room to take a look around and didn't see any mice. I did, however, see the rodent equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet on his floor. Dirty plates and cups (strictly forbidden) on his bedside table. A pizza box from the night of my Bunco - almost a month ago. Rat food - from his pet rat - spilled all over his dresser. It was the mouse version of Disneyland.


This was problematic enough on its own, but since you're coming Saturday for a visit, it created difficulties. You usually sleep with me. This would be difficult with the two boys and three dogs already edging me out. The mice had to go. (They had been forced out months ago, but clearly have found their way back).


I was standing in my laundry room looking for traps when a mouse ran across my foot in a panic. It wasn't the only one. I was hopping and screaming and flinging things through the air. I'd like to say I accidentally squashed the mouse with all my jumping around, but the only thing I did was smash my toes into the dryer.


Since I've "talked" to you, I've cleaned out Gumby's room and found enough mouse poop to launch a shuttle. I've laid traps all through my laundry room. And as I'm writing this, I've just watched a mouse creep out from under my stove and head toward the island before darting back to safety. None of the dogs even woke up. If I didn't know what my dogs might do to a cat, I'd have one in the house by the weekend. I can't do this all winter.


I know you were really frustrated that you couldn't do anything concrete to help until you get here. But do you remember when you volunteered to sit in my living room with a BB gun and shoot mice? You don't happen to have one, do you? Or a cat I could borrow?


xoxo,

your frazzled daughter


p.s. Can't wait to see you Saturday. Hopefully after today, you feel the same.

pyro girls

Some things just aren't meant to go together:


Belly rolls and crop tops.

Chocolate fudge and brown mustard.

Britney Spears and parenthood.


And my latest discovery:

Californians and leaf burning.


My folk's lake house was practically buried in leaves, so we decided to take care of them in the local way and burn them. It isn't uncommon there at all to pass huge piles of smoldering leaves in front yards with no one even keeping an eye on them. So the kids and I raked and piled and swept for a long time (clearing one not huge area) and filled the fire pit with the leaves.

Enter my mother, fireplace lighter in hand. First she told me I had too many leaves piled in the fire pit, so she took some out. (I thought it was fine, but what do I know?) Then she tried to light the leaves and couldn't. Tried again. Nope. Third time. Negatory on that, good buddy. She looked up at me in disgust and said

One kid with one match in California can burn down 1200 houses and I can't light a pile of dry leaves with a lighter?

She finally got it going and as soon as the flames had barely gotten started we both panicked. I ran to get the hose ready in case we needed it and we both circled nervously the whole time our little leaf pile was actually burning. My mom actually sat for a long time after and watched it work its way down to nothing. I guess a lifetime in a perpetual fire zone will do that to you. There just seems to be something so wrong about deliberately setting anything on fire.

It was a small pile of leaves surrounded by a stone fire pit with a lake on one side and two crazed women with a hose on the other. From our reaction, you would have thought we were burning Rome. This is a close-up of the conflagration. Scary, isn't it?



And for a little perspective, here it is from the dock. (The fire is that itty bitty speck of smoke in the bottom right hand corner)...




Here my mom and kids are planning their getaway for when the Feds catch up to them. The kids were willing to go along with anything as long as they didn't have to leave their toasted marshmallows behind.




Later, the next door neighbor listened patiently as we confessed about our pyromaniac ways. Then he said

Come on over later. I can show you how it's really done if you want to see a big pile of burning leaves. I'll fill the whole front yard for you.

And damn if we weren't too scared to do that, too.

end of the road

Just as we had about given up we hit a real town. One with hotels and everything. We collapsed on our beds, too tired to even go get anything to eat, and munched on leftover trail mix from the night before. (And leftover wine, now that I think about it). On the television, (on AMC, so help me) - was Psycho. We couldn't watch it for long because my mom has Psycho issues. (1960's mind altering substances + watching a first run movie in a theater by yourself = no showers for quite a long time. And no reruns either. She was clutching her wine and giving the bathroom nervous glances when I finally broke down and changed the channel).


All in all I think my kids did beautifully with me being gone. The FG definitely rose to the occasion (as we both knew he would) and everything went very smoothly. But around day three Surfer Dude started getting a little antsy. He called me several times a day, which was great. (How did parents ever manage without cell phones?) One conversation started with him telling me how much The Most Perfect Dog in the World missed me. He was quick to point out that he didn't miss me at all, but that my dog was all mopey and flat and put his head between his paws every time SD showed him a picture of me. (Pictures of me have that effect on a lot of living things). He even held the phone up to the dog's ear while he chased him around the house to try and make him "talk" to me. The dog was blatantly disinterested, but couldn't help being amused.

So the second day of this trip involved several phone calls asking when we would be home. Even though I had told them the night before that it would definitely be Saturday, SD called around dinner time Friday to ask what time that night we'd be home. Now, this is the one person in my family who usually pays attention to what I say, so this was definitely a case of not wanting to hear rather than not hearing. We went through it again - we would be home early Saturday afternoon (at the latest). Completely reversing himself he said Wasn't it supposed to be Saturday morning the last time we talked? I said Yes (you little pisher) it was. And what happened to your whole Friday spiel? Can you not keep your stories straight?

