The Mother of All Holidays

Mother's Day was notoriously created by a greeting card company, which shall go unnamed here. Even though we all know damn well who it is. It's the same company who invented Valentine's Day and Crocs. Brain-washed us just enough to buy a bit of nonsense, again and again, year after year. When I was a kid we were required to read The Emporer's New Clothes, which seemed to temper gullibility a bit, at least in most of us. If you haven't read it already, you should. It will make you feel like a really, really big asshole for buying into most of the bullshit that swirling around us these days. You're wearing Crocs right now, aren't you?

Anyway, the original notion of Mother's Day was to buy your mom a greeting card (see above) and some candy or flowers to thank her for all that she's done for you (i.e. washing your face with spit) throughout the year. Of course, the main motivation of this depends on your age. When you're seven, you perceive your mom to be the greatest person in the world. Fortunately for you (and unfortunately for the greeting card company), you can get away with making her a card and planting a kiss on her cheek. As you get older, however, expectations and therefore the guilt quotient goes up exponentially. Forget the mere card and flowers; that card better contain a kick-ass spa certificate, or if you really know what's good for you, jewelry, and I don't mean the home-made kind. We're talking diamonds. A tennis bracelet. An heirloom pin. And the most valued gift of all...your precious time.

When I was growing up, it was just me, my brother and sister, our parents, and my dad's folks. This made special occassions very easy on us. My grandparents came over to our house. My mom fixed a meal. Everyone was happy. That all changed once my parents got divorced and I got married. Then, we were required to make an appearance at my mom's, my dad's, and my in-law's, all on the same day. In addition to just showing up, I had to look genuinely happy to be there and, also, hungry. My husband and I were forced to eat three sit-down meals in one day just so we didn't hurt anyone's feelings. Nevermind the impacted colon.

Many years later, my mother and grandparents passed away. Since my parents were divorced and not on speaking terms, that had prevented mine and my husband's families from celebrating holidays together. Now that my mom and the looming threat of Word War III were out of the picture, we had the opportunity to joyously unite our families in celebration! Spending every holiday in peaceful harmony! No more tension headaches from guilt and worry! No more stomache-aches from stress and over-eating! We would simply all convene in one place, at one time and celebrate together. This worked beautifully for a while...

It was good. It was too good. Not enough drama. Not enough turmoil. Too many people in one place, at one time, for too long. It was too good to be true. It was too good to be true because it was bad. Resentment reared its ugly head.

"Why do we have to spend every holiday with her family?" my sister-in-law posed the question to my husband in private, but of course, he ratted her out later. Blood does not run thicker than alcohol and two children. "I want to spend Mother's Day with Mom, not your wife's entire family. Can't you and I take Mom to brunch? Just you and me? We're her kids, afterall." Yes, she and my husband are my mother-in-law's kids, though they are both in their late thirties and way, way to big to fit in her lap. "I mean," my sister-in-law continued, "she doesn't even have a mother anymore, so why should she care?"

Yes, my mother is dead; she is correct. To her credit, I genuinely appreciate the occasional reminder so that I do not embarrass myself by attempting to call my now dead mother out of the blue to get her recipe for swedish meatballs that died with her, leaving me shit-out-of-luck standing in the kitchen with my husband's boss pounding his dinnerware on the kitchen table, while holding my husband at gunpoint. However, I am also a mother myself, to her niece and nephew, who are, um, her brother's children. Shouldn't I factor somewhere in the equation?

My family, on the other hand, will show up anywhere, any time, any place as long as there is food. They may be an hour late, but they'll show up. I actually had to tell my dad last year that my husband's family no longer wanted to celebrate holidays with my family. "Oh, I see, " he said. I could tell he was hurt, but he is too classy to say anything unkind. Because we were all split apart, he did not get to see his grandchildren or his son-in-law on Father's Day last year. I didn't get to see my father-in-law, either. Or my husband, for that matter.

Surprisingly, I understand my sister-in-law's motivation. She is divorced and has no children. She is clinging very tightly to her parents. I, for this reason, am willing to step aside. I have a husband and two children who stand beside me, regardless of who else shows up. However, as a mother, I want to spend Mother's Day with my children. I would like to spend time with my mother-in-law and stepmother, as well. Because my husband's family isn't willing to celebrate the occasion jointly, this probably will not happen. We all live far enough apart to make two stops in one day too much for my two young children.

When anyone asks me what I want for Mother's Day, I used to jokingly say I want to be hit over the head and locked in the closet. I am not joking any more...that actually sounds quite appealing. Maybe if I ask nicely, my sister-in-law will take me up on it.

Razor Sharp Twit

I walked up to the counter at a fast-food restaurant at the mall. As I was perusing my options, the guy behind the counter said, "can I help you, ma'am?" I responded, "yes, I'd like to get an, um..." He quickly retorted, "ma'am, I'm sorry! We don't serve 'um' here!!" "Ha!" I gasped, purely out of pity and to keep myself from groaning out loud. After placing my order and handing the cashier my money, another customer approached the counter. "How can I help you today, ma'am?" the fast-food artist asked the woman. She replied, "I'd like an, um..." As the words barely escaped her mouth, the employee blurted out, "ma'am, I'm sorry! We don't serve 'um' here!!" I could feel the heat coming off of the cashier beside him. In mere nanoseconds I could sense the poor poor girl's suffering, having to listen this idiot repeat the same phrase, or joke as he probably refers to it, hundreds upon hundreds of times day after day after day. She collected my money as she gingerly fingered a plastic knife in her other hand.

