• Obama won. Wheeee! We took the kids to the Inauguration. Froze our butts off but it was totally worth it.
• I didn’t lose my job. Yet, despite massive budget cuts and layoffs. Whee! again
• I got lap band surgery. So far so good, one month out. 20 pounds gone. I would say Whee! but some of that was a clear-liquid diet, which almost did me in.
• We lost several family members and friends, which was so sad and so hard. I went to more funerals in the last year than I have been to in the previous 10 years.
• I Twittered and Facebooked. So far none of my nephews have deleted me from their friend lists so I will regard that as a success.
• I got hit by a drunk driver. Correction, my sexy mini-van got hit by a drunk driver. At 2:30 in the afternoon. On a Wednesday. Parked in front of the post office. She was so drunk she hit another car and two trees before she stopped. If I weren’t so damn angry at her insurance company for jerking me around. I might feel sorry for her.
• No, she wasn’t hurt. Thankfully neither was anyone else.
• My kids started a new school. Private, Catholic Pre-K. And they are loving it. Us too. Still cracks me up when they remind me it is the Blessed Mother’s birthday. Like living with two, small, sticky, male versions of my mother.
• I am still happily married. Although Tom has suddenly sprouted a whole batch of new gray hair. Is it wife-strife?
• I discovered the mind-suck that is The Rachel Zoe project. And my love affair with the Real Housewives blossomed into full on obsession thanks to my Jersey Girls.
  I think that sums it up for now. If any of you are still around, Yo.

I started getting bad pains in my lower right quadrant.  I knew to call it my “lower right quadrant” because along with being a great babysitter, I was also a voracious reader.  I had finished my mom’s dog-eared copy of ‘Dr. Spock” years ago and had long since completed the Readers Digest version of “Diagnosing Common Ailments – When to Call the Doctor”.  I had narrowed it down to either acute Appendicitis or a Gall Bladder attack. 

Since this was also in the olden days before cell phones, I couldn’t call my parents and alert them of my diagnosis.  So I went withPlan B, which was to call our neighbor Louise.  Louise was an old family friend and the designated “911′ number for us to call in case of an emergency when my parents were not home.  Louise came over and after I confidently shared with her my symptoms and my two possible maladies, she looked me in the eye and asked me a question that was definitely NOT part of my diagnostic repertoire yet.

“Have you gotten your period yet?”

“Uh, no….”,  twisting my nightgown hem nervously.  Where did that question come from?

‘Well that’s it. You have cramps.  You will probably get your period tomorrow.  Congratulations.”  And with that bombshell, she was off, in a cloud of “More” cigarette smoke and “Charlie” perfume.

I waited for my parents to get home so I could pull my Mom off in a corner and tell her what happened.  She sniffed ‘Nah, not yet.  I was at least 13 or 14. It’s probably just gas.”

I went to bed feeling both relieved, and yet strangely let down.  See, I WANTED my period.  I had finished “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret” at least 2 years prior.  I had a bra.  I was quietly boy crazy.  I had seen “What a Woman Knows” at the girls-only assembly in 5th grade.  I had my “Sample Pack for Young Ladies” hidden in my underwear drawer.  It was time. 

On the other hand I was terrified.  What if I got it at school?  What if people SAW it?  What if I was wearing a pad and it fell out and down my pant leg as I walked down the hall, like it did to Linda’s brother’s girlfriend’s best friend? ?  What if I used a tampon and it got stuck, like Vicki’s cousin’s best friend’s older sister, who had to go to the hospital and have it surgically removed??  What if it gave me zits, or made me crazy?  What if I sat on a toilet seat at the skanky movie theatre and got PREGNANT??   I was sure if it happened at school everyone would know and I would just die from embarrassment and have to transfer to private school in another town.

I had a flair for the melodramatic, no?

I worried about it all night, and frantically ran to the restroom between every class at school the next day, sure I was hemorrhaging.  And nothing happened.  Nothing.  The cramps/appendicitis/gall bladder attach went away.  And I was still just a tween who didn’t have her period yet. 

A week later, I was walking down the hall at school, chatting happily with a BOY, and it was going pretty well.   My palms were sweating, but I wasn’t being too goofy, and I had curled my hair and I had on my “cool” jeans.  Deciding that odds were in my favor, and wanting to “leave him wanting more!” like SEVENTEEN magazine recommended,  I ended the chat and ducked into a nearby restroom to “brush my hair”. 