Saturday morning we got up in the dark, picked up coffee at the breakfast buffet and grabbed our bags. Never looked outside. Never saw the evidence of the dense fog advisory that had the entire area socked in. Even when we saw the fog we didn't believe it, so we turned on the weather channel. Believe it, sister. The entire Texas panhandle and the southern half of Oklahoma were down to a 2/10 of a mile visibility status. Nice. We did what any two rational women would do. We went back to sleep and waited for it to burn off. At that point I didn't care if it didn't burn off until Spring. My mother, who had been remarkably taciturn on who it was who had pushed for this particular route, gnawed her lip to bits but stayed silent.

At 8 am my phone rang. It was the FG. Sasquatch was refusing to go to his Saturday morning detention (for six tardies to his first class) and the two of them were going head to head. Sure, drag the fogged in woman in to mediate. Let the uterus be the judge. The FG said (suspiciously) Were you asleep? And I said Of course(yawn) not. So with temperatures in my house at the boiling point we got in the car anyway and drove. It was hairy for a while, let me tell you. I can't drive well in fog, so my mom was doing it. We're still alive, so she obviously knew what she was doing, but the visibility sucked. A regular intervals SD would call to check on our progress. I left out the fog, because the kid worries like me, but it was still clear that we weren't making fast enough progress for him. Or for the dog. Whatever.


Very soon we were in Oklahoma. And this is where my strange blogging question came to a head. As soon as we changed to the Southern route I immediately knew that it was going to take me right by two blog buddies (who shall remain nameless unless they choose to out themselves) whom I would dearly love to meet in person and say hello to. Straight through Oklahoma City and through Wichita before skewing east was the route. (I didn't get far enough south in Texas to see anyone I knew there. I'm a step ahead of you, Kathy!)



But how to pull this off? I had no computer so I couldn't just email and say I'll be there for dinner and I like pasta (heavy on the garlic and light on the cheese). What in the world made me think these people would even want me to show up on their doorstep? Think of what it would do to the property values. Besides scaring the children. And making them think they have stalkers. So, reluctantly (because I really wanted to), I gave up on the idea as silly and moved on. But I gave a big old wave at what I thought were the right places on the highway as we sped by. I'd love to do it someday, but I had to accept that this was probably not the best time. I have looked better than I did then. Trust me. All the taffy was still not off of my teeth. All of the taffy is still not off my teeth.


(I thought Oklahoma was lovely, by the way. But since I got such a limited view, I'm afraid these pictures sell it way short).








The last leg was completely uneventful, except for the fact that I had no souvenirs for the kids. I had planned to get something in LA and hadn't, but figured we'd have plenty of time to get something cool on the road. But we were so chronically behind that I never even had a chance to look. (That fact - and the fog - are also why photos are scarce here, too). An hour away from home we stopped due to bladder limitations and my mom found little LCD flashlight things that the smaller boys absolutely adore and a cell phone case for Sasquatch. Bingo. They all think they came from some fun place and who am I to burst their little bubbles?


This is a very bad picture of Kansas. It really looks a lot better than this.





All told it was almost 6 pm when we finally got here. I wasn't able to make my Bunco sleepover, due to a combination of lateness and maternal guilt, but got quite a rowdy phone call much later to make me feel like I was there in spirit. And the spirit was about all we had left at that point. The energy had left the building. I had car ass, from sitting in basically the same position for three days. It was not attractive. Take a (big) ball of clay. Stomp it with your foot. Get the picture?


This is a very cool photo of Kansas that I didn't take. It usually doesn't look like this, though.


It was a great trip. It just wasn't what we had planned. I should realize, at my age, that they almost never are. But for three days my mom and I had a chance to catch up on anything and everything that caught our fancy, and I wouldn't trade that for a side trip to Roswell, New Mexico for anything. I drank 64 oz Diet Cokes and ate Nacho Cheese Doritos and slurped up authentic diner food in three different states quite happily. And I came home to a family that had missed me but gotten through without a hitch (except for the detention). My dog was so excited to see me that he took liberties with my leg. Such a welcome.


Cost of tacky souvenirs at a mega gas mart - $15.42

Dental work to replace four fillings and a crown - $3,412.00

Estimated cost of a new radiator - $ 500.00

A event filled road trip with my mom - Priceless

The Road Hits Back

My mother and I have a long history of car debacles, so this whole thing shouldn't be a surprise. Here's a little back story hitting a few of the highlights:

First was the time she tried to kill me in Miranda, her little red VW bug. We were living on the top of a hill and had a long curvy road that led to the street. As is only fitting for one of our car stories the car wasn’t working right. So when I was around nine or ten she taught me how to pop the clutch and steer the car just far enough for her to push start it then hop in and take over. One day I lost control of the car and headed straight for the neighbor’s swimming pool, watching my mother in the rear view mirror as she ran screaming after me. Then there was the time in Lake Tahoe where all of a sudden smoke started spewing from the dashboard of her car. “Mama,” I said,” The car's on fire.” “Well”, she calmly replied. “Maybe we should get out.” Speaking of smoke, there was the beater she bought me when she was living in the mountains in Wofford Heights that caught fire three times on the two mile drive down the hill to Lake Isabella. That was the car that we limped into LA the back way because we knew it would never survive the Grapevine. Once we hit county limits the car gave up the ghost with an impressive sounding explosion, and the memory of my mother is indelible as she shrieked at the car and kicked its hubcaps with all her might, softly lit by the smoke from the engine. And speaking of the Grapevine, there was the day of her thirty ninth birthday when we were moving her to her new home in Sonora, in Northern California. After a crappy year of trying to salvage her marriage to my first step-father she’d decided to leave. Well you know there’s going to be car trouble in here somehow. The only sound louder than the carsick German Shepard in the backseat was the noise the clutch made when it completely went out. On the uphill side. In a borrowed van. In a rainstorm. When we somehow got off the road she went to the back hatch to look for tools and when she opened it a big box of her favorite clothes, handmade and antique silk, fell out right into a big mud puddle – opened side down. I watched the entire thing in slow motion and, god forgive me, I laughed until I cried. Even now, all these years later, I’m howling at the mental image. Can you imagine how funny that WASN’T to my mother? I can’t believe she didn’t kill me right there. It was close, though.


Back to present day, that same hysterical laughter bubbled right back up at the sight of the heat gauge. My mother gave me a look that could blind children and said NOT funny. Maybe in fifteen years, but NOT NOW. Somehow we managed to get to the top of the crest and what should be right there but an exit leading straight into town. We coasted down the off-ramp and what should be right there but a mechanics shop. The streak of luck kind of ended there, though. The very nice mechanic wasn't able to look at the car but did recommend an import place six blocks away. He even called them and they said they could look at the car right away.


This is where the comedy of errors starts. My mom didn't want to drive the car the six blocks because it was so hot. We couldn't call AAA from my phone since it was dead. I went back into the nice mechanic's shop and stood behind a woman talking for five minutes about some car part her husband had bought from them. Called AAA and was told it would be an hour for a tow. Said okay, but then my mom decided that an hour was too long and the car was cooler so we went for it. Made it, too. While the nice import mechanics were looking at the car we went and sat on a bench in the shade. My phone had started working again, just as mysteriously as it had stopped, so I canceled the AAA call and then my mom called Stu to let him in on the situation.


One of the things that is really important on road trips is the food. I have a list of things, going back to childhood, that make me think "road trip". One of them is Abba Zabba bars. If you aren't familiar with these (and if you're an adult you really shouldn't be) they are white taffy around peanut butter. (A lot like those halloween candies that took such a bashing recently on Jen's blog and almost resulted in a lot of people I like writing me off. Abba Zabbas are way better than those, but still very similar). I had bought one at the store with the postal woman, and now, with a little time on my hands I broke a hunk off and popped it in my mouth.


And promptly got my teeth totally stuck together. Just like the pig in Laura Ingalls Wilder's Farmer Boy who bit off more than she could chew. My mother, sitting next to me and watching them look at the car, finished her phone call and started talking to me but it took her a minute or two to realize that I wasn't answering. By that point my entire mouth was sealed shut and I was proceeding very carefully because I was afraid I was going to choke to death on a dirty bench in Kingman, Arizona just like a pig in a children's book. On a piece of candy no one over the age of ten had any business eating in the first place.


To add to my already lovely image, once I had gotten the piece of taffy to the point where I could actually chew it, I had these little peanut butter/taffy rivulets of drool running down each side of my mouth because I was still trying so hard not to die. My mother took one good look and paid me back (many times over) for laughing in the car. Payback is a bitch. The mechanic came over with a question. I still couldn't talk. Smile, nod, shrug and drool. My phone rang while the mechanic was talking to my mom. It was Stu calling back. My mom made answering the phone motions at me as she talked. Smile, nod, shrug and drool. I worked on that piece of candy long enough to rethink my attraction to taffy in general and peanut butter taffy specifically. Smile, nod, shrug and drool. Ladies and gentlemen - my new mantra.


We then went into automotive debates - they thought we needed a new radiator, Stu thought they were trying to sell us a radiator, they couldn't even get the part for 24 hours, we wanted to get the hell out of Dodge - they somehow got it worked out that the radiator should be okay. So off we went, compulsively checking the heat gauge every ten seconds. It stayed okay, even on the hills. As a matter of fact it stayed okay for the rest of the trip. One down.