The Picture of Worn-in and Gray

I renewed my license at the DMV today! Just shy of my 39th birthday. It seemed like I had been there not too long ago, though it had been four years already. Four years? Where does the time go? To work, children, and husband, that's where. I carefully examined my soon-to-expire license, as I gripped it tightly in my hands. I studied my picture. I had not been happy with it four years ago, and was not happy with it now. My hair was too dark from a bad dye-job, my lipstick too pale, were those crow's feet around my eyes?? I had only been 34 at the time the picture was taken. Still I looked weary and worn. I remember considering 'losing' my license on purpose so that I could go back and get my picture retaken (or maybe they just make you pay another $20 - that would have been worth it), but I decided to keep it. I felt certain that this many years later I would gaze upon the picture of me from four years prior and marvel at how young and supplely beautiful I was, how fresh and vibrant my smile was. Now as I looked down into the haggard face of a maybe middle-aged woman, I still felt wronged. I couldn't wait to take a new picture.
I sat patiently listening for my number to be called out over the loudspeaker and flash up on the didgital sign. I had dressed up and put make-up on (mostly for work, but I did get up early and put in extra effort for the occassion). I could feel people's eyes on me, or so I thought. They knew. Even though my license was up for renewal anyway, they knew I had come to re-take my picture! How vain! How self-important! I had plenty of friends whose pictures on their driver's licenses looked like the mug shots of hardened criminals. Why did mine have to be any different? I felt silly, naked almost. Still, I didn't care. I just wanted to re-take the damn picture.
Finally, I was called to the counter to complete the paperwork. Address: easy, it's been the same for ten years. Date of birth: can't really lie on that one, though I'd like to. Height: 5'8 (maybe only when I am retaining fluid, but, still, accurate enough). Weight: 130 (my perpetual goal weight, because when I eventually reach that goal, I want my license to be accurate, dammit. We're talking about the law here!) Drug or alcohol use: none of your damn business, but for all intents and purposes here - no. Revocation of license for any reason: all warrants for unpaid parking tickets paid in full so, no. I signed the form and turned it in to the DMV Lady (I do believe this is the correct terminology here, like the Lunch Lady in the cafeteria, or the Cashier Lady at the grocery) with my old license attached.
I felt saddened as I watched her walk away with my old license. I would never see that old, familiar face ever again, with its mousy brown hair and ashy face. Sadness quickly turned to excitement as I remembered I would get to take a new picture today! My license would finally reflect the real me! The young, vivacious woman who had been betrayed all these years by the picture impersonator she carried around in her wallet would finally get vindication!
I considered my hair and lipstick. Should I retouch? No. No mirror. I hoped that I looked okay. Of course, I did, I reminded myself! I had gotten up early today! I had put in extra effort! I had on a pretty dress in a bright color! When they called my name, I practically skipped over to the photo booth. The woman, or the Other DMV Lady, politely instructed me where to stand, conveniently marked on the floor in masking tape. I smiled and cocked my head to the side. She asked, "are you ready?" and, gaily, I said, "yes!" She snapped the picture and remarked, "that came out fine!" Victory! I smiled. She seemd so pleased with her photography and the subject matter I felt certain she was going to tell me she was now inspired to be come a professional photographer, and was I, in fact, a super model? I blushed at the thought of this, and though she did not say it out loud, I felt surely this was what she was thinking...
All I had left to do now was wait. Would my eyes be closed? Would I have a doucle-chin? Would my make-up look garish or would I be washed out? I held my hands tightly in my lap. The Other DMV Lady called my name. I rushed up to the counter. I was surprised that she did not congratulate me as she handed over my license, but she did smile and nod. Something special had passed between us...an artist and her muse.
I did not look at my new driver's license until I was in the sunlight. I slowly looked down at the picture and took it all in. My hair was too light from a bad dye-job, my lipstick too pale, were those crow's feet around my eyes?? Not bad, I thought. The picture hadn't changed much, but I had: I'm older now and more accepting of myself. This would be the picture I would carry in my wallet for the next ten years and, for the first time, I was okay with that. Hell, I ain't getting any younger! I skipped all the way back to the car.

Waiting Out The Storm

Despite the current condition of the economy, my cup is still half-full. In fact, because of the current condition of the the economy, my cup runneth over. For the first time in my life, I don't feel like the only person living from paycheck to paycheck, struggling to make ends meet and save a little on the side.

What I am used to is being surrounded by people who drive better cars than me, live in nicer homes, wear more expensive clothes, and take more expensive vacations. (Who am I kidding? To take any vacation at all is out of my budget, unless I have a free place to stay.) I constantly felt in awe of those around me, like a child on a first visit to Disney World, my eyes wide with amazement...surrounded by people my age, in their late thirties, who drive Mercedes, live in 300K homes, shop only at high end stores, and take their kids skiing for spring break. The lift tickets alone would put me in hock.

I feel like Eve in the Garden of Eden, seeing clearly for the first time. The enormous dip in the economy has pulled the blinders off and evened the playing field. Friends and acquaintances whom I had admired before for their lavish lifestyle have been exposed for who they really are, and that is...just like me. They don't necessarily have much more money than me, they just live beyond their means. Way beyond their means. While I understand why people choose to do this, it has never been an option for me.

I was raised by very frugal parents. My dad, a surgeon, was unwilling to part with cash to pay for my new homecoming dress every year. We did not wear designer clothing nor did we have the latest gadgets. We survived with an outdated stereo, an ancient console T.V. ( which was missing a knob so you had to use pliers to change the channel), and a Honda. Our home was modest yet nice. (Even at a young age, I wondered what my father's colleagues and students thought when they came to our brady Bunch house for the annual Christmas party, with ugly green carpet and old furniture.) Still, we wanted for nothing. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table, and yes, we went skiing for spring break, a fantastic opportunity that I hope to give to my children one day when I can afford it but no sooner.

My grandparents, who greatly influenced my father, were frugal as well. "Everything in moderation" is the best way to describe their lifestyle. They spent a little and saved a lot. They socked away everything they had and when they spent money, they spent it wisely and well. My grandmother, who was very fashionable, wore the same clothes until they were worn out. She mended what she could and got rid of what was unsalvageable, even for the Good Will. My grandfather carried a sack lunch to work with him every day, a tradition my father upheld until his retirement at 70 years of age. Because of their modest lifestyle, my grandparents were able to winter in Hawaii and summer in Palm Springs every year. This was not paid for on credit but out of pocket. This was money they had set aside for such frivolities once all necessities had been met. My grandfather retired from dentistry in his 60's a very wealthy man. He and my grandmother lived very comfortably until their deaths a the the age of 98, when my father was left a hefty inheritence.

