Julie Asks – Am I an Adult Yet?

Having been barraged with requests that I start blogging again and in an attempt to get back in the groove, I give you my ramblin’ for this, the close of 2011. (Note: I initially typed 2010 and thought nothing of it.  Then I realized we are deep into 2011.  Yeah…it has been that kind of year.)

1. Every family should have at least one therapist on the payroll.  We have three. (See above)

2. Once you get past the initial nausea upon noticing the first scraggly hairs that show up under your teenaged son’s armpits and under his nose it isn’t so bad.

3. Parent/teacher conferences must frustrate the crap out of the teachers who really cannot  say what they really want to say about your really challenging kid.

4. Despite the extreme patience and dumbing down of language for me by the folks at Blue Cross/Blue Shield, I still don’t understand why they do and don’t pay for things.

5. Droids beat Blackberries hands down.  I love my Droid and experienced deep, intense fear when I dropped it in the toilet.

6. Only successful concoction for assuaging agonizing back pain: Valium, Vicodin and vodka.  At the same time.

7. No matter how hard I try, I am simply incapable of planning a week’s worth of dinner ahead of time.  I am good for three nights and then all bets are off.

8. I would give up food before I would give up my cleaning lady.

9. I secretly hope that someday I will win The Publisher’s Clearinghouse.  It might behoove me, then, to fill out the forms next time they arrive.

10. Today George accidentally called a tambourine a tangerine.

11. A friend from high school who was a year behind me told me that when we were in school the boys in his class had voted me the best looking in my class.  He waited 25 years to tell me that why??

12. I own north of a dozen pair of jeans, yet there is one pair which serves as my metric for when I have to lay off the french fries.  I am happily wearing them right now.

13. Despite my having valiantly tried to quit, I need a Diet Coke every day.  Preferably from the fountain.  Preferably from McDonald’s.  Preferably the drive-thru.

14. My methodology for choosing a book: take one I’ve read and liked, look at the back cover for “praise from other authors” which lists their works, then find those books and take them all out of the library.  Invariably one is a keeper.

15. That being said, I disliked “The Help”.  Well, I shouldn’t say that I disliked it because that would suggest that I read the whole thing.  Which I didn’t.  Couldn’t.  Dislike.

16. And speaking of dislike, can someone give me a halfway decent reason that there is no “dislike” button on Facebook?  A day hardly goes by that I don’t long for one.  And for one that just says, “ass.”

17. Confession: I taped the final two weeks of “Live With Regis and Kelly” and, yup, I cried on his last day.  (Which is more than he did.)  He got me through many long mornings when I was recovering from my three, yes, three, back surgeries last winter.

18. I believe that numbers mean something.  Harrison’s birthday is November 27.  Nearly every day I either look at the clock at 11:27 and/or notice something with 1127.  Having said that, I will end on this, number 18…(Chai or good luck)

(Which I need a lot of these days…)

For the first time in more years than I care to acknowledge (okay, seven) I have both children home for the summer.  Harrison officially tired of his overnight camp halfway through last summer.  After earning his Life Guard certification earlier this summer he is now doing, um, not much of anything. George is in an academic program from 9-12 noon everyday.  That is it.   As I am sure you can imagine, this set up has its pros and cons, each of which I have delineated below.

1. Babysitting

The good: I have it pretty well built in and it is “free”.  (If you don’t count the cost of raising Harrison, the snarky response to “are you able to babysit” which we all know really means, “you are babysitting” and the inevitable phone call from George complaining about the babysitter.  See “the ugly”)

The bad:  I have to compete with Harrison’s nocturnal tendencies (which translate to 12 noon wake up times) as well as his afternoon and evening social calendar.

The ugly: Harrison is George’s last choice as a babysitter.

2. Expense

The good: No camp = no camp dues.  Last year, that total was nearly $10K.  (Really, $10K and Harrison’s camp, at least, was among the cheapest around.  Georgie’s not so much, but, still, $10K!  Really!?!?). 

The bad: Any monies we’d have spent on camp seem to either be otherwise spoken for or AWOL.

The ugly: It’ll suck next summer if we have to chalk up $10K again.

3. Privacy

The good: Less pressure in the day = calmer kids = self entertaining.

The bad: No children are exhausted enough from the day to go to bed before 10 pm (the G man) and 2 am (the H man)

The ugly: See “the bad”

4. Communication

The good: Children are either with me or just a call or text away.  Plus, we don’t have to scribe clever, information filled letters when, in reality, there is nothing going on worth writing about.  (C’mon, you all know that those letters are hell on earth.  Seriously, what are you doing here that can possibly be of any interest to a kid at camp?)

The bad: Children are either with me or just a call or text away. 

The ugly: See “the good”and, for that matter, “the bad”.  Add: all the time. Every day.

5. Food shopping

The good: Everyone can have what they want, pretty much when they want.

The bad: Everyone seems to exercise that option.

