My descent into fogydom

January 31, 2010 | Filed under: La Madre

“Age is an issue of mind over matter.  If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.”  ~Mark Twain

First of all, quick story: I’m sitting in my office Friday afternoon when Peg pops in to tell me that she’s written something to guest post. Actually let me back up further than that to the morning when I was at the Opthamologist. A coworker texted me to tell me how ‘cute’ my mother looked that day. I was half blind due to dilated pupils so I was like, uh, sure. I got into work later and my mother stops by. There she is with skinny jeans tucked into boots and a scarf artfully draped around her neck in such a way that even Susan would be jealous. I poo-poo’d her away so I could do work. She left and I wondered where she got that sweater. Also, how could I go about taking that sweater off her hands. Such is the relationship between mother and daughter.

“OMG what are you doing!” (OMG what ru doin)

“Looking up the phone number you want. Why are you yelling?”

“Yeah, but you’re using a phonebook. Nobody uses a phone book anymore.”

So went the recent exchange between my 20-something daughter and me.

Give me a shout out if you’re a parent who never thought you’d be hearing these words directed at you: nobody (FILL IN THE BLANK) anymore.

Wait; nobody says “give me a shout out” anymore. What I meant to say was, give me a holla. Wait; don’t think that means the same as give me a shout out.

What I really meant to say was raise your hand if you feel me…

Enough of this drivel. It struck me like a lightning bolt—or a static shock when I touch the television after walking across the floor in my stocking feet—I might be a fogy.

But, when did it happen?

I’m cool. I’m not my mother’s 54. No babushka tied under my chin. I don’t wear men’s white socks with black lace-up walking shoes. I don’t even own a housecoat, let alone a duster.

I know how to text. I drive a Jeep. Damn it, I wear Uggs with my slim leg jeans tucked in. I am not a fogy.

Yes, I still have a land line. I prefer to look up words in my hardcover dictionary. I can do math in my head. I wear reading glasses, but only the coolest eyebobs* for me. I am not a fogy.

So I groan a little when I stand up after sitting for a long time. I wait a bit to make sure my knees are ready to move with the rest of me. I forget your name, but remember your face. Yes, that’s why I’ve taken to saying ‘hey, girl’ and ‘hi, handsome,’ but you never hear me calling anyone ‘hon’. And, occasionally the wrong word pops out of my mouth—but you know what I meant to say. Isn’t that why we have words like doohickey, whatchamacallit and thingamajig? All probably invented by someone over 50 …Oh yeah and my mind strays…and my hair is gray…and I start conversations with my kids’ friends with, “I remember when you were born…”

I’ve never followed anyone on Twitter, and I have no friends on Facebook because I’ve never been on Facebook. I no longer threaten to quit my job, but to retire. And Eileen Fisher is my favorite designer!

OMG, I really am a fogy! But I’ll be damned if I let someone call me old.

*For the record, I own eyebobs as well. And I got the idea from her. Peg 987, HB -45. Well played, mom. Well played.

Hot Mess

January 19, 2010 | Filed under: Humdrum

“My life has a superb cast but I can’t figure out the plot.”  ~Ashleigh Brilliant

Things have been a little light here lately, no? Perhaps it’s the early darkness that causes me to retreat to my bed with episodes of Arrested Development by my side at 5:30 PM. Also, I have recently discovered some fantastic technology wherein I can order sushi from under the covers. But it begs the question: If I can get lo mein, eel rolls, pizza and a bucket of chicken delivered to my front door at the ready, why cannot I not get a nice bottle of Malbec by my bed in 15 minutes or less? Hmm? Anyone want to develop that app?

I have had my ass kicked lately. Not in a horribly dramatic or traumatizing way but I will give you this tale: One day I phoned my mother from my office to her office at 7 PM. She asked why I was still there and I said that I was working, of course. Conference-calling to be specific. Then I did a heavy sigh and told her that I got it. I totally get IT and so much of my childhood. Thought it was less of a realization and more of a God Bless You! You, my friend, are up for Saint Hood! I was in awe that she went to work every fucking day and then came home to us and dealt with our bullshit every fucking night. This isn’t a knock on our profession it’s just that work – any work – takes its toll. Children take their toll. The combination of the two forces is like some Professor X vs. Magneto type shit and the world falls off its axis. The end. I don’t know how she did it and will not fully comprehend until I am there but at this moment in time, I’m 99.9% sure that my mother carefully hid her Xanax prescription for like 18 years.