Fortunately, some of these habits have been passed on to me. Unfortunately, I cannot say that I am quite as wise or as frugal as my father and grandparents. Even still, I consider myself to be quite sensible, my "splurges" hardly qualifying as such. I troll the sale racks at Target, Old Navy, and Ann Taylor Loft for clothing. We often go to parks or to the library for entertainment, or rent movies. On occasion, we splurge on a babysitter, but mostly rely on family for extra childcare.

My husband and I bought a modest home about ten years ago for a little more than 100K. Two children later, our 3 bedroom, 2 bath home has become a bit crowded. However, my husband and I and the children each have our own rooms. Company sleeps on the sofa-bed in the "Red Room Suite" (our living/ dining room). Our "master bathroom" is the size of a very small closet with a stand-up shower. The children share their bathroom, and when we have company stay, they use ours. We own two cars and have no car payment, having fulfilled our payments a few years ago. Our "newer" car cost 18K used. Each car is a little over ten years old, but they run fine. I do not plan to move or buy a new car anytime in the near future.

My husband and I both work. Although I would prefer to be at home caring for the children (6 and 2), my income is necessary to sustain the family. I have a whole new appreciation for my paycheck and for the turmoil going on around me. I have found that the wealthy elite are not so wealthy nor so elite anymore. People living in lavish homes are scrambling for money to buy groceries. Working in a dcotor's office, I have part-time nurses who have worked in the past solely to keep up their licenses, now begging me for hours, carrying negative balances in their checking accounts because their builder/ mortgage lender/ real estate agent husband is no longer bringing in the big bucks. Actually, forget the big bucks; they're bringing in na-da. Homes and second homes costing hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not millions, are being foreclosed on.

All of this panic is swirling around me and I feel...fine. Not only do we have food on the table and a roof over our heads, we have money for extras (entertainment, eating out, a little shopping) plus money saved on the side. Not only do I feel comfortable, I feel priviledged, smart, and proud. Priviledged that we are able to maintain our conservative yet comfortable lifestyle, unphazed by the economy. Smart that my husband and I did not take vacations we could not afford, buy a home outside of our budget, or buy the kids indulgent extravagances. Proud that I have, afterall, learned from my grandparents and parents to live in moderation and well within my means.

Even if my husband or I lost a job, we would have enough money to survive for months, if not a year if we really scraped. All that there is left to do now is wait. Wait out the storm of the down-turned economy. I feel certain the storm will one day pass and we will all be stronger and smarter for it.

Digging Deep

I check the Anthropologie website every day to see if anything new has gone on sale. Inevitably, I order something that, amazingly, I can afford, and then I send it back, realizing it's really not that great, and I can probably get five t-shirts at Old Navy for the same price. Still, I check constantly, wanting to grab the one item that goes up for $19.95 when somebody else sends it back because it's not that great. It's an endless cycle.

I have to say lately the turnover has been pretty slow. The same stuff has been on sale for several weeks and has not budged. This indicates that either a) the items are sale aren't very desirable, or b) we are in a hellish recession. I am going with 'b' because it's Anthropologie we're talking about here for crissakes. Of course these items are desirable. I would give my left nut to own one piece of clothing from that company, or at least, a top. The pants are way, way too expensive.

So, looking forward, I figure if I put $20 aside every paycheck from here on out, a little less than five years from now, I could afford to buy a whole ensemble, full price. I am certain if I were to purchase a dress, a 'cardi', a pair of whimsical shoes (like fairies wear), and some jewelry, I'll be set for life. Except for the fact that a dress isn't always practical, so maybe I should go with pants and a blouse? Better tack on a few more months saving just to make sure I can swing it.

The problem is what to do in the meantime. I am a working woman, so it's imperative that I show up for work looking 'polished' and 'clean', which also means 'not dressing like a hobo', my natural inclination. This is ironic because the starving elfin girls featured in the Anthropologie catalogue most often look exactly like hobos, but this is intentional and the clothing is expensive, so there is a decided difference here. Decided by whom I'm not sure.

I am guessing I will venture to the mall where you can actually look at, touch, and try clothing on which is not nearly as alluring as coveting something in a catalogue. There is something distinctly different about putting the clothing on your own less clothing-hanger like body as opposed to gazing longingly at the XS silk blouse in the catalogue as it consumes the tiny defenseless neck and torso of the wafer-thin model, reminiscent of a stick bug, much like you or I might devour a double bacon cheeseburger.

Perhaps it is not the clothing at all that I covet. Perhaps, it is the slender ease at which these endlessly young, Rapunzel-haired, pouty-lipped virgins slip into such lavishly expensive clothing, with no consideration for expense? Or is it their youth, their nubile beauty, which keeps drawing me back, holding my gaze so lovingly, promising me the same if I look long enough, hard enough, hypnotizing me into believing I, too, could be so young, so rich, so beautiful, so clad in precious Anthropologie clothing?

I will keep checking back. I will keep ordering items on sale and sending them back in disappointment. Is it me? Is it the clothes? Is it because I am only buying items on sale and therefore, do not afford the fantasy? I may never know for certain, but a girl can dream, can't she?

Side Effects

I went to dance class last night and to fight club (work-out session) this morning at 6am. When I was in the shower, getting ready for work, my six year old son came in and said, "Mom! You went to dance class last night?" And I said, "Yes, I did." Then, he continued, "And you went to fight club this morning?" "Yes, I did that, too." I replied. A huge smile spread across his face. I thought he was pretty impressed. I said to him, "Mommy's going to be really fit, huh?" "No," he said, "you're going to be really tired!!!" He has a point.

The Perfect Cat

One cold, autumn evening many years ago, my highschool boyfriend and I were tooling around in his car outside the gates of our highschool campus. There was a football game going on, something we cared very little about. It was an excuse to get out of the house, get in the car, and drive, drive, drive. To nowhere really. It was the getting there that mattered.