Back on the road again, slowed down but moving, we breathed a sigh of relief. We got as far as Flagstaff that night, which wasn't far enough to stay on schedule, but it was considerably better than being in Kingman waiting for the UPS guy to bring a new radiator sometime in the next day and a half. We agreed that the trip had been delayed enough to extend into early Saturday morning - but no later. By the way, this is the kind of weird stuff that you see on the side of the road in Arizona

The next day we drove steadily, but seemed to have fallen into some weird time warp. Even though we were on the road most of the day we didn't seem to be racking up many miles. It was truly bizarre. Soon we were in wonderful New Mexico

and in no time we had crossed the line into Texas. Even though we were making progress, we still weren't where we thought we needed to be, so we kept driving. As it started to get late, we decided that we would stop in the next town and abandon our hopes of making Oklahoma City that night. One small problem, though. By the time we had given in to exhaustion and agreed to stop, the lodging options seemed to go away. We went through four towns in a row - four tiny, hole in the wall towns - that all promised gas, food and lodging on their highway signs but delivered nothing but deserted grain elevators, closed gas stations with signs advertising gas at $1.50 a gallon and motels that had not one light on nor a single car in the parking lot. The last one was the worst. As we drove by it (as quickly as possible) I observed that Norman Bates would not have looked out of place sitting on the front porch. Neither would his mother.


So, half asleep and just slightly south of cranky, we hit the highway again in search of a warm bed. We had one town left to try. After that there was nothing but deserted road for miles and miles. We crossed our fingers and sped forward.

to be continued (and finished - I promise)...

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Slight change in plans:

The boys and I are going to spend a few days at the lake with the taffy laugher. We'll be leaving today right after they get out of school. So...

In the interest of finishing this interminable saga I'm going to forgo the Thursday Three this week and post the end of this instead. T3 will be back in full force next week.(And I'm taking suggestions, if you have any fun categories). But since I don't think you can auto post on Blogger, I'll put it up sometime tomorrow before I leave. (If you can auto post let me know, would you??) I'll be back posting Sunday and I swear that at that point my traveling days are over with.

No more road trips for a while.

The Saab Sisters Hit the Road

The original plan had been to drive back to Kansas the same way I always did - across the Mojave desert, through a (very) small corner of Arizona, cut across Nevada, up into Utah and then across Colorado and Kansas heading due east. But at some point during my time in LA, the idea of the southern route had come up. Okay, I'm the one who brought it up. I confess. I've done the other way so many times and as beautiful as parts of it are, I thought it might be nice to do something a little different. (Remember that this was my idea. This will factor in later. Trust me).

The southern route is (again) across the Mojave, a straight line across Arizona and New Mexico, cut through the northern edge of the Texas panhandle, through Oklahoma and up into Kansas heading straight north. My mom wasn't too sure about this idea, so I was just going to let it drop, but then my step-father Stu (who is a road tripper at heart) threw in his two cents in favor and the next thing I knew we were map questing the route. The northern way is only two roads - Interstates 15 and 70. The other was more convoluted and took some fiddling with to avoid a four hundred mile stretch of two lane undivided highway, but in the end we had a workable route. Map quest said the northern route would take 22 hours of driving and the southern would take 24. I've driven the northern way many times and knew from experience that even with three young kids I could do it in three days. By myself I've done it in an easy two. (Remember this too. It will factor in later. Trust me).


We were planning on a two day trip, but left open the possibility of an extension into early Saturday for some side excursions. (Unfortunately, Vegas was scrapped right along with the northern route, and even though I really don't like Vegas we thought it would be a fun little stop for the two of us). But since I haven't been in most of the southern states for years and neither of us had ever been to Oklahoma, we were sure we could think of lots of things to do.


So Thursday morning we waved bye to Stu as he left for work at 7 am and headed out close on his heels. We fought the morning traffic for a while, but were able to get out of town without too much difficulty. If you aren't familiar with the Los Angeles area there's one important thing to keep in mind about getting out of it. Unless you're willing to swing quite far north you can't get out without crossing the Mojave desert. And even if you are familiar with the Los Angeles area there's one important thing to keep in mind that you couldn't know. I hate the Mojave desert. My mother hates the Mojave desert. Every thinking person I know hates the Mojave desert.


If you're one of those people who actually likes it - Congratulations. You win. You've officially rendered me speechless. Many have tried (some valiantly), but you have succeeded. First prize is a week in Palm Springs. Second prize is two weeks in Palm Springs.

This is what it looks like - for about four thousand miles.

(Photo disclaimer: I am photographically challenged. Admitting it is the first step in fixing it, I know. The whole time I was in LA my camera gave me fits and I blamed the equipment rather than the user. But this is taken with my moms good camera, so there goes that little rationale. I have no idea why the stupid date stamp is on and it's the wrong time to boot. And as a little pre-curser to the rest of the story, I'll confess right now that every single picture I took was from a moving car driving at (roughly) highway speed. This should give you some idea of where we're headed on the tourism front).

On the other hand we were listening to some great music.

When we had crossed the mighty Mojave River (oh god, do I wish I had a picture of that. Imagine a sandbox with a rut down the middle) we got to the thriving town of Barstow where we had to do a little navigating. Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time might remember that I'm also directionally challenged. It would not be untrue to say that I can get lost in my own bathroom in the dark. (Reading over my list of shortcomings, I'm a little challenged to come up with anything I can do, actually).

