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.

So when I lived in Spain there was this store I loved called Desigual. They had all that cool stuff that was kind of off beat and perfect for pretending to be European and then when people commented on where you got that great skirt you could say, “Oh, in Spain” and be one of those obnoxious people who talk about their trips to Europe all the live long day.

While in NY a few weeks ago I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I saw a Desigual right there in SoHo. “Joy!”, I thought, “I will go in there and see what they’ve got”. I figured a skirt would be nice so a skirt I purchased and tra la la’d my way to dinner.

I finally wore the skirt on July 4th. It was cool and abstract and something you couldn’t find just anywhere. There was no reason to try to understand the design because It just is. That’s art. Alana thought it was cute. She even said so. And I was like thanks, you’re cute too. Nothing makes you feel good like a skirt that’s fun when you’re normally wandering around in the same jersey knit dresses as every other Suburbanite.

On Wednesday I was looking for something other than a dress for work and figured Hey! My awesomely fantastic skirt will do! I was all excited. I sauntered into thinking nothing of it. I was in a good mood. I looked good. I felt all bad ass and shit.

I even went to my mother’s side of the office to chat up with a coworker when my mother came around the corner.

“Cute skirt”

“thanks! I got it from this Spanish store I found in SoHo!”

“Wait, what’s that on it?”

“…” I look down. “Nothing. I don’t even know”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate for work”

“What?”

“That would be perfect for outside of the office or on Martha’s Vineyard but not in the office”

“Why???” I asked both perplexed and incredulous. Why is that woman always trying to harsh my buzz?

“Heather, that’s a little too risque”

“WHAT?”

I go into my mother’s office.

“Don’t you see that? That the people on your skirt are anatomically correct?”

I look down at my skirt. I look closer. I can feel my entire face burning up.

“Do you see the penis?”

“Oh shit!”

“Do you see the breasts?”

“OH SHIT!”

My mother laughs hysterically at how cute an naive I am to not have noticed that there is a very graphic love scene being portrayed on my outfit.

I keep saying “OH SHIT” and she keeps laughing.

I run out of her office and call Alana to say, “Hey, ummm, did you notice anything odd about my skirt the other day?”

“No, why? Was it on backwards”

“THERE ARE BOOBS AND A DICK ON MY SKIRT”

“Oh, I thought it was just cool and abstract”

So did I.

(Click on the photos so you can see exactly where everything is placed)

I called Susan to be like “HOLY FUCKING SHIT THERE’S PORN ON MY SKIRT”

“You should wear it at BlogHer” she replied after snorting and doing that laughing so hard it’s silent routine

“Oh yes”

“I can be like, ‘One of my friends has porn on her skirt, the other has seven kids. Which one freaks you out more?’

If you’re looking for me on Thursday I’ll be the one going around saying check out the boobs I’ve got going on below my waist.

I took a sick day on Friday because things south of the border were a little unpleasant. I invite you to use your imagination on that one but if you require more of an explanation let’s just say that I had a good old fashioned colon cleansing brought on by reintroducing meat into my diet.

Having left a housing form for a conference out on my desk at work – with my credit card information in big, bold letters, I went to the office briefly and stopped by my mother’s office to finalize Mothers Day plans. The plans centered around where exactly to score some mac and cheese; Avenue A or Hattie’s. When your decision of where to get mac and cheese is is the biggest decision you have to make then you should consider yourself very lucky. Also plan on working out your core for an hour to maximize space and override calorie consumption.

When I told my mother I took a sick day and gave her that pitiful, take care of me mommy, look she waved her hand in the air to signal me to cease with the speaking. “I hate hearing that”.

“Hearing what…?”

“I hate hearing that you’ve taken a sick day.” She winces and puts her hands on her ears. The pain on her face reads UNBEARABLE.

“You know, I used to take sick days all the time and you never knew and now I take ONE and it KIIIIILLS you inside.”

“Heather Lynn” she says it in one giant exhale. “Just because we have those days doesn’t mean we need to use them all.”

“Then what are they for…?”

“You’re supposed to saaaave those days! For an emergency!”

“…”

“FOR MATERNITY LEAVE!”

I feel like as the older I get the more this bears repeating: I am not pregnant. I have no intention of getting pregnant anytime soon and pretty soon I’m going to have this cross-stitched on a t-shirt along with a photo of my empty uterus.