As we were cruising back through one of the residential neighborhoods, we saw a very tiny creature crouching beneath the bushes at the side of the street. My boyfriend slowed the car down enough so I could hop out. What was it? It was a very tiny silver tabby kitten! I scooped it up in my hand, smiling and showing it off to my boyfriend who was squinting through the haze of the front windshield. I brought the cat out of the chilly air into the waiting warmth of the front seat.

The cat had on a tiny pink collar, studded with rhinestones. I took it off. In my young mind, a kitten so small should not be out on her own on such a cold and dark night. All alone. Wasn't right. Certainly, the poor little thing would've been run over by a car or picked up by a homicidal maniac. I decided to save her.

"We'll take her to my house. I can keep her." I was convincing myself as much as my boyfriend. "Are you sure? Dana, you're allergic to cats. Your dad is gonna freak!"He was right, but I was certain. I would take that cat home and keep her. Protect her from the dangers outside.

We cuddled the cat in the car. Petted her and loved her. Treated her like our baby. It made us feel close to one another, bonding as parents. We both loved this cat, and therefore, in some way, didn't we then love each other? Yes. I blushed when my boyfriend looked at me and smiled. We made out in the front seat of that car with the cat crawling all over us, another warm cozy body adding to the heat.

When we arrived at my house much later that evening, my mother was there to greet us.

"What is THAT?" she scoffed. She was trying to feign irritation, and it wasn't working. "Mom, we found this little kitten out in the cold with nowhere to go." I made sad puppy-dog eyes at her. "Well, it must belong to someone. Wasn't it wearing a collar?" she asked. "No." I lied, fingering the pink collar tucked deeply into my pocket. "I guess it's okay to keep it here tonight, but it's got to go tomorrow. Your father is going to have a fit."

I knew my mother did not mean what she was saying, did not believe it, not for one moment. I was a gentle soul, but my mother was gentler. The cat would stay with us, we both knew, but getting past my father would be a very difficult and painful process. My mother turned her back to us as I kissed my boyfriend goodnight, the tiny kitten tucked under my chin. He kissed the kitten, too.

I brushed my teeth and put on my pajamas, the kitten held snugly to my chest all the while, her gentle purring reminding me I had done the right thing. I had done the right thing. Hadn't I? Although I wasn't sure of that, I was sure that this kitten would be loved and have a good home. Then wouldn't I be loved and have a good home, too? We slept soundly, our breathing in sync, our bodies a mass of flannel and fur.

The next morning, I could hear my father ranting to my mother in the kitchen, "...can't keep it...allergies...dirty animal...who'll take care of it? Not me!!" My stomache dropped. I was afraid to go downstairs, afraid he would take the kitten to the pound, afraid I would lose my warm friend, afraid of many things. He came to me instead.

"Dana, you cannot keep this cat. Your mother told me what happened, but this is not the place for a housecat. For one, you have very severe allergies. You take allergy shots, for chrissakes! You need to get rid of it." He stormed out of the room, which was his usual response to any adverse situation. Don't talk about it, just leave. I did the same.

As time passed, my father's inquisitions became fewer and farther between. He gave up. I stopped worrying. That tiny kitten with the pink rhinestone collar grew and grew into a hefty tomcat. All boy. No bullshit. He ruled the neighborhood with tooth and claw and had the ragged ears and nasty disposition to prove it. I secretly wondered if I had made him that way, taking him away from his home, maybe away from his momma when he was so tiny. No! The people who had put him in the pink collar had not even known him well enough to know he was a boy. I had saved him, had brought him to a better place. Sometimes though, no matter how bad home can be, it's still home. I could understand that.

Because of his seemingly insatiable appetite for squirrels (or anything small and defenseless), my mother named him Hunter. We called him Meow because he wouldn't shut up and he was loud. He would sit in a chair at the railing that led down into the sunken living room and swat at you as you dared to walk past. His claws were sharp and he wasn't playing. He could take an eye out if you weren't careful.

If Hunter happened to crawl into your lap, you certainly did not protest or shoo him away, and you were pretty much stuck in that exact position until he decided to get up and leave of his own accord. It didn't matter if your nose itched, you had to pee, or the house was on fire, you had to remain perfectly still or you risked losing a limb.

He did not want to be petted, either. He would look up at you with his beautiful, menacing eyes, thinking, "I dare you. I dare you to touch me and then I will seriously fuck you up." We did not dare to touch him, but we loved him just the same.

One day, as my mother was washing dishes, she looked out into the commotion in the yard through the window over the sink. There, way up in the tree, was Hunter, balancing precariously atop a bird's nest, and momma bird had come home. She was dive-bombing the poor cat and pecking away. We started screaming through the window. I did not know who we were trying to protect: the cat or the bird. Hunter fell out of the nest just as we ran outside.

He was a mess. We took him to the vet. The bird had almost killed him. Blinded him in one eye. He had puncture wounds all over his head. Amazingly, he had sustained no serious injuries from the fall. We nursed him back to health, though he scarcely let us touch him.

With his permanently dialated eye, shredded ears, and eighteen pound frame, Hunter looked more like a charicature than a real cat. As soon as we opened the front door to let him out, wildlife fled in all directions. Unfailingly, there was a dead squirrel at our back door at least once a day.

One particular afternoon, as I went to open the front door for Hunter who was meowing loudly outside, my mother came running up behind me yelling, "don't open the door!!!" It was too late. I had opened the door and in came Hunter, a plump chipmunk clenched in his jaws. He gaily pranced across the room and squeezed himself under the sofa. "Oh, shit!" my mother barked. "I'm sorry! I didn't know!" I offered. I had not recognized the low, gutteral growling of a carniverous feline with a fresh kill. Only my mother could make the distinction, and she had tried to warn me.

"Quick, go get a broom," my mother ordered as she peered into the cramped space where Hunter had wedged himself. And the chipmunk. "We've got to try to get him out," she announced. I suspected, though concerned for the chipmunk's well-being, she was more worried about her white carpet and the blood that might be spilled on it.

We worked the broom under the sofa. Hunter growled deeply. I was scared. I had no doubt he would defend his prize to the death. Still, the wooden broom handle and the sheer strength of our efforts forced the cat from beneath the couch. He scampered to the corner of the dining room and in the transition, lost his hold on the chipmunk. The poor creature bolted in the opposite direction.