The ugly: I am the only one who can (and will) go to one of the five different markets which seem necessary to satisfy everyone’s desires.  But I’m not bitter.  Or resentful.

6. Television Viewing

The good: We have four televisions.

The bad: Only three are hi-def, only two have DVR and only one seems available to me.  That one happens to be in my bedroom which is fine if I am readying for bed, but not so much at 8pm when I don’t want to be in bed but wind up there and then fall asleep too early so I wake up too early the next morning.   It is just a vicious cycle.  (I know, I know….a good solution would be to read a friggin’ book!)

The ugly: If it were up to all the guys in the house there would be four stations: The Military Channel, The History Channel, Nickelodeon and Disney.  My station of choice, (duh, Bravo) doesn’t rank among my housemates.  (Although, George will watch “Cake Boss” with me anytime!)

7. Personal Maintenance

The good: I manage to get to the gym most mornings.  My fingers and toes are being appropriately maintained as is my mental health (sort of).  Admittedly my haircut and color was about two weeks later than it should have been, but it is all good now.

The bad: With the exception of Tuesdays, when I have a “real” babysitter (all due respect to Harrison), if I don’t get everything done between 9 and 11:30, I’m outta luck.  And on Tuesdays, I am out $60.

The ugly: Okay, I was really closer to a month behind on the hair.  Trust me, it was ugly.

8. Marriage

The good: With the built-in babysitting (sort of) and the less pressured children, the house is less pressured.  (It is all relative, though, as my house’s “less pressured” is equivalent to the most hellish day imaginable at other (most) homes.) 

The bad: There is an intense and ongoing battle over who is more exhausted at the end of the day: he with the paying job or she with the children all day, every day.

The ugly: What, “the bad” wasn’t enough for you?

9. The House

The good: It has central air. 

The bad: It is completely and utterly impossible to keep neat.  The place is constantly trashed.  George, in particular, insists on leaving throw blankets everywhere (see “the good”).  He assumes the position in front of one of his preferred stations (hint: it is neither Military nor History), then stands up leaving them wherever they fall.  Repeatedly.  Despite being asked (in every tone imaginable) not to.

The ugly: My cleaning folks come every other week.

10. Emotional Health

The good: Lots and lots and lots (and lots) of quality time together.  (There is some quality even if the t.v. happens to be on.  Right?) That and all those requiring therapy are able to find the time to have it.

The bad: See “the good”. (Including the therapy part)

The ugly: So much together time is certainly adding to the “stuff to talk to the therapist about” pile.

o onward I go in the summer of 2010.  It, like the winter, spring and fall has its share of the good, the bad and the ugly.  That said, I am keenly aware that it is only July.

And to those of you (and your numbers are many) who have at least one (if not two or three) children away for the summer (or any portion of it)?  Please bite me.

On this warm, sunny, school-should-be-out-but-isn’t-yet day, I did something out of the ordinary and went for an afternoon iced coffee at my neighborhood Starbucks.  (By out of the ordinary I am referring not to the iced coffee itself, rather that I am partial to the McDonald’s version thereby making it my usual stop and by neighborhood I mean three minutes by foot from my front door.)  Upon arrival I took my spot in line and vaguely noticed  one woman directly ahead of me (with the perfect summer handbag)and, in front of her, three men, all the same height – one bald, one curly and, um, thinning, and the closest to the counter, a full head of wavy hair.  Among the din of the cafe were two Chinese men chatting in their native tongue, the spirited arrival of a woman who appeared to be a great-aunt (as opposed to a grandmother) kvelling over the young mother and her children who had, apparently, grown “like wildflowers” since the last time she’d seen them and the familiar sounds of a person on a cell phone.  The latter was, truthfully, the last sound to register on my radar.  Interestingly, it would turn out to be the crux of this story.

The line was not moving swiftly, but it didn’t strike me as particulary slow, either.  Not so, however, for the baby’s-bottom -bald, wide-necked gentleman with the tightly groomed goatee who, seemingly inexplicably, began barking at the “skinny-ass” fellow (which is how he would later describe himself) dropping F bombs left and right and proving that sometimes you can indeed judge a book by it’s cover.  Stuck between the two happened to be my neighbor, Jimmy who, I think it is fair to say, is a Starbuck’s regular.  I watched as he stayed in position without so much as turning his head to see what was happening in his left ear.  (It was an impressive showing, actually.)  At this point, which should come as no surprise, I was straining to hear what exactly the ire was over and was waiting, excitedly, to see what was going to happen.  “Skinny ass”, in an embarassing (for him) show of bravado, abruptly snapped his cell phone shut (ahh, the culprit!), flew around and literally did a self chest thump and, if I recall correctly, vigorously smashed the fist of his left hand into the palm of his right muttering something about “bringing it on”.  Jimmy, who was stuck between the two, um, gentlemen, continued to wait patiently in line wondering, I have to believe, what was happening around him.