But that’s just the type of mother I have. I’m in no way prepared to explore the depths of sadness the past few months have brought to her or to me for that matter. But I am prepared to look at what others would see as the superficial; the tiny motherly things. Like worrying about my maternity leave in a decade and knowing just when to call someone an asshole and who exactly to fuck off. She’s not into tears or hugs or public displays of affection except if I ask for it first. But is the same woman who threatened to bang down a door because I wouldn’t speak to her.

There comes this point  and there will be no trumpets or fanfare but it will come and you, being the child, won’t know that it’s there. But there’s that moment when your parents imperfections and annoyances turn them infallible to…well…not.

And don’t tell my mother this but I like her so much better as the latter. As the imperfect. As the not.

January has been a bitch. Correction, I have been January’s bitch and feel free to insert any insinuation of bending over and grabbing one’s ankles. That’s how January has been to me and I don’t think that January knows the meaning of the word ‘gentle’. Or ‘lubrication’ for that matter.

In the middle of putting on my earrings this morning my mother called and then texted. With one earring in and only one sock in sight, she informed me that my grandmother – her mother – is dying. “She’s taken a turn for the worse”, were the exact words. Phrasing like that makes me think that we’re trapped in Ma and Pa Ingalls kitchen while Mary battles scarlet fever. But there I was half dressed and discombobulated when my lip started to tremble and again…the tears.

Though at least it was something tangible as opposed to the tears of yore that were due to a dip in the bipolar spectrum. This time there was something I could put my finger on; the possible death of a grandparent which inevitably tosses me in the murky water of contemplating mortality. That of my parents and then of my mother’s sister. My mother’s sister who was reading “Peaceful Dying” on Christmas Eve. When I brought the choice of literature up to my mother she answered matter of factly, “Well she’s dying, Heather.”

She’s a stoic one, my mother. While I have to allow every feeling in, circulate, process and then dispel in a very elaborate way she seems to just take things as they are. These things happen she says and she tells me that I should feel lucky to have had grandparents for as long as I did. It’s just words and doesn’t mask that feeling of heartbreak which thrusts every memory so that it presses against my forehead. It gives me a headache to know that she is hurting; her sister is dying, her mother is dying and she still needs to take care of me.

A little over a month ago my older brothers’ mother died. It was unfathomable that their mother died and yet they were ok. Able to walk and talk and function. When I called our father he said that very soon we would go over what to do in the event of his death. And it made me angry – this all makes me so angry – how matter of fact both of my parents can be. It makes me feel like maybe I’m not theirs because of how deeply I feel. But even more, I’m just livid that it happens; that our parents will leave and no one tells you that the mere thought will make your heart tighten and ache and the pain will radiate to every limb but all you can do is cry.

There are two people in my life who I like to refer to as Dumb and Dumber. For awhile it was Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb until someone pointed out to me that their amount of stupidity, ignorance and overdramatic nature have thrust them into a category of Dumbness never seen before in life. So Dumb and Dumber it is.

The other day Dumb and Dumber pissed me off and became the bane of my existence as they are wont to do. They riled me up and made me feel poorly about myself and current lot in life thus sending me into a tailspin of weepiness and head banging against any and all hard surfaces. When I went to my mother – with a distraught look and furrowed brow and the remnants of tears in my eyes – she shrugged me off. And agreed with the naysayers at a time when I all I wanted was for her to be understanding and pat me on the back and I don’t know BE MATERNAL and she was anything but.

I walked into my office where she followed me and then tried to be maternal and it was too late and so she did the old bait and switch where she turned into my fucking boss then went back to being maternal and tried to tell me that the reason for my woe had something to do with my age and because I’m so YOUNG and so I told her to get out of my office and she tried to back track but I was too busy googling ‘dead bolts’ for my office door therefore distracted from my “boss’” mixed looks of death and remorse.

I was offended and had every right to be. I wanted for my mother to be understanding and helpful and instead of being soothing and drying off my tears (because, I’m 2.5 not 25) she made everything so much more worse. The one time that we’re actually in the office and I need for her to be my mommy she is the opposite. But let’s say if I wasn’t wearing a slip or she didn’t like my hair: FULL ON MOMMY-MODE. And the keeping track is becoming exhausting.

So exhausted was I and full of rage that I decided that since I’d rather have my wisdom teeth taken out without Novocain than spend holidays with coworkers I found less than stellar. I put her on that list and decided that instead of enjoying stuffing with my family I would rather order sushi and reorganize my Netflix Queue.