I got us lost, is the upshot of all of this. For the first time, but not for the last. And as we were driving in circles, able to see the highway but not get to it, this is the sort of thing we were surrounded by...

That's a picture you'll never see in California tourism brochures. The Gubernator is not in this building. Sometimes I feel bad that I'm as snarky about the desert as I am, but what can I say? It did make me feel a little better when we stopped for drinks just over the Arizona border and and the store clerk asked me where I was coming from. I had barely gotten the word California out of my mouth when she snarled "God, I HATE this place" and went on a five minute anti-desert tirade. I backed out of the store gingerly, afraid of a potential postal moment on the one hand but seeing her point of view perfectly on the other. It seemed rude to hop in my car and peel out joyfully, so I kept a glum face until I was out of her sight. It wasn't easy.

We drove on. Lunch under our belts, perfect weather, open roads - so far so good. Except for the fact that my cell phone mysteriously died during lunch - and it was our only one - it was smooth sailing. I was taking my turn driving again as we went up a series of long grades leading into Kingman, Arizona. Up ahead of me, this was the picture -




Trucker heaven. Behind us looked much the same. In the left lane next to me was another. Our little Saab convertible was surrounded by semis. I sped up a little so as not to get flattened and looked at the dashboard to see how fast I was going. I looked again. Casually, I said Um, how high did the heat gauge get when you were driving? My mother leaned into my lap to look at the gauge and say Not THAT high and then she might have cussed just a little bit.

And as the long grade extended in front of us and the trucks all around put pedal to metal, the little needle crept slowly into the red.

to be continued.

The Saab Sisters

So today, Thelma and Louise hit the open highway...




And not just to experience the thrills of the road, with a Big Gulp in one hand and Nacho Cheese Doritos in the other. But the combination of this...

and this...

has led to warrants being issued in several adjoining states. The mission is to get home with some sort of credible explanation before the Film Geek checks the bank balance. Because if I don't I may really have to drive off of a cliff.

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I'll be back Monday. I'm so sorry that I'm so behind on my blog reading. I'll catch up. Really. As a matter of fact I have some very cool new reading lamps to help with my catching up. Quite a few, actually. And as soon as my credit card stops smoking, I'll tell you all about it.

born to ride

Two weeks from today I'll be on an early flight to LA. It will be my first trip home in almost exactly ten months. And do you know what else?




I'm going alone.

I'll only be in LA for three days, but I already have my list (well, of course I do) of what I need to do while I'm there. Ikea is mandatory as are the best fish tacos in the world at Senor Fish. I'll obviously make a trip to kneel at the altar of Trader Joe's. I will make speedy rounds of family and friends just to remind everyone of how pleasant it is to have me 1600 miles away. I have to get to the beach, however briefly, assuming that it isn't still on fire. And do you know what else?

Thursday morning, my mom and I are packing up one of their cars and we're driving it back to Kansas. Road trip, baby. Thelma and Louise hit the interstate. I'm so excited, even the Mojave Desert looks good. I just love road trips. And I cannot even remember the last time I got to spend two uninterrupted days with my mom. Oh my god, is she going to be sick of me. It'll be great!

Two days with a 64 oz Diet Coke in one hand and a steering wheel in the other. Two days of diner food and hotel room chick flicks. Two days to hang out with my mom and decompress. (Until she starts bitching about my driving and telling me to slow down, anyway). Hold on to your hats, everyone. I sense some really good blog material coming on.

I can't wait.

wireless, part two

Something has to give with our computer situation. I had a post already in mind today and then switched mid-stream because I'm so frustrated with our set-up. We have one computer in the house. We have two other (older) computers in the studio that aren't set up, because we can only hook up internet in one place in our house. We have a chair in front of the computer in the house that is never, not for a second, cold, because as soon as one person's butt slides out another one slides in. I. Am. Fed. Up.

This isn't a new thing here, it's just that now it's started to affect me. You know how that goes. It's allright as long as it isn't my problem. But now that I want to be on the computer more, I'm tired of duking it out for computer time. I like to post my blog relatively early in the morning, because I know from past experience that once the day gets going it gets away from me. I've even started trying to wake up first so I can have some uninterrupted computer time. And let's get this straight right out - I am not a morning person in the slightest. This is a pretty clear sign of my desperation. But once people start getting up there's a line for the damned computer all day. And everyone - self certainly included - takes the attitude that once their butt is in that chair it isn't moving until they're damned ready. I'll get off when I feel like it, thanks.

We've been stuck because of the internet situation, but then someone recently brought up the whole idea of making our house wireless, so we could all be on line at once. Wow! Ain't technology grand? And before my husband jumps down my throat, I understand that it hasn't happened due to time and financial constraints so far. But...the time has come. Just think - three computers...all on-line...all the time....

And a chair that could have a few butt free minutes.

Postcards from the lake

Here is my mom trying to relax while my kids run around the dock screaming like banshees. Enjoy today's post while you can, because once she sees this picture I'm dead meat. (I think she looks great, but that won't save me from the concrete shoes routine). I just have two words for you, mom. Pajama picture. Don't you feel better now?