The tiny chipmunk, now cowering in the opposite corner of the room, shivered in terror. I was not sure whether he was more frightened of me, the gigantic figure looming above him, or the chipmunk-eating machine. I had donned a pair of rubber gloves to protect myself from wee nipping teeth. I also knew full well the thin gloves would be no match for the claws and fangs of the bigger beast.

As I carefully scooped the miniature being into my hand, feeling his little heart, beat, beat, beat impossibly fast, my mother chased the cat to the back door with the broom. I stroked the chipmunk's head lovingly and knew he hoped I would let him go and go away. He wanted no part of me and my clumsy, terrifying caresses. I opened the front door and put him down on the porch. He remained there frozen. I did not know my mother had let the cat out the back.

I met my mother in the kitchen and we realized what had occurred. Peering out into the front yard through the window, we could see Hunter was already there, racing across the lawn. The chipmunk had moved from the porch. I fantasized that somehow the xhipmunk had escaped the jaws of the monster cat once again and did not succumb to his mortal wounds, though not likely.

Despite the years of hard living, Hunter lived to be sixteen years old. Once my mother passed away, he came to live with me. For fear that he would venture back to my mother's house instinctively, we chose to keep him inside, with short, supervised jaunts in the enclosed back yard where he would walk the perimeter of the fence again and again. After he mangled every piece of furniture in the house, we had him declawed. We realized too late that you can take a cat out of the wild, but you can't take the wild out of the cat. He stopped eating and we had to put him down.

Hunter was mean and nasty. Even still, I loved him unconditionally, and I knew deep down he loved me. He was the perfect cat.

A Writer Writes, Right?

I understand that writing is an art, and everyone should have the right of complete freedom of expression, but here I am, almost forty, having hoarded all of my writing, and I am now encountering individuals who claim they are writers when asked what they do. Out of interest, I check out his/ her blog and unfailingly it reads something like: "It was sure cold out this morning! Glad I wore my mittens!! Drank some hot cocoa and took a dump!" Well, bravo for an almost ideal start to the day, but does this really constitute 'writing'? Really, isn't it just typing?
I don't want to burst anyone's bubble, but that's like me saying I am an artist and then proudly showing a blob of playdough I squeezed into some sort of animal figure. I guess I could call myself an artist, but wouldn't that be insulting to artists who took the time to lovingly craft their work into something special? Does simply posting a blog, sending an email, or writing down a grocery list constitute writing? If so, then I have been way, way too hard on myself.
I been writing since I was a child and have notebooks full, although many pieces I crumpled up and threw in the waste basket. Terrible. Not good enough. Could be better. In my creative writing class in high school where we had to read our stories aloud to the class on Fridays, I would skip school in order to avoid this dreaded obligation. My teacher finally sat me down for an intervention.
"Dana, you have to come to class on Fridays or you will fail."
"I can't." My heart was hammering, threatening to leap out of my chest.
"I'm sorry. You have to. If you come to class on Fridays, you will most certainly get a good grade. No Fridays, you fail. It's your decision."
I started going to class on Fridays. I remember the first time I read one of my stories out loud (science fiction/ horror, about 40 pages), once I had finished, there was silence. Then, a giant football player who sat in the front row blurted out, "Holy shit! You wrote that?" Yes, I had, but even then, my confidence was not boosted. I could do better, I knew. I just needed more time...
Flash forward more than twenty years later, I am still waiting for that perfect moment, the perfect piece. But as I have found with many other facets of my life, it is never the right time, some things are never good enough. The fact remains that my husband is still the only one who has read most of what I have written. He has been my biggest source of encouragement, though not the first. My teachers encouraged me. My friends encouraged me. One friend in particular actually used a couple of my pieces for submission in her college creative writing course on which she got A's (please dont tell). Apparently, this still was not enough.
At this point in time, I still hold my cards very closely to my chest. The anonymity of the internet helps immensely. I can put my work out there and hope for feedback, good or bad. The good feedback is instant gratification. The bad, or negative feedback gives you the tools and motivation you need to improve, hopefully.
That being said, what qualifies as 'writing'? A word? A sentence? A paragragh? A minimum of 300 pages? It's not the quantity that qualifies a piece as 'writing', it's the quality, the substance. Be it short, long, bitter, sweet, funny, sad, horrifying or uplifting, it should reveal something. This is not to say it has to be profound, just...thoughtful. All writers should have a perspective, and hopefully a fresh new one, not just state the obvious. As in any art form, it's all relative, and it's all in the interpretation. And everyone one of us has a different one. I can't wait to read yours.

Avoid Future Regret and Reduce The Stress Of Everyday Life With The T.P.T.D.

Is there a single piece of technology that has recently transformed your life - for the better?

Ah, so many wonderous technological advancements to explore in this day and age...the rapid rate of progress and change makes it almost impossible to single out only one that has truly reshaped my life and the lives of those around me. Is it the iPhone? The iPod? The Blackberry? The Segway Personal Transporter? The Rascal Mobility Scooter? The iSlice? MicroSoft Windows Vista (snorf)? Jumping Stilts? The Large Hadron Collider? The Big City Slider Station (I almost went with this one)????

No, it's none of these things, and I'll tell you why. Years ago, when my first child was born, I found myself faced with daily challenges I had never seen coming. Finding time to eat, drink, shower, and brush my teeth became a major and mighty coup. The time factor, however, was only part of the problem, the other being doing everything one-handed, as I had a very small and delicate object warmly and perpetually tucked against my right side.

Now, I knew how it felt to have to unwrap a Nutrigrain bar with only one hand in starving desperation; to smash a glass Coke bottle against the counter-top, eagering sucking down the delicious liquid despite the shards of broken glass ravaging my throat; to balance one-half of my body precariously outside of the shower stall, trying to remember which side of my neglected and filthy body was due for a thorough scrubbing; to strategically step one end of the tube of toothpaste to twist off the cap with my one free hand and then squeeze the contents out. I had found clever and industrious ways to accomplish all of the tasks of the day. All but one.