I went in the stall, and there it was.  My period had started.  No fanfare.  No crazy mood swings or hemorrhaging.  No public humiliation.  I calmly walked down to the nurses office and told her what happened.  She congratulated me and pointed to the “supply” cabinet and told me to help myself.  I picked some giant pad that would surely have stansioned a severed limb.  I went back to class, feeling diapered, but somewhat thrilled.  No one knew.  No one laughed or pointed. 

I got home and found my Mom folding laundry. 

“Hi Mom, did the nurse call?”

‘No.  Why, are you sick?”

“No.  I got my period today.” 

My Mom started to cry, and so did I.  Then we both started to laugh and hug and cry and laugh.  She asked me how I felt, if I felt different, if I felt like a woman. I told her I felt like I wanted to take a shower.  She sent me upstairs with my first box of tampons and That was That.  As I walked up the steps I heard her calling my aunts to tell them the news.  She called my father at work and told him, and when he got home he hugged me and we had ice cream. 

All periods should begin and end with ice cream. 

This posting is in honor of this article I read about the publication of a book of stories all women share – their first period.  Which I am totally buying for my melodramatic, boy crazy, voracious reader, doppleganger  of a niece, Sarah, for her 12th birthday this year.

I sighed with deep contentment and called my sister for a chat.  Just as we settled in, my Jonas wandered into the room and said “Mommy, what is all of that smokey stuff in the kitchen?”  I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see a bit of steam escaping from the humming dishwasher.  But no, this was bona fide smoke.  Not “call 911!” smoke, but whispy white smoke, as if someone were lying on the floor having a cigarette.

What, for the love of quiet Saturday morning, was that????

I hung up with sister and ran into the kitchen, and the smell was like electrical wires cooking caramelized Barbie doll hair.  But where, oh where was it coming from?

Dishwasher?  No.  Coffee pot?  Nope.  Toaster? Off and unplugged.  Microwave?  No.  Phone? uh-uh.  Dryer?  Off and cold.  Washer?  Ditto.

Wait!  I know!  What is the single most expensive appliance that we own? 

Did you say not-even-seven-years-old-yet REFRIGERATOR?

Ding Ding Ding!

I yelled for Tom, because damn if I am going to handle a potentially bank-breaking calamity while he sleeps in (!)  Certainly not for insight because, seriously, he knows even less about appliances than I do. 

He was tremendously helpful.  Despite the stinky smoke coming from behind the fridge, he insisted that it must be the dryer or the toaster.  I left him to check the plugs while I pulled the fridge out from the wall.

Yep, it was burned up all right.  The lights still came on when I opened the door, and the freezer dropped one last, cruel and rather mean, load of ice cubes, but then it took it’s final gasp. 

After several calls to repair shops, and some quicky math, we both realized that for what we would have to pay to repair the thing, we might as well just buy a new one.  ($100 diagnosis, plus $75 and hour labor, plus parts, and “It sounds like your motor burned up, and that ain’t cheap.”

I should have known this would happen.  Because we just found out that we were getting money back from our Federal taxes.  And poof!  Before we even got the refund in our hot little hands, it was gone.  I am magic that way.

And PS, my kids are going to get into the hard-to-get-into private pre-school.   You know how I know?  Because if they do get in, we have to pony up $500 in a week to “hold their spot”.  And guess how much our state refund is?  If you guessed $500 and change, I have a lovely 7 year old Maytag refrigerator wardrobe to give you.  Cause I am magic that way.

This was the Christmas card picture. That is my mother in the Santa suit. She rocks.

in some kind of great/bizarro land where we  communicate very well and see eye to eye on just about everything and laugh a lot and have lots of sex.  And yes, I just cursed it, didnt I? 

I haven’t been posting because I didnt have much to say.  I signed up for Facebook a while back and that has been my forum for posting pictures of the kids and some teeny tiny updates.  But Facebook just kind of leaves me feeling like somethign is missing.  It’s like eating fat-free sugar-free pudding.  At first it seems like a great, easy substitute for the real thing, and then as soon as you are finished, you have a craving for a donut washed down by a quart of heavy cream. 

I feel things brewing again.    Like I might need to let off some heavy cream soon.  Good cream though.   If any of you are still out there, smooches from me and see you again soon.

About two months ago i read an article somewhere blasting bloggers as being self-absorbed navel gazers and it really struck me.  Yes, the writer (who/where escapes me right now) was something of a twat waffle.  But the whole thing sort of left me with clammy hands and a bad taste in my mouth.   