The androgynous barista asked mustache man to “chill” while the only other person behind the counter collected his order in the hopes of getting him the hell out of the store.  Interestingly, he requested a hot drink of some kind, with an ice-cube in it (to cool things down?) and finished his order with a pleasant thank you.  Hmmm. 

The line proceeded to dwindle and all our orders were filled without incident.  (I secretly hoped they would comp all the drinks as a way of apologizing for the unpleasant experience.  Oh, who am I kidding, I love shit like this!) Jimmy, still ahead of me on the queue, turned to leave with his iced latte and I, of course (what are you, new to my blog?) inquired as to what salaciousness I had missed.  With a shrug of his shoulders he said something about someone having a bad day . (Yeah, actually I did have a bad day, but how did he know.  Oh, wait, this isn’t about me.  Damn.)

With things back to normal I added the requisite milk to my too bitter coffee (which is why I prefer the more pedestrian version found at McDonald’s) and was standing directly next to skinny-ass guy.  I resisted the urge (this was hard for me) to delve deeper into what had happened and kept my focus on the milk container which has, on more than one occasion, emptied its entire contents into my coffee cup before I could stop it.  So it was over.  Not so fast…

I walked outside with my perfectly appointed iced coffee and heard the unmistakable sound of mustache man, clearly in someone’s face.  Again.  Imagine my excitement when I saw that they men had carried their spat onto the sidewalk.  Still in one another’s faces with a lot of finger wagging and f-bombing I planted myself right there to have a listen.  Apparently, skinny-ass man was on the phone when he stepped up to the counter to place his order.  The androgynous barista was trying to confirm the order (which was, I gather, more complicated than a cup of black coffee) but was unable to get his attention as he was involved in whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying.  That was more than mustache man could bear so he not-so-gently requested that he hang up the f-ing phone.  (That is where the embarrassing chest thumping came in).  As they were rehashing and looked to be prepared to re-enact the offenses of the afternoon skinny-ass guy seemed to soften and offer up his point of view. He expressed his dismay at mustache man having gotten so angry despite his having hung up immediately upon becoming aware he was holding up the line.  (I know, one could argue that it should have been obvious that he was holding up the line, but I kind of felt for him.  Keep reading…)  As the two men continued to invade one another’s personal space and draw attention to the themselves on the sidewalk, skinny-ass guy said, “look, we’re all struggling, we all have stuff on our mind, we’re all tired from all the crap of life and I’m just a skinny ass guy trying to survive” and, much to my surprise, mustache man’s entire bulk softened, he placed his tremendous hand on his opponent’s shoulder and said, “it’s cool”.

I turned around and headed home when I saw them walking, side by side, bantering gently to one another and parting ways with a gentleman’s handshake.  I want whatever they are drinking.

p.s. For those who I know are wondering, I certainly did ask the woman where she got her bag.   Might just pick one up…

When I was about six years old, my mother, in desperation, took me to a real hairdresser for the first time.  (I have no recollection as to where I went for the previous five years of my life but can only assume, based upon pictures, that I tagged along with my older brothers. That probably explains a lot…)The morning ritual of her trying to pull (or rip as the case may be) a brush through my long, thick, heavy, curly hair and my screaming in response drove her to the edge.  She simply couldn’t take it one more day.  (I can relate to this in its most general form: kid doing something so aggravating every day which made you, as a mother, consider, in a far more detailed way than you may care to acknowledge, homicide, suicide, heavy drinking or simply running away. ) Under the auspices of a special treat, we went to The Looking Glass – a hair salon in downtown Needham which, in the eyes of this little girl, was hitting the big time.  Blissfully unaware of what was in store, I was over the moon with anticipation. 

From the moment we entered the salon I was the center of attention.  With a head of hair which was the envy of most of the  women getting their color and permanent waves (yeah, I know now that most of those “women” were probably younger than I am now) along with my sparkly blue eyes (they are still blue, but not so sparkly) I definitely stood out in the crowd.   My mother, despite the secret she was keeping from me, relished the attention and experience, too.  It was her first foray into the world of girly stuff since I have two older brothers who favored the barbershop buzz cut for most of their formative years. 

I was lavished with attention as I was given a smock and escorted back to the sinks.  (To this day I would argue that there is little else as wonderful as having someone else wash, no, scrub, your head and hair.  I personally would find it repulsive to get my hands all wet and soapy only to rub a stranger’s scalp, but fortunately for me, there are people in this world who feel differently. )  Following my introduction to an orgasmic experience (yeah, I like it that much) it was off to the chair.  (Note: I chose  “the chair” quite consciously as I have come to liken it to another well-known chair…the electric chair.  Really…read on.) 

Mario was entranced with my locks.  He could hardly contain his playful touching and twisting of my hair in his hands.  Oohing and aahing at its quantity, quality and texture he looked to my mother for direction.  Had it been up to me, he’d have done nothing more – a simple trim and blowout (no, I didn’t know that expression then.  I sure do now!)  My mother, however, had something else in mind. 