Despite endless attempts at this specific task, I failed miserably time and time again. Frustration led to fits of crying and screaming, both from me and the baby in my arms. Certainly, he could sense my anger, my frustration, my incompleteness as a mother. But what was the solution? Would I ever find relief?

The answer came quite unexpectedly. My husband and I had ventured down to the condo on lake Oconee for a brief respite. The lake house, being owned by my father, is quite luxurious: marble countertops, plush furniture, indoor plumbing. I fingered everything lovingly as we walked through the place upon arrival. It was magical. We had certainly been here before, but what had changed? As a new parent, I had a renewed appreciation for all things refined. I noticed the small things: the placement of the flower arrangements, the clean floors, the precisely folded towels. Clean sheets on the bed. Streak free mirrors. Full toilet paper holders. Oh, bliss!

One item in particular, though, caught my attention. It stood out from the rest. Certainly, being surrounded by sparkling cleanliness and tasteful decor had its merits, but these were things I was comfortable living without. There was one thing, I realized over the course of the weekend, that would change my life forever. Or at least for the duration that I was carrying a football shaped object under my arm.

I didn't notice it at first. I was using it one-handed with ease, without even noticing. I pulled on the thing and I got what I wanted. I continued on with my work in the kitchen. Tug, tug, release. Tug, tug, release. I found myself doing it over and over again; It was fun! What was this? What was different? How could such a menial task elicit such disproportionate pleasure?

Then, suddenly, I knew. I could finally see the elephant before me, grandly posed atop the gleaming countertop. "Honey!" I screamed. My husband, panicked, came recklessly running in to the kitchen. "What's wrong!?!?" He gasped, seeing that I was clearly uninjured, and, in fact, bursting with joy. "What in the hell is it? You scared me to death!" he snapped."Look," I prodded, tilting my head towards the source of my elation. "Look at what?" he asked, confused. "The paper-towel holder!" I gushed. "What about it. It's a freakin' paper-towel holder. So, what?" His eyes were darting back and forth, desperate to solve the enigma of the relationship between his wife and the paper towel holder. "Yes, but it's a tension paper-towel holder, Honey! I can rip it off one-handed!!!!" He rolled his eyes, but then tried the gadget for himself. "It works!" he proclaimed. "Yes!" I giggled, and fell into his arms.

Life would be better now, we knew. No fits of rage in the middle of the night in the kitchen, formula spilled on the floor and curdled in the morning. No more moments of embarassment when a guest casually asks for a paper towel at lunch. No more fear of soda spilling, baby vomitting, or sink splashing. Our prayers had been answered.

On our way home form the lake, we stopped by Blood-Bath & Beyond and bought our very own tension paper-towel holder, for only $19.99. As other new mothers came to visit in our home, I heard the comment, "Where did you get this?!?!" more and more followed by, "I'm sure it costs a fortune!!" I quickly set my friends' minds at ease. "Wow! I can't believe it's so cheap!" they exclaimed. Soon all of my friends had one of their own. To this day, we are all still enthusiastically spreading the word about this one-handed wonder that drastically improves the life of any new mother, or anyone else for that matter. My husband and his friends get just as excited because now, at least, they don't have to put their sandwich down when in need of a paper towel.

And so, when faced with the quiry "Is there a single piece of technology that has recently transformed your life - for the better?", the answer is a triumphant "Yes!": the Tension Paper-Towel Dispenser. I hope that this small bit of insight will help to ease the stress of everyday life for all who read it. If you do not already have one, avoid future regret by purchasing one for yourself right away!

Upon writing this, I am now eagerly awaiting the invention of the tension toilet-paper holder, which is a whole other story.

It's Too Late, Baby

An employee came into my office this morning and told me she is leaving her husband. Well, actually she didn't tell me she was leaving her husband. Rather, as she raked her hands through her hair repeatedly (so hard, in fact, I expected to see fist-fulls of hair fall to the floor), she repeated the same words over and over again: "Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Um. Okay." That was followed by, "I'm okay. I'm okay. Really, I'm okay." Then, laughter. I wondered if she really was okay but didn't ask. Finally, she was able to actually say the words.

My employees know whenever they come to me about anything, before closing the door of my office behind them, they must precede any conversation with the words, "I'm not quitting." They know all too well after years of conditioning, that if they do not utter this short phrase, they will likely impend heart palpatations upon me and cause me to die, which would be bad for me and messy and uncomfortable for them. So, really, it works out to everyone's benefit.

And, so, after she recited the required password upon entering my office, I felt relieved. For myself, of course; not for her. Selfishly, this automatically takes me off the hook. As long as I don't have to worry about covering for someone else's job or hiring a new employee, I'm a pretty happy camper. Besides the fact that I fucking hate my job, or any job for that matter, but I try to not dwell on that little nugget. Mother fucker.

The decision to leave one's spouse, I realize, is not taken lightly. She assured me that since early on in their marriage she had tried to convince him to seek counseling with her, and he had consistently refused. When I first met her and she spoke of her husband, the first thought that popped into my head was, "they won't last." (Wow, I know. Not very nice or optimistic, but I call 'em like I see 'em.) This is partially because I am psycho, I mean psychic, and partially because of things she said about her husband. "He really needs to go back to school and get his masters. He doesn't make very much money." "He still smokes cigarettes when he's with his friends and tries to hide it from me." "I really don't want to go to a football party. I'd rather go out with my girlfriends." Now, I get the whole football party thing; a sports obsession alone of any kind to me is grounds for divorce.

In all fairness, it was not so much what she said but how she said it. Sure, I talk a lot of smack about my guy, but it's said in a sincere and loving way, for the sake of improving our relationship and letting off some steam. "He's bartending tonight. On fucking MLK day. What the fuck is he thinking? He should be at home with me - it's a fucking holiday, for chrissakes." "No, he's not taking me out. He has band practice on his fucking night off. Fucking bastard." While she has several fundamental problems with their marriage including financial issues, lifestyle choices, and lack of things in common, it is obvious that I simply would like to spend more quality time with my husband. How sweet is that?