Petulance! That’ll show her!

I feel like the icing on the cake of punishment for not being maternal was by calling her out on it. And after that brief moment of satisfaction that often comes from being a straight up bitch to someone who is well aware that they were treading water in the deep end of wrong, well it passed.

She sent me a text hours later that said: “Now you know it all: There’s no tooth fairy, Easter bunny or Santa Claus and mothers aren’t perfect but we love you the moon and the stars.”

It erased the satisfaction knowing that my mother was upset for upsetting me when I wanted her to be my mother and she couldn’t be just my mother for five seconds.

On the way home that day, I spoke to my Aunt Rachel who told me a positively comical story of my mother’s reaction when Rachel told her that she had broken up with her long time boyfriend. It was a classic reaction from my mother who doesn’t always say the right thing at the right time and after the anger dissipates you always know that despite her lack of filter that she always means well. Rachel told me that I’m learning a very important lesson that parents aren’t perfect. Imagine that! Mothers who have produced fruit from their womb, who have nursed us back to health, more often than not have the perfect answer to most everything and know what their children want before they ask for it…they aren’t perfect. They make mistakes and piss off their children just as their children have pissed them off. They say the wrong things and make their adult first born child cry and feel shitty and sometimes they don’t think before they speak. They’re just people. The thing is that ‘it’ comes from this deep place of fear and hope and always feeling like their parenting abilities will never be perfect. A well of self doubt and questioning even at a time when one – a non parent of course – would like to believe that their parenting should be over. It never is. It’s that fear that makes me wonder why anyone would want to endure such pain that comes with having children of their own. Possibly because it’s this beautiful mix of the purest forms of joy and pain that anyone can experience but these parents of ours are just people coming face to face with the full force of these emotions reaching the tip of every nerve of their body.

They’re just people. The greatest people. Full of mistakes and never able to be perfect even though that’s always what they will try to do to make their children as happy as they possibly can. It’s moments like this when I wonder if I will ever be able to do it or want to do it. I just don’t know if my being as human and fallible as I am will ever be able to endure such torture. Though I guess, as people, all we can do is try.

A few important lessons I’ve learned over the last several weeks:

• Flirt shamelessly but be discreet
• Shapewear might make you feel as if you’re extremities are lifeless due to lack of blood flow BUT it’s your friend
• Purchase clothes for the size you are now not the size you hope to be once Jillian Michaels is done kicking your ass
• Baby-sitting is the best form of birth control ever
• Though you may be full of envy and jealousy, just be happy on the outside. It will make you feel better to let your friends know that their happiness is far better than your own stupidity.
• Some people are perpetually grumpy (and fuck ups). It’s their problem. Never make it yours.
• When in doubt, leave it out.
• Wear a slip
• Use primer before make up
• Less talk. More action
• Think less. Write more.

That I was dressed by a woman who now walks to the other side of the floor at work just to see and critique what I am wearing is hilarious. Like you put me in this shit and now you’re going to second guess my choice in footwear? God, I hope this was outfit was a joke. And why yes, I do look pissed. Possibly because I am wearing a flowery dress (sans pockets of course) and a black derby hat. You’d be pissed too!

My mother has written a lovely post for you all. You’ll notice the way she writes an entire sentence using proper grammar and without throwing in a casual ‘F’ word for emphasis. She even deals with problems without drinking. And yet I’m 110% sure that we’re related. I get my meager writing ability from my her and my ability to sip wine and swear at the same time from my father. If the latter ever wrote a blog post you’d be like “OOOOOOOH I get it”. Crazy genetics. Enjoy:

It’s the story of my life:  opportunity knocks and I’m too busy to answer the door.  Not this time.  I consider it a gift to be asked to guest post on No Pasa Nada, and I’ve only been on the blog once.  But I’ve heard good things about it, and I am fascinated by the conecept of blogging.  First, why haven’t I been on Heather’s blog?  Because our mother-daughter connection is such that we need our private spaces-even when those spaces are quite public to others.  Second, why the fascination with blogging? I’ve longed to write for a woman’s magazine since Rosie Acevedo’s big sister, Isabel, shows us Glamour magazine when we were in 6ht grade.  Until then, the only magazines I was aware of were My Weekly Reader and Scholastic. My mother occasionally brought home Family Circle from the A&P. If it interested her, it was of little interest to me.  But, Glamour and its do’s and don’ts and makeup tips and fashion photos and ad spreads had Isabel’s approval and my undivided attention.  Blogging has that same effect today. I’m fixated on the possibility of wiring for women without editors or query letters getting in the way.