I have changed my blog self as often as my son changes his clothes.  And trust me, as the one who does the laundry that is A Lot.  It just seems like there are so many important things going on right now and my attention is being pulled in so many directions that admittedly I am not leaving myself much time to write anything down.  But here are a few notes from my summer vacation:

• I was enthralled by the Olympics and realized that I officially crossed over into being OLD when I could relate more to the joy/tears/thrill of the parents of the athletes far more than the atheletes themselves.  Can you imagine being Michael Phelps mom? 
• I wept when fellow Delawarean Joe Biden got the nod for VP.  Yes, he speaks too soon and too much sometimes.  So do I.  And I am OK with that in a VP.  I am tired of spin and word-crafting and being programmed by the media.  I welcome a few loud gaffes as long as the general direction is correct.  And I have had a crush on him since I was a kid  My family went to a party and his family was there.  It was big family-holiday-season kind of thing at a cousins house.   I happened to be sitting near a tray of amazing Italian pastries.  He kept coming back to sneak another one and would wink at me and flash that smile each time and make some joke about how many he had.  It was my first brush with a “star” and he was actually just a regular guy Dad in a sweater with a sweet tooth.  I met his wife too.  She was pregnant with their daughter and my mother was sitting chatting with her about pregnancy.  I came over to ask my mom something and she introduced us and Jill Biden chatted with me about Christmas vacation and what Christmas shows we liked as if I was a regular adult.  Genuinely nice, normal people.
• Michelle Obama is my new imaginary friend and her brother is my new imaginary boyfriend.
• My kids are so damn funny I can’t stand it.  I would give you some stories but they are all of the “babycenter message boards” ilk and might make you sick.
• Having my sister move back to Delaware has been such a blessing.  It is so nice to see her anytime and to be able to just relax together and not squeeze it in around holidays and travel schedules.  And the fact that she is living at the BEACH too is so much icing on the cake I can’t believe it. 
• I have fallen off of the Weight Watchers wagon but am trying to get backon.  I have gained about 4 pounds.  It is so easy to fall back in old habits.  Sigh.  Deep, deep sigh.

So what is happening at your place?

• If you go to a restaurant that is known for its fried oysters, fries, Budweiser and bug spray, don’t expect them to do backflips meeting all of your special order, high maintenance, snotty needs.  And your boyfriend?  Was checking out all of the waitresses butts while you were going on and on about the eighty seven ways to NOT prepare your meal.

• If you sit in the back three rows at church, you are going to have to put up with some level of kid noise.  We are supposedto sit there so we can whisk our toddlers out as soon as they become a disturbance. If you want silence, go sit in the front with the rest of the AARP.

• If I come to your line at the grocery store, and I see money fall out of the circular you just picked up from the TOP OF YOUR REGISTER, please spare me the song and dance about how you have no idea how it got there.  The longer you went on and on about how you would never do anything like that, the guiltier you sounded.    I know you don’t make much money at Acme, but just watching you try to talk your way out of it made me feel dirty.

Carry on.

Don’t judge.  Some people use that time to read “Real Simple” and some people don’t.  He brought it to me.

E – “Mom, is this Jesus?”  Referring to picture on the front, which is the Sacred Heart one with the big human heart.  Not a favorite of mine.

Me – “Yes, that’s Jesus.  But I don’t really like that picture of him, there are much nicer pictures in the book.  See…..?”

E – Dead serious “Where is he right now?”

Me – “Uh, I think he is in heaven right now.”

E – “Where is heaven?”

Me – “Far, far, away.  Why?”

E – “Because I want to see him. NOW.”

Me – Trying to avoid the whole heaven thing – “Look inside the book, there are other nicer pictures of Jesus in the book.”

E – “Can I get in the book too?  I want to see Jesus.”

Me – “Umm, you really can’t get inside a book.”

E – Emphatically -”But I need to see Jesus.  I need to SEE him, right now.”

Me – “Well bud, you can’t.  Because he is in heaven and it is really far away.”

E – “How do I get there?”

Me -Palms sweating, not liking where this is going.  “You have to die.”

E -”Then I want to die right now so I can see Jesus.”

Me -Squirming – “But if you die than you can’t come back here.  Won’t you miss Daddy and Jonas and me?”

E -  Weighing his options – “But I will get to see Jesus, right?”

Me – “Yes, but you can’t come back.  Dying is forever.  You know when we smash a bug and he never, ever gets up again?  That is what happens when you die.”

E  – “But if I am dead, I get to see Jesus, right?”