So, really, the fact that she was leaving her husband was no shock to me. She is beautiful and young and motivated, and he doesn't seem to have any aspirations to do much of anything. Not that I am one to judge. But I do. Clearly, they are missing the one thing that holds my marriage together; an everlasting bond of unconditional love perpetuated by prolonged periods of absence, mostly due to the fact that we are busy working, taking care of the children, or in brief, fleeting periods, sleeping. The secret to our happy marriage is that we don't spend a whole lot of time together. Therefore, during the time we spend apart, we pine away for each other. When we are together, we look forward to being apart again. It keeps life interesting.

She told me that she had consulted her parents about her decision and they had given her their blessing. She also said her husband had finally consented to counseling, though she felt at this point it was too little, too late. He was simply stating what he thought she wanted to hear, but she was smart enough to not believe him. I can relate to this all too well.


My son, who is almost 7 years old, is a master of negotiating in moments of panic. I find myself falling for his pleas for mercy over and over again. He will promise almost anything when faced with punishment. As his parent, it is my job not to believe him. "Tough Shit" I think they call it. No, "Tough Love". If you push it too far, it's called 'neglect', so you gotta walk a fine line with this.

Yesterday morning, as we were trying to hurriedly get him ready for Sunday school, he announced, "I have a stomache ache!!" I believed him, knowing that he had eaten a second and unnecessary bowl of cereal. I told him to take it easy for a minute and we would see how he felt. The next thing I know, my husband is yelling, "Then I am taking you to the doctor!! Right now!! Dammit." Apparently, my husband had found our son rolling on the floor in the hallway clutching his stomach. No, he was not seriously ill, but he was, in fact, trying to get out of going to Sunday school. It worked. I told him that if he did not feel good, he could stay home. I also told him that if he did not go to Sunday school he could not go to his friend's birthday party later that day. His lips quivered and eyes began to water, "But...that's not fair!" Being the sado-masochistic person that I am, I said that we would discuss it later and left it at that.

Within about fifteen minutes (though too late to make it to Sunday school), he had a miraculous recovery. He proceeded to read and draw, play games and watch T.V., until he noticed the time. "It's three o'clock! Only on more hour until the party!!" "Um, no," I replied. "You can't go to the party. You had a tummy ache." "WHAT?!" he screeched at the very top of his little lungs. His face melted into a pool of watery grimaces, shifting and changing within seconds. "I told you that this morning, when you decided you could not go to Sunday school," I said. "No, you didn't! You did not tell me that!" he screeched. "I did and you need to know that anytime you miss school, you give up any parties or special activities for the day because you need to rest, and if you're not well enough to go to school, you're not well enough to go to a party."


Considering even the tiniest tummy ache, the prospect of pizza, birthday cake, and jumping around for two hours did not seem like a good idea. But really I was trying to make a point. The party was being held at Pump It Up, which is bascially a warehouse that contains a series of what used to be called 'moonwalks', although I believe now the correct technical term is 'jumpy-jump'. If you have never been to one, then you are in for a real treat if you never go to one. Basically, imagine being trapped inside the engine of a 747 with unseen children screaming and crying and blood and teeth flying everywhere. I dare you to walk out without a migraine. "Yeah, but the kids love it!!" people say. I think my children will love it more if their mother does not end up in the nut house. The first time we accompanied my son to one, I vowed we would never go back. We were there the four following weekends for birthday parties. Once I stopped the blood from seeping out of my tear ducts, I felt better about it.

"But I never get to go to Pump It Up!!! They are going to have cake!! They have a goodie bag for me!!!" At this point, my heart broke. How could I withhold such tiny pleasures from my child? Had he really done anything wrong? Wouldn't it be okay to just let him go? Would he be joyous and grateful to have such a wonderful and forgiving mom? Would I be able to quit my job? Will my husband buy me a diamond ring? I knew the answer to all of these questions was 'no', but I was slipping.

"Can't we just let him go? He's fine now." Now, I was the one begging. I knew I was potentailly in for hours and hours of crying and screaming, and that the mommy guilt alone might kill me. "You have got to stand your ground," my husband said. "He is never going to learn if you don't stick to your guns. There has to be a direct consequence for his actions." I stared at my husband, blinking and thinking, until I said, "okay." I didn't know what else to say.


Any good negotiator knows when faced with demands, you say nothing, and this is what I did with my son. For the rest of the afternoon, I listened to my son rant and rave. And the rest of the afternoon, I did nothing. I hugged him and told him I love him, but I did not give in. Eventually, the time of the party came and went and things settled down.


Until later, when my husband decided my son needed some fresh air and wanted to take him to the park. This brought on another knock-down, drag-out fight. "I don't want to go to the park!! I want to stay here!!" he screamed as I dragged him out to the car. As my husband was lifting him into the car, he said, "but I want to give mom a hug!" at which point my husband put him down, and my son dashed right past us back into the house. I chased him back into his bedroom where he was trying to crawl under the bed. I grabbed his ankle and dragged him back out. He grabbed ahold of his miniature piano and would not let go. I yanked his leg, which toppled the piano over with everthing on it. I didn't care. I lifted him up and he immediately became a limp noodle, impossible to hold on to, but I managed to get him down the hallway.


In this moment of truth, he began panicking. "I'll change! I'll do whatever you want!! I promise!! You have to believe me!!" I did not believe him. I had heard it too many times before: empty promises and nothing changes. If I budge, things go back to the way they were before. He needed to learn that no matter what he said to me, this time I would stand my ground.

For the good of both of us, I hugged him tightly and said, "it's too late, baby."

Barnyard

I went to a dinner party with my husband last weekend at a friend's house. Everyone brought several bottles of wine with them, more than enough for twice as many people, but really, you never can be too careful. For God's sake, what if we ran out?? So as we plowed our way through them during the course of the evening, I enjoyed the mutiple tastes and finishes as each bottle was different, though all red.