Enough about that. I’m one of those people who is in constant conversation with myself–perpetually writing and rewriting any given conversation.  Rehearsing for whatever’s next.  I’m convinved that people who talk to themselves are just giving voice to the internal conversation–oblivious to anyone and anything but the dialog playing in their head.  Lately, I’ve been replyaing a conversation about dying.  My middle sister is living with terminal cancer.  On a recent Sunday afternoon, she called to just check in. In the middle of talk about weather and plans for the coming week, she casually dropped that she had recently named me her health care proxy and she was told she should share with me what medical procedures she would and wouldn’t want toward the end of her life.  On a sunny afternoon, in front of a picture window, I listend to her as she, with the same matter-of-factness that my son give me his weekly grocery list, told me how she wanted to die.  And just as casually as the conversation had begun, it was over and we were on to talking about who was coming in for my son’s upcoming graduation.  I put down the phone and immediately began replaying that conversation.  Shouldn’t a conversation of such siginificance have come with warning?  Shouldn’t there have been tears? Shouldn’t we have been in the same room? Shouldn’t I have said something more profound than “I’m listening,” “I hear you,” “I understand.”? Or, is this really how such conversations are meant to happen? Casually, naturally, mater-of-factly. Life does go on.

This is why blogging fascinates me. I sat down to write about stolen kisses. What’s come out is totally unexpected. Thank you, Heather. This is the greatest gift. Love you the moon and the stars.

And my friend Susan from Oklahoma is no longer my friend Susan from Oklahoma. She’s now that woman who dared to remotely think about reading the blog my mother will never ever start so long as I live. So help me God. Amen.

Several years ago I babysat for the world’s most difficult toddler. She was fine during the 10 months prior but once she turned one she was desperate for her mother and her mother was desperate for 40 minutes without a toddler wrapped around her neck and so she would go out and leave me with a child who screamed bloody murder for a solid five minutes. The girl is almost six now and hates when her mother comes home and I have to leave. I remind her of that really great year when she was clingy and wanted nothing more than to duct tape her body to her mother’s forehead and once gave herself a bloody nose because of all the screaming she looked at me and said “Well, I NEVER!” while appalled by such behavior. So I had her yell at me in my right ear and she was all shocked when I claimed I couldn’t hear anything because she had burst that ear drum many years ago with all the fucking screaming.

Though I am not necessarily screaming at the top of my lungs each day I have reverted back to being clingy to my parents, particularly my mother. I can actually appreciate the sentiment of a toddler because sometimes we all need a little loving from our mommies. But at 24, it’s a little awkward to walk up to my mother in the bathroom at work or the kitchen or while she is mid-conversation with my boss and then rest my head in her armpit. Or perhaps nuzzle her chin. Awkward because there are others around and because I find it rather uncomfortable being a good three inches taller. Yesterday I went into her office twice (unheard of) once to shoot the shit because we hadn’t seen each other in a whole 12 hours. The second time she was genuinely happy to see me and gave me a little pat on the cheek. Each time I had to fight the urge to yell out Mommy! Hold me!

I’m thinking the clinginess is a manifestation of the difficulties of the last several months. Nothing that needs detailing right this moment but hard nonetheless and even harder to not analyze and obsess about. I’m also thinking that the clinginess is what led me to spend Wednesday evening with 489 mothers. 489 mothers, people, and there I was praying I didn’t get pregnant by association. What? You didn’t know you could catch that by breathing? It really was lovely and the thing about mothers is that they don’t stop mothering. They can’t help but love everyone and be protective and yell at you for texting while driving. They’re programmed to care. It was wonderful and full of conversation that actually had nothing to do with children but all about love, puppies and how to get sparkles out of rainbows.

I am leaving for Manhattan in a few hours to go spend more time with several more friends. The other day a friend of mine told me that I could use a little “normal” to cling to. Not that I can actually define “normal” but now I understand the reversion of wanting, nay, needing a parent around at all times; I want something I am confident in and something really good to hold onto that makes me feel a little like me again. So I am going to go away and get drunk for three days, stop at Tiffany, walk around Central Park, eat cupcakes, drink mimosas for breakfast, try not to puke and buy something cute from Coach. See? Normal.