This is Sasquatch driving the Jet Ski for the first time. Amazing the difference happiness can make on the face of a scowly teenager. We did have a little dust up the last day because I wouldn't let him drive it without an adult on the back, but it all worked out eventually. He even swam in the lake, and enjoyed it to boot. I stand in awe and amazement.

Gumby loved the Jet Ski too. The driver is Tim, the fabulous neighbor who owns the boy's favorite new toy. Tim and his wife Robin live next door and are both absolute sweethearts. Out of the goodness of his heart Tim offered these rides on two different occasions and taught the two younger boys to fish. They followed him around like puppies. If puppies could fish anyway...

Surfer Dude, blissed out beyond words. You could hear him across the lake screaming for Tim to go faster. Then they played a game where Tim tried to buck him off by practically laying the craft down. It worked pretty well, to Surfer Dude's delight. The day before we left was a Saturday and there is always a lot more boat traffic on weekends, so the wakes are way bigger then. Tim took the boys out to experience it and they had a blast as he cut directly across the wakes, basically taking the Jet Ski totally out of the water. Do I need to tell you how this went over?

This was the Rotten Correspondent at the lake.

You didn't really think I'd out myself in a bathing suit picture, did you? Besides, there's an advantage to being the one behind the camera.

This was not me at the lake.

But it's a really cute postcard, isn't it?

Any questions?

The Lure of the GoCarts

If you ask the kids one of the highlight of the trip is always the go carts. If you ask me the part of the trip I always dread is the go carts. Maybe it's the nurse in me, but I don't think so. I think it's just the paranoid mother in me, to tell the truth. But...every time we're at the lake the go carts come up. We stumbled on the track by accident on one of our earlier trips, and the kids begged and pleaded. I said Hell no, are you out of your minds? The next time we were there they all started in on me early about riding them. Finally, because I don't want to totally scar my children with some of my fears, I said yes. We went to the track and Sasquatch rode alone while Surfer Dude and Gumby rode as passengers with Stu and I. It went okay, although Stu made me look like a little old lady driving and the kids never let me forget it. The male need for speed gene is definitely present in my home.

It was during the next lake visit that the event I was dreading took place. They each wanted to drive alone. No adults in the cart to steer, brake or scream in terror. We would have to do that from the stands, the screaming part anyway. It was pretty much set up to be three minutes from hell for me, made worse by my recent work experiences. I was still in a trauma ICU and had for weeks been taking care of a grown man in a coma from a go cart accident. Now I'll grant you that his story was different. He was on private land in a personal vehicle traveling at a high speed and with not a single piece of safety equipment to be found. His go cart had flipped and crushed him. It would not be a story with a happy ending for him, and as one of his primary nurses it was no walk in the park for me either. Putting my kids in one of these deathtraps didn't make me happy, even though all the safety measures in place were hard to miss, even for me. (Did you know that they actually put airbags in these things?) But, to repeat my theme, I don't want to pass all of my fears along to my kids, since one of my worries is that if I totally restrict them they'll become daredevils just to spite me. Surfer Dude in particular is fearless, and could take several years off my life if he chose to. I’m trying not to push him down that road.

So they got on alone, started their engines and took off grinning and waving. Surfer Dude wiped out on a turn and spun his car around hard enough to knock his helmet off. Come to find out later that it wasn't even buckled. The whole time they were driving I was pacing and saying my version of a Hail Mary. Except for that one incident it went fine and they were full of themselves for how well they had done. I went back to the cabin, drank a bottle of wine and tried to forget. Last summer they got to do it again and once more did beautifully. I covered my eyes with my hands, they drove, all ended well. I might still have gone back to the cabin and drank a bottle of wine, but hey, it took a lot out of me just to let them do it. Now that they were gaining confidence it just made me more convinced that they were going to start pushing the envelope. (You know, the envelope containing the copy of my obituary from where I dropped dead from a heart attack on a go cart track).

And then we come to this trip. The two younger boys wanted to play putt putt golf, so we went to the go cart track at the putt putt place. It was a track they'd never been on and it was different, more of an up and downhill figure eight than the banked oval they were used to. There were two other boys on the track and we stood with their dad to watch the show. The track attendants carefully strapped all the kids in, meticulously adjusting straps and helmets. My boys had already set themselves up to be the neurotic out of towner tourists by requesting safety helmets to wear. In the Ozarks wearing pink tights and a bra would be less of an admission of being a sissy momma's boy, but they wore them without complaint. I do get my way on some things and my absolute inflexibility on helmets is one of those things.

Good thing they did, too. Sasquatch hit a wall and spun around at exactly the right angle for Gumby to T-bone him. Surfer Dude, bringing up the rear, almost managed to avoid them but ended up slamming into Gumby who then plowed into Sasquatch again. This all happened in a matter of seconds, and of course it happened on the far curve of the track, in a place we could barely see and not get to. We watched the crash happen and heard the sickening crunch as my heart did one of those fall out of an airplane plunges. As the track workers headed over we waited for the kids to get out of their cars and brush themselves off. I started pacing.