So my ass has been kicked and hopefully the end of January will roll around and I will see visions of Houston, New Orleans and Austin dancing in my head. I can practically hear Susan saying “I’m so glad you’re here” and Karen being Karen and when I’m running those 13.1 miles with Danielle and she’s telling me that no, I will not die right here in this street this way so keep going. And the next day I’ll eat beignets and be all, hey, that wasn’t so bad. Let’s do that again.

It always happens that way.

Oh look at her with one of her ‘problems’ again…

January 16, 2010 | Filed under: Humdrum

“Some persons are very decisive when it comes to avoiding decisions.”  ~Brendan Francis

Don’t think that I didn’t exaggerate and roll my eyes when putting those air quotes around ‘problem’. Oops, I did it again. Also don’t think that now isn’t really the time for me to be coming to the Internet with a ‘problem’ that isn’t so much a problem as it is a nuisance because there was an earthquake several days ago. And ever since then I’ve been a weepy mess and then my Aunt Flo came to visit and I thought that would make me feel better alas, not. Still a weepy mess who stares at CNN.com for hours on end mouthing ‘I don’t understand…’

But hypothetically speaking; let’s say that I needed an item of furniture. I looked around for a bit and bought this item of furniture. In fact I’m sitting here next to a glass of of wine typing away on this piece of furniture. Now let’s say that while looking for something else recently, I stumbled upon a very similar item to what I already have but this borders on perfect. And let’s say that I saw this item and was all, ‘Holy Mother of Jesus! Why didn’t I find this earlier!’ And then I smacked myself in the head because DOH. So! If you were me would you buy the even better piece of furniture that really is absolutely perfect? Or would you just be a suffering fool and let the other item go. Realizing that this is a very good lesson for all future purchases?

And now back to your regularly scheduled real problems of the heart breaking sort.

Let’s call this a comeback

January 1, 2010 | Filed under: Grace in Small Things, The year on the edge

“An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in.  A pessimist stays up to make sure the old year leaves.”  ~Bill Vaughan

I was in the middle of some long ass piece of wistful deep hearted writing about the last 10 years. About how I used to be 16 and now I’m 26 and holy shit that’s a mighty jump. It was going to be about how much has happened and the sheer balls and heartache and abject fear that went into it all. How everything happens for a reason and it would be tied up in a neat little bow with some lesson at the end. Something about how much I’ve learned and that while there were some absolutely horrific times where I honestly thought that death was imminent and the FEAR, the piss yourself fear, but despite all that, it wasn’t that bad.

In the end I scrapped all of that because we have all been down that road. You don’t need me to throw my two cents into the ring just fill up some dead air. You don’t need me saying that when things were bad they were really bad but when things were good, they were really good. I sound like some god damn therapist trying to psychoanalyze you and your relationship woes. It happened. Shit happened. And while I can easily recount terrorism and snipers and death and heartbreak; I can also tell you all about how so many things went according to plan, and then some, and I loved with a fierceness and was loved with a fierceness.

Nothing was perfect but is it ever? Things could always be better. I want to be better. And that’s all that really matters.

This Thanksgiving Post Goes Out to Ms. Ali Martell

December 4, 2009 | Filed under: Grace in Small Things

“I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.”  ~William Shakespeare

Thanksgiving didn’t go as planned. But before I left Ali’s house on Sunday, her mother looked at me with shock that I was leaving. That I had to leave because Enterprise might want their car back and because I enjoy being employed. But she had other plans “You’re going to miss ice skating!” “It will be too crowded!” “I think you should just stay until Monday” She protested. Then sent me off with homemade peanut butter cups and a smooch.

I’m rarely thankful. For all that I have – and the BS that is lopped on top – I never just sigh and say ‘thanks’. In hindsight I should have just hoped for the most exquisite, warm and inviting Thanksgiving ever. I should have hoped for a lovely friend and her family to wrap their arms around me and treat me like one of their own. I should have hoped for laughing so hard that my cheeks hurt and cuddly babies and a gorgeous eight year old who hugged my waist and was genuinely happy that I came.

It didn’t go perfectly as planned but it exceeded all of my expectations. So yeah, I’m thankful.

*There are no photos because I was too busy raiding the wine fridge and the stuffing and a random box of Godiva chocolates and Chick-fil-a.