How, I ask you, does one handle these questions?  My mother, resident expert on all things Jesus, was entertaining a pool full of people when this happened.  So I was totally winging it.  Badly.  More like broken-winging it. 

I tried to explain the whole “Jesus is all around you” thing and he just kept looking all over the room for him, getting angrier all the while. 

Then I tried the “If you talk to Jesus, he can hear you, even when he is far, far away in heaven.”  Which resulted in a Verizon-esque exchange of “Can he here me now?  Right now?”  Ending only when he realized that no matter how well Jesus could hear him, Jesus would not answer.

I am not even sure how we finally ended the conversation but I know that the longer it went on the dumber I felt and the more irritated Eamon got with me.  And Jesus. 

The next day I consulted a few people on what I should have said:

My mom – Her advice was basically all of the stuff I had already tried.  She was intrigued by his interest and has decided that he must have a special gift.   Helpfullness score – 4 out of 10

My sister Amy – Said the whole dying thing freaked her out and made her think he was having a premonition of his own death.  Helpfullness score – Zero out of 10.  No, Negative 10 out of 10!!!

Aunt Lorraine – Who has a PhD in all things jesus – Has decided Eamon is going to be a priest.  Helpfullness score – 3 out of 10.  At least she didn’t predict his imminent expiration (Amy!)

Our (Freaking!) Pastor, who we saw that night at the church carnival and who SURELY would know how to handle these tyopes of inquiries from 3 year olds – And I quote ”Jesus is all around.  Ha, hah, ha little guy.”  And a pat on the head.  Helpfullness score – Zero out of 10.
I am flying blind here.  Anyone?  Why didn’t he just ask me where babies come from or why Mommy doesn’t have a penis?

Of course, I do still write over at the other place.  ‘Cause a girl’s gotta eat.  Latest posts over there:

Bacon, Raisin, Broccoli Slaw

Blueberry Crisp

Yum.

Down below.  Way deep.  Hoisting will be involved.

So I am stuck at my desk for a conference call with no way to undo the horrible itch.  Which gives me plenty of time to mentally explore what the F is causing it.  I cover all of the bases – Clean bra? Body? Shirt?  Check, check , check.  Always, Always, Always. New soap?  No.  New detergent?  No.  New perfume?  Lotion? Fabric softener? Shampoo? Conditioner? SPF 15? Mousse?  Spritz?  Self-tanner? nonononononononononono

Geez, am I single handedly keeping U.S. toiletry sales in the black or what?

I am dying here and it is only getting worse.  Finally the call ends and I skip off to my sanctuary.  I rip up my shirt and start scratching when I feel something.  (No, not a lump.  Thank God a million times over.)   

So I whip off my bra and I find it.  Something is stuck in between the layers of silky cup fabric.  Of this bra I am only wearing for the second or third time.  The one that I spent a little extra on because, well, good hoists for 42 DDD’s aint cheap. 

I search the whole thing for an entry/exit point, and find nothing.  I have to get that thing out, and I am going to have to cut it out.  I run back to my desk and grab my scissors and am back in the sanctuary doing very delicate surgery to remove the thing and not ruin the bra.  I get it out, leaving a pea sized hole in the bra.  It’s a pebble.  A PEBBLE sewn into my BRA. 

I don’t remember that in any fairy tales. 

I sat there for a while, looking at the pebble, and wondering how it is that I am so busy that it took me two or three wearings to notice that a pebble is lodged up against one of my most intimate of areas. 

I would have made a great smuggler.  Apparently.

Ooh, the flossy, flossy,

For a few minutes it is familial bliss.  The boys are comfy in our bed, chatting about their plans for the day and I have at least 8 more minutes before Tom vacates the bathroom.  Then some sort of pillow-space related skirmish breaks out and I have to referee.  Since I saw Eamon draw first blood (he threw Jonas’s doggie off the bed and then yanked his blankie away) he got the reprimand.

It is silent for a minute while they contemplate the error of their ways.  Then Eamon mutters under his breath “Yucky Mommy”. 

(“Yucky” is the new ‘Bitch”.  Haven’t you heard?)

Jonas rises to my defense.  “Mommy isn’t Yucky!  She is beautiful and pretty!”

My heart swells at his sweet compliments.  You always hear how much boys love their mommies, and while I do kind of feel that adoration, this is the bona-fide spoken confirmation.  I tell him that he makes me feel so good when he says that.  That he makes me happy and makes me want to squeeze him and steal all of his kisses.

His reply?

“Daddy told me to say that.”