Nobody moved. Nobody made a sound.

I barged through the security entrance and onto the track as the attendants started moving a lot faster toward the wreck. My mom was calling out to me asking me if I could see them. I couldn't. I was about twenty feet up the track when the manager tried to throw me off for “liability reasons”. I was still arguing with him when I saw Gumby get out of his cart and head shakily down the hill. He headed toward me telling me he was okay and so was Surfer Dude, but that he couldn't see Sasquatch. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sasquatch start talking to one of the workers. As I slowly moved off the track I could see them separate the cars and start to herd them back to the starting line. Gumby said he didn't want to get back in and the manager told me that Sasquatch said he was done too. Surfer Dude, unsurprisingly, was ready for another twenty laps. At the highest speed possible. His brothers may have given in to sanity, but he was above all that. They were all, thankfully, unhurt, although Surfer Dude's airbag did deploy.





That's when I took a deep breath and told Gumby and Sasquatch that they should get back in their carts and finish their turn. I knew that the longer they had to obsess over the crash the more they would freak themselves out, and that by the time we're back next month they would be petrified. Now I could care less if they ever go cart again, but I would like to not subject my kids to any more paralyzing fears than I already do, so I encouraged them to get back on the horse, so to speak. They did, and finished their rides uneventfully. I mentally chugged a bottle of wine while they drove. It didn't help.





Sasquatch felt terrible that he had started the chain of events that triggered the whole thing, but I told him honestly that he shouldn't blame himself. These things happen and guilt is pointless. My mom paid for another round for the two other kids driving, since they were really good sports about having their ride interrupted for the crash. I'd like to think next time we're there they might want to do something else instead of the go carts, but something tells me this is unlikely. The seed has been planted.



Better stock up on wine.

This One's For You, Mom

For the last few years Mother’s Day has kind of been a problem. When I was younger I did all the standard things – flowers, candy, handmade goodies – and was always gratified by the response I got from my mom. But things have changed, not on her end but on mine. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m a mother myself and have a better understanding of how treacherous the job can be. Maybe it’s because I’m 1600 miles away. Maybe it’s the realization that there aren’t enough flowers in the world for this woman who has given me so much for so long. Whatever the reason, I come up empty handed on Mother’s Day lately. Nothing I think of is good enough, and what ends up happening (to my chagrin) is that I am left with no gift. (Unfortunately, so is my mother). No flowers, no See’s candy, nada. This year I started early and still have nothing. To borrow one of my mom’s pet phrases this just won’t do. It’s my favorite line of hers, unless she’s using it on me. Then it doesn’t do much for me.





I wracked my brain for ideas, but what I kept coming up with were these little vignettes from the past that showed so many of my mother’s facets. I kept remembering all these stories that we swore would be funny someday. I took a peek at the mental images that have cracked me up for years. I cautiously examined the times that had been so hard for us from the perspective of an adult. And as usual, I sidetracked myself from my original purpose. It’s one of my specialties



First, there were the Flower Child times. This is when she and a bunch of her friends painted hands and feet and “Love” and “Peace” all over our red VW bug named Miranda. I took one look and refused to be seen in the car. She dropped me off around the corner from school for years until the paint faded. This was the era where for Halloween one year she dressed me in a handmade purple pinafore complete with a ruffled apron. She tied a ribbon around an empty butter box, hung it around my neck, and told me I was going as Mother Nature. This was about the time she pulled me out of public school in Highland Park and sent me to a private Montessori, because, as she so nicely put it, I was a little naïve for the homegirls and my mouth was about to get my butt kicked. Our house was always full of musicians and writers and artists, and my mother would laugh when one of them would chant the mantra “Marry a doctor. Marry a lawyer. Whatever you do, don’t marry a musician. “ (Editorial note one year later: HELLO! Did I see filmmaker on that list? Should they not have said all creative types in general??)

Then there are all the car stories. Oh my god, are there a lot of car stories. First was the time she tried to kill me in Miranda. We were living on the top of a hill and had a long curvy road that lead to the street. As is only fitting for one of our car stories the car wasn’t working right. (Just wait; I’m only getting started with the busted car stories). So when I was around nine or ten she taught me how to pop the clutch and steer the car just far enough for her to hop in and take over. One day I lost control of the car and headed straight for the neighbor’s swimming pool, watching my mother in the rear view mirror as she ran screaming after me. Then there was the time in Lake Tahoe where all of a sudden smoke started spewing from the dashboard of her car. “Mama,” I said,” The car's on fire.” “Well”, she calmly replied. “Maybe we should get out.” Speaking of smoke, there was the beater she bought me when she was living in Wofford Heights that caught fire three times on the two mile drive down the hill to Lake Isabella. That was the car that we limped into LA the back way because we knew it would never survive the Grapevine. Once we hit county limits the car gave up the ghost with an impressive sounding explosion, and the memory of my mother is indelible as she shrieked at the car and kicked it’s hubcaps with all her might, softly lit by the smoke from the engine. And speaking of the Grapevine, there was the day of her thirty ninth birthday when we were moving her to her new home in Sonora. After a crappy year of trying to salvage her marriage to my first step-father, she’d decided to leave. Well you know there’s going to be car trouble in here somehow. The only sound louder than the carsick German Shepard in the backseat was the noise the clutch made when it completely went out. On the uphill side. In a borrowed van. In a rainstorm. When we somehow got off the road she went to the back hatch to look for tools and when she opened it a big box of her favorite clothes fell out right into a big mud puddle – opened side down. I watched the entire thing in slow motion and, god forgive me, I laughed until I cried. Even now, all these years later, I’m howling at the mental image. Can you imagine how funny that WASN’T to my mother? I can’t believe she didn’t kill me right there.