Exasperated by our hair issues of as recently as a few minutes earlier at home, my mother, in what I can only hope were hushed tones, instructed Mario to give me a “Pixie.”  By definition, a Pixie  is a haircut that is styled to be short and close to the head.  That, boys and girls, is a whole lotta wrong.  However, due to my immaturity (I was six, for crying out loud) and naiveness (again, I was six) I had no idea what lay ahead.  Until, that is, I saw a thick, long, curly brown tress drop to the ground.  Followed by another and another and, what’s that?…another!  Suddenly Mario turned into Edward Scissorhands and it was all gone leaving me shorn beyond recognition.  Here’s a picture of what it looked like. Bear in mind, this was grown out and primped for the photographer. 

Sure, I was still insanely cute, but the haircut…not so much. 

And so began the hold my hair would have over me.  Even now.

Fast forward to the present.  Over the years I have sported many different hairstyles: long, short, straight, curly, half  straight/half curly, blonde, brown, reddish (never true red), highlighted, graying (shut up), with bangs, without bangs, full, flat.  You name it, I’ve tried it. I further consider myself a human barometer.  I, or more accurately, my hair, sense humidity hours before it arrives.  An upcoming social event will render me a slave to the forecast to determine how far in advance of said event I will need to wash my hair in anticipation of the weather.  If there is even a suggestion of rain or, perhaps worse, humidity, I have to plan accordingly and pull out my arsenal of product in hopes of being able to be presentable.  To those blessed with thin, straight or fine hair I must sound insane.  To every other (often Jewish) women, the drill, more likely than not, sounds familiar.

A year or two ago, while lamenting on Facebook about the number the weather was doing on my locks (and, therefore, my overall appearance and, well, happiness) my friend Jade extolled the virtues of a Keratin treatment.  Since she is far more cosmopolitan than I, (she’s from NY, after all) it seemed to me just a pipe dream, reserved for the more elite crowd.  Much like the pregnancy phenomenon (you know, the moment you learn you are pregnant you suddenly notice that 90% of the people you see on the street are, too), this Keratin fantasy started to rear its head at every turn.  Upon Jade’s suggestion on Facebook, a bevy of my girlfriends from near (Sharon) and far (Atlanta ) joined in the conversation to assert their admiration.   I, of course, became obsessed.  Until I heard the price.  $450.  I don’t think so.  (Although I am not sure why I reacted as such.  I pay a pretty hefty sum for my cut and color…just not all at one time!)

The fall, winter and early spring are fairly forgiving of my hair issues.  With the exception of the random rainstorm or unseasonal humidity, I can pretty well manage my hair in all months that are not July, August and September.  With visions of Keratin dancing through my head I had not relinquished my desire to have happy hair this summer.  There had to be a better way.

While exiting the gym following my workout one sticky morning, my hair in full fuzz following a particularly strenuous stretch on the elliptical machine, I was chatting with a fellow hairslave.  No surprise, Kertatin and its fantasticness came up.  This gym rat had just purchased it for her daughter as a high school graduation gift and I was filled with, but am not proud to admit, envy.  Damn it, I am a grown woman (shut up) and I want to do this.  And then, as if on cue, my Blackberry beeped at me to announce something of great importance (or not) awaited me.  I mindlessly clicked on it and my world changed.  Having recently signed up with www.buywithme.com (if you don’t belong, join!) my worlds had come together and here it was: Keratin Treatment, Newbury Street salon (to the uninformed or out-of-state – this address is to Boston what Fifth Avenue and Rodeo Drive are to NY and LA, respectively.  Sort of.) for $219.  I’m in.

I raced home with the knowledge (ok, fear) that this, being such a smashing offer, was sure to sell out quickly.  Considering it Kismet, it was perhaps the quickest purchase I’ve ever made.  Upon arrival of the email telling me I had won (well, I hadn’t won, exactly, since I had paid for it, but I felt like a winner!) I immediately called to schedule my life changing appointment.  

That was back in April.  For a variety of reasons (some boring, some logistical and some even more boring) I was unable to have my three-hour treatment until yesterday.  The bulk of the work was done with my back to the mirror.  Donna washed my hair with some special shampoo, rough dried it (read: got it dry, but didn’t style it), globbed on some smelly goop, let it sit for twenty minutes, redried and flat ironed to within an inch of its life.  And then, like a scene out of “Extreme Makeover”, minus the ten plastic surgical procedures (damn!), the chair was slowly and dramatically turned to face the mirror.  This is what I saw:

Some quotes associated with this look” “um, you don’t look like you”, “um, will it always be so straight? and flat?”, “um, it would look good on someone else” and from me: “yeah, thanks, Dad for the face”

I’m not going to lie…my initial reaction was shock.  And fear.  And I put a plea out on Facebook that it was not going to remain this straight and flat once I am allowed to wash it (in three long days which includes no wetting, no sweating, no clipping, ponytailing or tucking behind the ears!).  I have been assured by many that I am going to love it.  I trust these women,but I do not plan to leave the house until Friday when I get to wash it and make it mine.  Assuming it provides all that it promises, I will not have to hunt Mario down and get myself a Pixie.