I am no wine snob, mind you. I don't ever try to be something I am not, and I am decidedly uncouth. I am a Bud girl, and proud of it. Therefore, although I regularly drink and enjoy wine, I am not particularly knowledgeable on the subject. That being said, I know what I like. My one requirement out of my wine is that it be GOOD. I realize taste in wine is wholly subjective. I also realize that what I like someone else with more knowledge and experience may think tastes like dishwater (this most often applies to my taste in beer; see above).

At some point later in the evening after many bottles of red wine had been consumed and enjoyed, I poured myself a glass of a notably French wine. I did, in fact, read the label but do not remember the name of the wine. I do remember as I lifted the glass to my nose and took a deep whiff (which is always the most satisfying part of wine drinking to me - save for the taste and intoxication part), there was a deep and unwavering stench of...poo. Really, poop. Manure to be exact. I quickly glanced across the table at those who had already poured a glass of this wine for themselves and were proceeding to sip away. I waited for mouthfuls to be spat across the table, wine glasses flung into the wall, exclamations of expletives to dispell henceforth. But, instead, nothing. I took another sip. This time without smelling it first, and again, the unforgiving odor and taste of poop. I sat for a moment and made the decision to take a stand and pour the putrid stuff down the sink, damn it. I stood up as nonchalantly as possible, turned around and quickly and quietly dumped the malodorous waste into the sink drain. I actually felt bad for the sink.

I rinsed my glass out and returned to my seat. As I poured another glass of wine from a different bottle, it took me a few moments to collect my thoughts. I was still watching the others, my friends as they sat and drank something that so obviously tasted of poo. Were my taste buds so damaged from smoking two cigarettes throughout the course of the evening that it was causing a side-effect of poo-mouth? Did my breath stink from a dinner of butternut squash soup and garlicky sopranos spaghetti (both delicious)? If that were the case wouldn't the others have suffered the same ill-effects? Why just me?

As I dipped into my fresh new glass of beautiful red wine, I suddenly didn't care. I simply made a mental note to steer clear of that particular bottle. And so, having survived an isolated incident with the poop wine, I filed it away as a fluke, an anomoly, something that I would never have to suffer again. I felt a sense of grand relief in that from this point forward, no matter how putrid, how terrible, how vinegary a wine tasted, it mattered none. I had been to the depths of wine-hell, and nothing would ever taste as bad, in comparison. Or so I thought.

A few nights later, I decided to accompany a friend to a wine tasting. I had been to one with her previously and enjoyed learning about the different wines, and really, just getting a nice buzz for a nice price, thank you. The collection of people was small, and it was nice to have such an intimate group gathered around the table. The sommelier first served up a deliciously light and fizzy champagne, of which I can't remember the name. (My memory is for shit. I try to commit information to memory and I inevitably forget. My husband remembers more about my childhood than I do, and he wasn't even there.)

Next, we tried a rose, and upon the first sip, I blurted out, "I taste grapefruit!!!!!" It was almost like a first orgasm, a joyful, knee-jerk reaction. I really, truly did taste grapefruit. I fully realize I came off as a complete redneck, but I could not stop myself. I was assured by those around me saying, "Yes, yes, I taste it, too! You are right," much like someone would acknowledge a child who has gone pee-pee in the potty. Coming off of the deliciously grapfruity wine, I anxiously awaited the next pour. As I eagerly raised the glass to my lips, however, the corners of my mouth quickly fell and my nose impulsively crinkled. "Ugh! Poo! I smell it!! This is the poop wine!! I've had this poo-wine! It's terrible! It tastes like poop!!!!"

I had gleefully announced early in the evening that I would not be needing the dump bucket. My friend and I assured everyone around us that if they did not care for a particular wine, dump it in our glasses! We would be the dump bucket! After all, why waste a perfectly good glass of wine? What were they afraid of? Getting drunk? Wasn't that the point?

My announcement, I now knew, had been made prematurely. "Where's the damn dump bucket?" I snarled. After dumping the contents of my glass, I grabbed the bottle of poop-wine and took it over to the table where my friends sat. Their mouths were agape. They had heard my tirade from across the room.

"Here. Smell this. It's the poop wine I told you about. Try it," I snapped. My friends stared at me with wide eyes blinking, clearly thinking why in the world they should try a wine that tastes like poop. I think they were willing to take my word for it, but I was determined to see if they would smell and taste it the same as I had, when my friends at the dinner party had seemed so oblivious, like those who were in approval of the emporer's new clothes.

"Give me that bottle," one of my brave friends huffed as she yanked the bottle out of my hand. She poured a splash for herself and smelled it. "It smells like poop!" she proclaimed to me, eyebrows raised, lips curled in disgust. She took a sip. "It tastes like poop, too!!" The others at the table too took tiny whiffs and tastes. "Oh, that IS terrible." Everyone agreed. I felt fully vindicated.

One of the sommeliers who is also a friend approached the table. "Actually, it's called a 'barnyard' wine. Grapes absorb the essence in the soil, and these are grown in the soil near a farm. What you are tasting is actually manure. I like it. I find it very earthy."

Earthy? Are you fucking kidding me? There is a distinct difference between earth and fucking manure. I know this for a fact because I have eaten dirt, and though as a child I distinctly remember hoping that it would taste like it looked, like rich dark chocolate, and it did not, it did taste clean, and sweet, and earthy, but it most definitely did not taste like shit!

My friend, the sommelier, continued sipping the poo-swill as we all watched, aghast.

"Some people like it. I guess it's an acquired taste. I like it." I was not convinced. I will consume most anything. I love to eat, drink, and cook. I will eat almost anything that is prepared and put in front of me, as I know and appreciate the hard work that goes into the preparation, even if it's just a can of beans, I appreciate not having to open the damn can myself. I'm actually the only person in existence who enjoys airplane and hospital food. I will not, however, eat fois gras. I find it disgusting. I don't get the allure. That was the only thing on my list of dislikes. Until now. I am adding poop wine to my list.

Call me uncouth. Call me sheltered. Call me unwordly. Call me low-class. But do not call me the next time you are going to some fancy-pants wine-tasting where they serve wine that tastes like shit on purpose. I was not raised in a barn, nor would I like to taste one, thank you very much.