She moved back to LA right about the time the Film Geek and I started going out. I was happier than I can describe to have her back. The whole time she was up north I felt like I was missing a piece. She made my wedding gown by hand and almost went blind in the process. She was in the waiting room when I was in labor with my firstborn and it wasn’t going well. After three hours of pushing and almost no drugs I told my husband to hand me his car keys because I was going to do a C-section on myself. Well, here comes my mom to poke her head in and see what the hold up is. At this point, knowing that I wanted nothing in the world more than to cry on my mother, he hollered at her to get out. She did, I had the reluctant baby an hour later, and my husband just kept moaning, “Oh my god, I threw your mother out of the delivery room. She’s gonna KILL me.” She didn’t, luckily for him. When I had Surfer Dude, she was in the delivery room with us, at my request, and was the first one to hold him after he was born. It’s funny, because he’s the one who has her light hair and eyes, and he looks so much like her. For the first few years after he was born I was afraid they’d given me the wrong baby and would show up on my doorstep to take him back, because he was so fair. As is usually the case when she deals with my craziness she told me in the nicest possible way to get over it. I still bring it up occasionally, and she’s a little less nice about it now that she’s heard it for so long. Most of her answers now start with “Oh for god’s sake, kid…”



So many memories. The day of her marriage to Stu, the day she got it so right after all. We had a posse on her to make sure she didn’t bolt, she was so scared. The year that the Film Geek taught in Michigan, leaving me in LA with three kids under six. We spent our weekends at Mom and Stu’s house and it was the only thing I looked forward to all week. It was the only haven I had, and I treasured it. Then there were the trips, especially the road trips back to California for the summer after we moved. She would point out all the fabulous sights to the kids (“Look, there’s the Grand Canyon”, “Wow, check out that moose” or “Don’t step on that geyser!”) and they’d continue to fight over the Game Boy and ask when we were stopping and if there would be a pool. The year of Sasquatch’s weak bladder when we pulled over every fifteen minutes so he could pee on the road – for two thousand miles. The trip to Mexico where we couldn’t figure out why no one swam in the incredible pool at night, and ventured out to give it a shot. We got chased back to our rooms by mosquitoes roughly the size of Maui. The trip to Alabama when my grandmother was dying from a massive stroke, where just the sight of my mom got me through. The trip to Michigan when my dad died unexpectedly, when the phone calls to my mom were my lifeline.


She’s the best person in the world at talking me down when I have an anxiety attack. She gives my kids hell for treating me the way they do. She has been known to pull a Terms of Endearment routine when I’ve been in the hospital and not getting tended to quick enough. (“Give her the DRUGS!”) Just last week I picked up my phone to call her and when I pushed the send button there was no dial tone, just my mom’s voice saying “hello?hello?”, because she was calling me at exactly the same time I was calling her. It wasn’t the first time. When I get all hypochondriac-like and am convinced I have a tumor or an aneurysm or testicular cancer, she can talk me out of it, and tell me in the nicest possible way that I’m full of crap. She ignores me when I get on my It’s All About Me podium, but gets mad at me when I let my kids walk all over me. She was brave enough to move away from her family as a single mom to an eight year old, all in the name of making a better life for them. I love that, in spite of considerable provocation, she never said anything rotten about my dad, even though he gave her plenty of cause. The strongest thing she ever said was “Well, we know your father has a head like a sieve.” Now I’ll grant you, she said it a lot, but there’s a lot of restraint there as far as I’m concerned. I love that she barely flinches anymore when she hears the words “Nancy Drew”. One summer when I was visiting my dad she gave my collection to the daughter of a friend of hers who was going to Israel to live on a kibbutz. She thought I was done with them and I almost had a heart attack when she told me after the fact. For years she had a tic whenever she heard the name of the titian haired girl detective. I’m pretty sure I’ve given her a lot of tics, but she never holds it over my head. I could write a book, but it would never do her justice.


I’m sorry I don’t have a real present for you again this year, Mom. In the gift giving department I stink, and I know it. I’m going to start looking right now for next year, so this doesn’t happen again. But for this year would this do?


You’re my best friend
I would do anything (including eating liver) for you
I’m sorry for laughing about your clothes (but you have to admit, it was funny)

I love you more than you’ll ever know


Happy Mother’s Day,
xoxo