For the past fifteen years, we have belonged to the same swimming pool.  The pool itself is pretty straightforward – no cool slides or diving-boards, just a large triangle with a smaller square which, in theory, anyway, is the ideal environment for young families.  No country club amenities or attitudes here.  The relatively down to earth membership evolves as the kids get older and new babies are born.  There are several families, like ours, who are nearing the end of their tenure while other families are just getting their feet wet.  It is, if nothing else, familiar, comfortable and very much a community facility. 

Each Memorial Day weekend when the pool marks its opening weekend is a homecoming of sorts — you see folks you haven’t seen since last summer, marvel at how much kids have grown, hear about the now winding down school year, camp plans, new homes, and play a game of catch up.   Some things have changed, others have not.  So it should have come as no surprise when I was on the receiving end of another member’s psychotic episode.

Let’s start back about six years ago.    We were at the same community-type place, only this time we were inside.  It was the middle of the winter and the play area was teeming with toddlers/little kids and their parents, all of whom had been penned up long enough and were in dire need of getting out their yah yahs.  It was a place we, along with many other exhausted parents, frequented.  On one particular day, Georgie, who was two, spit at a little girl.  Disgusting, rude, obnoxious, inappropriate, gross, immature, primal, nasty and embarrassing all come to mind.  It was hardly, however, an egregious sin among the under three year old set, right?  Not according to one psychotic member (he shall, for the entirety of this blog, remain nameless.  Let it be known, however, that should you ask me who it is in person, I will tell you his name, his occupation – he’s a doctor, oops, did I say that out loud? – and where he lives.  In this forum, however, I will exercise extreme discretion.).   No sooner had the spit (and, really, how much spit are we talking about…he was two!) landed than this father was on his feet, in my face, screaming.  Like a raving lunatic.  One would have thought that Georgie had pulled a knife, assumed a choke hold or even struck with a killer wedgie.  The reaction was so over the top, in fact, that I initially didn’t even realize his ire was directed at me!  Once it was clear that his explosion was, in fact, over the spit, I told him to settle down at which point he attacked not only my parenting but my child.  Mess with me, don’t mess with my kid.  From that day forward, there has been no love lost between us.

In all the summers since that day I have seen this gentleman and his darling (not) children and have always taken the high road and ignored him.  When I have found myself in social situations where he is, I have, yes, ignored him.  His daughters are often playing with Georgie in the pool and all is good.  Until yesterday. 

It was opening day at the pool.  A gorgeous late May day, the sun was out, the mood was relaxed and the suits were on.  Soon, the gloves would be off.  I was sitting poolside (Rich had just left to go for a run, leaving me alone with the boys) chatting with a friend when I saw Georgie walk past a girl (whom, I swear, I didn’t recognize) who had hoarded all of the 20 or so noodles from the pool.  As he slid by, he swiped one of the noodles.  Should he have asked first? Sure.  Would it have been the polite thing to do? Sure.  But, he didn’t and the little darling went crazy.  I, still not recognizing her, went over, squatted down to her eye level and nicely (I swear!) asked why he couldn’t have one of the noodles.  I heard a man’s voice slink up from behind saying, “I’ll handle this, Miss.”  and I knew, without even looking, that it was him.  Dr. Psychotic.  The daughter looked past me at him and said, “but daaaaddddy…it’s George!”   At that moment, I will admit, my mama bear claws came out, I stood up, turned to him in all his bald head, yet unnecessarily hairy body, ill-fitting bathing-suited self and said quietly (I swear!), “Seriously, he can’t have a noodle, you ass?”  He responded, in his booming, 6’3″ loudest voice, “fuck you!” for all the pool to hear.  (Did I mention this is a family pool?) All splashing literally stopped.   I shot up, turned back and nearly lost my mind.  I asked (not so nicely) if he was out of his mind.  He barked at me about Georgie having spit on his daughter (six freakin’ years ago! when they were…two!  It is time to move on.  Really.)  and I might have gestured in such a way as to suggest I was considering pushing him into the water.  He said, in that eerily calm voice reserved for the most insane among us, “go ahead, push me in.  I’ll sue you.”  Um, sue me for what?!!?!?  If it hadn’t been clear to me before, it certainly was now.  He is a certifiable psychotic. 

Had there not been so many witnesses, I would have thought that I was the insane one.  I might have convinced myself that I had dreamt the whole thing.  This is a community pool, for chrissake.  We all know one another.  And if we don’t, there is a half a degree of separation at best.  And anyway, who behaves like that?  Oh, yeah, a psychotic does.  And then, as if things were not insane enough, he filed a complaint against me and the new pool manager, just hours into his first season, told me we would need to mediate the situation.  So, it is official.  I am surrounded by psychotic, insane people who first flip over a noodle and then want to mediate over a noodle.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I marked opening weekend at the pool, 2010.  I can harldy wait to see what the rest of the summer holds.

Earlier this week, my therapist and I were discussing what I want to do with my life.  Now that I am officially middle aged, it is high time I get a grip on things and decide what my mark will be.  I often get feedback from this blog (and some of my more humorous Facebook statuses) that I should write a book.  Flattering, but also a bit horrifying.  I have two older (way older and not nearly as good-looking) brothers, both of whom are “real” writers.  I have a sister-in-law (whom I love despite her being much thinner than I am) who has hit the trifecta…published articles, O. Henry Award recipient and recovering television writer (and I’m talking the good stuff: “Newhart”, “Desperate Housewives” and “Doogie Howser”  among others.  Sidebar: if you ever meet her, ask her about sweet Doogie’s virginity!)  Needless to say, those are some impressive resumes.  Enter my fear of failure.

As I uncover this layer of my psyche I am charged by the therapist (people call her Marilyn) to survey three intimates (I opted for five) with the following question (which, I feel I need to point out, I had to transcribe into my Blackberry for fear that I would fail to recall the exact language):

Why would anyone want to read a book I wrote?

I penned an email to the Top Five (who shall remain nameless) posing this very question and got immediate replies from three of them.  I am not going to read into why I haven’t heard from the other two..

Some highlights (cut and pasted from their responses):

• You are (and yes, the timing couldn’t be better seeing as how it’s the opening night) to suburban moms/wives what Carrie Bradshaw was to urban single women. (NOTE: I think that is a compliment, but not sure)
•  You come across as someone who gets it…and is willing to say all that stuff out loud that many of us can’t, won’t or aren’t self-aware enough to admit it (present company excluded).  (NOTE: I love how this person says that I “come across as someone who gets it” as opposed to “you are someone who gets it.”)
• You voice sentiments that a lot of women think but don’t say – like your joy over realizing that Georgie’s summer sitter was fat so you would look better than her in a swim-suit at the pool (NOTE: this is true.  I was overjoyed) 
• You find humor in your various bitterness, set-backs, and circumstances (like we all have) and I think others would be at the least entertainment by your stories, at the most inspired. (NOTE: me, bitter?)
• You have a great, unique, funny, warm, wise, honest voice–you have a point of view nobody else could have, but that so many people could relate to. (NOTE: yeah, that’s true, I say what most people only dare to think.)

So, while I appreciate the kind words and can, to some extent, believe them to be true, I am still not sold.  Re-enter fear of failure.

Now I am going to charge you, faithful reader, with a favor.  Most of my blog followers know me in real life and can hear me relaying the stories in my blog.  And, since to know me it so love me, I fear your reaction may be tainted by your personal knowledge of (and, hopefully, affection toward) me.  That being said, and if you so desire, please forward a link to the blog to someone who you know (but I don’t, which can be hard…I know a lot of people) and ask them to read and opine on any given entry.  I am curious as to other’s feedback.  That, and I’d love to see the number of hits on my sidebar hit 10,000. (NOTE: that would be cool!)  And please indulge me because of that whole fear of failure thing.

This morning, as I was struggling with my newly acquired allergies, I decided that getting the layer of green crud off my car might be beneficial to my breathing.  True, the bulk of my time is spent inside my car (as opposed to outside of it, inhaling the offending pollen) yet I was so troubled by my scratchy throat, itchy eyes and general discomfort that I decided a car wash was in order.  Easy enough, right?

Off I drove to my childhood car wash located directly next to the local ABC television affiliate – a landmark I considered incredibly cool when I was a kid.  Growing up we went there nearly every weekend and I vividly remember panicking (every weekend) when my father would take his hands off the steering wheel and dramatically fold them across his chest to demonstrate that he was not in control of the car as we were paddled through the cascading water .  I had no idea we were attached to a pulley.  (Give me a break, I was, um, 12)  As I drove up today (feeling comfortable with the whole pulley thing), I took note of the fact that there were only two cars ahead of me, leaving me ample time to go through the tunnel, let the nice folks on the other end dry things off, put down my window to hand them a dollar and still make it on time to my lunch date.  (Note: I am pathologically on time.  Never late.  In fact, I arrive most places 10 minutes early and when the person or people I am meeting arrive on time, I secretly think they are late.  But that’s for another blog another time.) 

The first car, so very close to the entrance of the car wash, was a late model Cadillac sedan (one of the big ones) and the second, directly in front of me, was a VW Passat with, of all things, a Skidmore sticker across the back window (note to readers: Skidmore alum here!)  As I pulled up I saw the car wash wench spending what seemed like an inordinate amount of time holding the menu to the Cadillac driver’s window.  I had no idea just how long she’d been standing there but started to wonder when I noticed the vigorously shaking head of the Skidmore car driver.  (Another note: it was 100 degrees today…any visuals were without sound.  You don’t expect me to open the window and let all that nasty heat in, do you?)  Then I watched as the Skidmore gal got increasing frustrated as evidenced by some steering wheel smashing and further exaggerated head shaking.  Apparently, the car wash gal was equally (or perhaps more) exasperated (remember, she also had the soundtrack) and stomped into the office to get the boss. 

Once the boss came out and managed to explain the complexities of the car wash menu it appeared we were in business.  A quick glance at the clock told me I still had 15 minutes left to ensure my (early) arrival to my lunch date. But alas, I (along with the Skidmore girl and the menu holder) let our guards down too quickly.  We watched, somehow together despite being in separate cars as the Caddy began its slow crawl towards the waiting car wash bay.  But wait, what was happening??  Why was the driver’s door opening?  And is that a cane I see emerging followed, very slowly and gingerly, by a woman of a certain age? (That age being 110).  Do you mean to tell me that in all that discussion it never once came up that she would remain in the car, no steering, no brakes, in neutral?  And, perhaps more curiously, was this her first time in a car wash???  Apparently it was.  Despite protestations from the employees (and incredulous head shaking from me and Skidmore girl) she continued her rise out of the car and painfully slow hike to the innards of the building.  In a clear decision to give up the fight, one of the soaping guys dexterously hopped behind the wheel and got the car attached to the pulley only to jump out and resume his soaping responsibilities. 

Okay, so now we were in business.  In went the Caddy.  In went Skidmore girl and in went my allergy inducing car.  But lest we forget, there is no one keeping the driver’s seat in the Caddy warm, so when it reached the wind tunnel spot when normal mortals put the car into drive and, well, drive it out, there was no one to do so.  So, like a scene from “Curb Your Enthusiasm” (the one when Cheryl had done a colon cleanse only to get stuck in a car wash just at the moment her colon was ready to cleanse itself – one of my all time favorite episodes) all cars came to a grinding halt.  Under normal circumstances I  might have panicked, but given the crackerjack staff on duty I had all confidences that this would end and perhaps even end well.  No sooner had I talked myself off the ledge when a dryer boy hopped into the driver’s seat and got the Caddy out of the way. Hallelujah! 

I looked at the clock and saw that I had only five minutes to get to my destination and still be ten minutes early.  I shot over to the restaurant and was crestfallen to see my date already waiting for me.  I immediately blurted out my reason for being “late” and she kindly pointed out that I wasn’t late, rather she was always 15 minutes early. 

Now I don’t know if the external cleaning of my car played a role in the improvement of my allergy symptoms, but I have convinced myself that it did otherwise I’d have been aggravated for nothing.  And that, dear friends, is unacceptable.

My friend Betsy recently sent me a link to a blog entitled,
“Ten Things That Make Me Happy” (by Nucking Futs Mama   http://wp.me/pqjnG-1vc).  After reading it I sent the following response to Betsy: 

See…I am not the only one with an Us Magazine habit. Might do my own list of top ten things that make me happy.  Oh, crap…not sure I can come up with 10. 
xo

It left me thinking, however, and I decided to alter the list to one which, well, makes me laugh.  So, without further ado, I present to you Ten Things That Make Me Laugh.

1. George.  Nearly every day that child makes at least one remark to which I literally laugh out loud. Many are posted as my status on Facebook (guess that’s kinda funny in and of itself…MY status is HIS funny.)  Each August when we get the welcome letter from next year’s teacher and they ask me to write a little bit to them about Georgie I always say (among other things) that “he will make you laugh every day”.  I have kept that promise six years running.

2. People falling.  I wish I could say that I didn’t find it funny until I was sure that no injury had occurred but that would be a lie.  Some of the most hysterical fits of laughter I have ever had have been at the expense of someone’s landing on their ass (or knees, or shoulder…I don’t discriminate.)

3. Gastric issues/explosions.  Provided they are not mine and do not include vomit.  Just last night, in fact, I was watching “Two and a Half Men” (which, incidentally, has jumped the shark) and Allen’s fart failed him.  For the first time in as long as I can remember, I was laughing to the point of tears while watching television.  I took great comfort in the fact that I was a.) not alone and b.) my t.v. buddy, who also happens to be my husband, was laughing just as hard.  Had I been watching (and laughing alone) it would have ceased being funny and moved to what could be considered pathetic.  But, alas, it did not come to that.

4. Anything while at Temple.  It happens religiously (pun intended) and has been since I was a little girl.  I always, without fail, at some point, get the giggles.  And it is the kind of giggles which lead to tears, quivering lips and shaking shoulders.  I suspect my giggles offset someone else’s each time, as well.

5. My brother Robbie.  Our relationship is healthily placed somewhere between “old Christine/Matthew” and “Spenser/Carly” (“New Adventures of Old Christine” and” iCarly”,respectively) with a smidgen of the Greers (the old brother and sister who lived together across the street from us growing up.)  We laugh together over all the aforementioned and then some.  Sometimes all it takes is a (sideways) glance, but trust me.

6.  Colonoscopy prep.  Not mine.  Having been a party to several different people downing the G0-Lightly (a horrible name, btw) I know it is always good for a laugh.  Sure, it is unpleasant and gross and all that, but those scampers to the bathroom just never get old.

7. Farts and burps at inappropriate times and inappropriate places.  During pilates, at the movies, in line at the supermarket…excellent.  When they stink, not so good.  Nauseating, actually.  But funny nonetheless.  This, like falls, gastric issues and colonoscopy prep make me laugh only when they happen to others. Don’t judge me.

8. Wedgies/pantsing.  Whether they are going up or down, underwear issues make me laugh.  I far prefer to not be on the receiving end, and I thwart the desire to act on the pull more often than I care to acknowledge, but either way, they result is almost always funny.  Laugh out loud funny.  (Oh, give me a break…I have two boys, after all!)

9. Moms of  boys.  (Just boys.  Not a boy and a girl or even three boys and a girl.  The girl throws the whole thing off-balance.  I’m talking solely boys.)  We are a special group and not for the faint of heart.  We can smell each other in a crowd and are guaranteed to have war stories to share.  Said stories are somehow funnier when shared with another mom of boys than they are when you are living them.

10. Harvey Korman and Tim Conway cracking one another up while trying to get through a skit.  That’s excellent.

So yes, that which makes me laugh is decidedly lowbrow, but at least now you know what you need to do.  Just sayin’…

Borrowing a page my from personal news source of record, US Weekly, I thought I would indulge you, faithful readers, in:

25 Things You Don’t Know About Me

1. I have had somewhere in the vicinity of a dozen surgical procedures in my life.  They range from the sublime (rhinoplasty) to the ridiculous (bi-lateral mastectomy). 

2. I am 5’6″ and have been since I am 11 years old.  My weight, however, has been a little less consistent.

3. I don’t collect anything (despite Rich’s argument that I collect shoes)  I do, however, collect people.  I have friends from every place I have ever been…including playgrounds, restaurants and phone sales calls I have made.

4. I am a certified vomit-phobe.  Diehard followers (or anyone I may have met over the years) can attest to this. 

5. There was a period in my life that I was unable to get on a plane without taking a little pill.  I am proud to say that I no longer have to take that pill.  Now I keep it in my handbag.   Just in case.

6. I grew up a (very) reform Jew.  I “intermarried” (as my mother in law put it) and consequently joined the synagogue of a conservative Jew.   I still don’t know what is going on in the service though.

7. I am a proud follower of The Real Housewives of New York.  And New Jersey.  And Orange County.  Never bothered with the gals from Atlanta, though.

8. I have exceptionally long toes. 

9. Not proud, but will admit that we never balance our checkbook.  And people say I am not a risk taker!

10. I had two babies but managed to never buy a crib.  Begged, borrowed and stole. 

11. Despite being a vomit-phobe, I am a very good person to have around in an emergency (provided there is no vomiting involved) and manage docs better than anyone.

12. Every bathingsuit I own is a tankini.  I consider them among the best inventions for women ever.

13. I finally happened upon a drink that I love and that doesn’t make me feel awful – Pineapple Caipirinha.  Two problems, however.  One is that I can never remember what it is called (which is why I have it in my Blackberry) and two, I cannot pronounce it.  And, yes, I have been known to pull it up on my BB and show it to the bartender.  Is that bad?

14. This year is my 45th birthday and my 20th wedding anniversary.  That can only mean that 2015 will be my, gulp, 50th birthday and 25th anniversary.  Perhaps it is time to stop wearing ripped jeans and Uggs?

15. I periodically Google Amy Fisher to see what she is up to these days.  True.

16. I chose my college for two reasons: no math requirement and no language requirement. 

17. We buy all our soda in cans and bring them back for the deposit.  I have collected as much as $8 in one visit.

18. The tenser the situation, the more jokes I crack.

19. I always buy matzah the second it shows up in the market so once Passover actually arrives I am matzahed out and consider it over.  That explains the pizza on Passover phenomenon.

20. I have a potty mouth.  You have a fuckin’ problem with that?

21. I find it really irritating when people hear my street name (Puddingstone Road) and comment that it is cute.  Shut up.

22. My personal experience is that laser hair removal kills.  Just sayin’…

23. In my driving life, I have owned the following makes: Toyota, Volkswagen, Mercedes, Saab, Ford, Honda, Lexus, Porsche, Triumph (okay, that one I have never driven, but it does live in my garage), and BMW.

24. I feel very virtuous when I eat whole wheat crust pizza.

25. I am still in touch with every roommate I ever had.  In fact, I think we are friendlier now than we were when we lived together…