can’t fence us in

can't fence us in...

It’s a rare thing these days for Tracie, Susan and me to escape. But when we do, we go totally crazy. (Don’t tell the kids.)

Pick ya up at 4:00? Tracie made the plans. (Woo Hoo! We’ll make it to PF Chang’s in time for the Early Bird Specials!)

We sat outside because we are free like that – you can’t fence us in. Wild with abandon, we ate appetizers for dinner, sipped glasses of wine (ok, ok, Susan had a beer - she’ll always be the reckless one) and talked about the school system and church politics. We considered dessert, but we didn’t want to go completely overboard. We know where to draw the line.

Then down the road to Trader Joe’s to gather up some anti-oxidant green tea and little rounds of brie. We oooed and ahhhed over the flax seed and the incredible deal we found in the produce aisle on Tracie’s special organic apples. What can we say? Grocery stores make us giddy. Oh, if they could see us now! we thought.

And even though things were about perfect as could be, the night wasn’t even over yet! Target, anyone? Don’t want to spoil any surprises here, but someone’s gettin’ some very fancy almond M&Ms this morning in their Easter basket…

We shopped til we damn-near dropped, and at about 9:00 we threw up the white flag & headed back home feeling guilty for all the fun we’d had. It’ll take awhile to recover, but as soon as we do, you can bet we’ll plan our next escape…

just a minute ago

He doesn’t smell like Johnson & Johnson’s No More Tears shampoo anymore, and I’ve almost come to grips with that, but when he answered my “I love you” with a half-hearted “ah-ight” yesterday morning, distracted by some girl in tight jeans, well - it nearly killed me.

His size 10 1/2 feet are bigger than his dad’s, and at two inches taller than me, I have to make him sit down in a chair before I can boss him around. He won’t drink apple juice from a little box anymore and he tells me to add things like deodorant to my grocery list. What the hell is this?

No, I tell him, he is certainly not allowed to have a girlfriend. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of. Don’t be ridiculous. Girls are gross, remember? Didn’t he just tell me that?

Only two seconds ago he was swish-swish-swishing his precious lil’ Pamper-clad butt into our bedroom to con his way into sleeping between his daddy and me. Five minutes ago – max – he flipped my colander upside down, plunked it on his head and told us he was an astronaut. And I promise you every now and then I still catch a whiff of Johnson & Johnson’s No More Tears Shampoo. It was here just a minute ago.

This is war

The inside tips were coming in at a fast and furious pace, and we could hardly keep up with all the intelligence. Our sources told us the attack was planned for midnight and that hermit crabs (oh Lord, hermit crabs!) would be involved. So, no mistake about it, this was war. And it just about killed us.

Don’t know if you’ve ever been to battle with a cabin full of squealing middle school girls during a church beach retreat, but things can go from calm to crazy faster than you can say, “has anybody seen my Rainbow flip flops?” One minute they were talking about the crushes they had on the boys, and the next they were ready to, well, crush the boys.

It was boys versus girls, as these things always are, and the ammunition included stink bombs, shaving cream, the aforementioned hermit crabs (!), and a couple of stolen garden hoses. The older girls took charge and battened down the hatches, securing the area with belts, shoe strings and clothes hangers wrapped tightly around bunk bed posts. The younger girls were needed to weigh the bunk beds down, just in case things got rough, so they sat in a huddle, terrified, having the time of their lives.  

Because boys don’t play fair, it was about six minutes to midnight when we heard the faint refrain of the theme from Jaws coming from the enemy’s violin player. Our girls let loose shrieks that could be heard for miles down the beach, letting God and everybody know that the battle had begun.

That was Saturday. This is Wednesday. We have recovered. No one can really say who won or lost the war, but our casualty count was zero, which is itself a small miracle, considering that the hermit crabs (who were prepared to give their very lives for the cause) were at one point taken hostage and kept prisoner in a shower stall.

All I know is that us leaders love to go to the beach with these little warriors, even though every year it just about kills us.

livin’ in the wild

I hated when grown-ups used to ask me what I was going to be when I grew up. I still hate that question. Me! I’m gonna be me!

Except when I’m not me, which happens a lot. Okay. Which happens constantly, like, every single day when I squeeze into khaki pants and head off to masquerade as the church lady. BUT, and I have a BIG BUT (hence my hatred of khaki pants)… if things work out like I plan, I’ll be me more often.

I asked my ten year old what he thought about the big question. Drew-b-doo-b-doo with the eyes of heartbreaking blue, what will become of you?

Turns out, Drew loves the question, and if things work out like he has planned, he’ll live in Clinton some of the time. In a box. Made of weatherproof cardboard. He’ll construct hundreds! thousands! of custom-built little cardboard huts all over the world and just drift around on a whim. “I’m gonna live in the wild, mom.”

God, how I pray that nobody gets in his way.

and there I was in my cardigan…

I think I was being asked out on a date. It’s been a long time, but yes. I think that’s what happened. The nice gentleman with the gold front tooth and the bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 in his fist said, “Yo,” and giving a little jerk with his head, “You goin to da club?”     We were stuffed into the itty bitty elevator of my downtown Atlanta ghetto hotel with three of his homies, one half-dead in the corner, clutching his crotch, the others too engaged in their own personal exchange of obscenities to notice us.  I’ve been married for a hundred years – it’s not like I get asked out every day, so of course, I was flattered. “Probably,” I said, “where’s the club?” Crotch-clutcher perked up, “she ain’t goin to no damn club” is the cleaned up version of his contribution to our courtship. I would’ve been mad, but deep down, I knew he was right. I would not be goin to da club. I would be dead-bolting myself into my scary hotel room and praying for my survival all night. Nope. No club for me. I don’t know what gave me away. Could’ve been my navy blue Eddie Bauer duffel bag. Or maybe my cardigan, the pink floral one my mom suggested I wear, “it’s nice to layer…it looks like you put in a little effort.” Whatever it was that excluded me from the group, I thanked Mad Dog for his lovely invitation and wished them all a nice evening.

a sparkly, magic goodnight for Aunt Mary

The highlight of Aunt Mary’s day was tucking Mackenzie into bed, of course. I’d never done it before, so it was extremely important that I did it correctly. We snuggled her up in her sweet little ballerina sheets and shared a passionate reading of Go Dog Go!

We agreed on several points: 1. all the dogs are pretty cool, but we are especially partial to the little one working his tiny tail off to give the big one a ride in a cart, 2. houses on boats in the water are ridiculous, and 3. there are clearly too many dogs on the tree at the dog party. If it were up to us, we’d shut that shin-dig down before things got completely out of hand.

Once the book was read and discussed, it was off with the lights and on with the magical ladybug whose job it is to scatter dimly lit colored stars all over Mackenzie’s ceiling. Our color choices were red, blue and green. We chose blue, of course. We’re no fools.

“Night-night, Mackenzie… I love you.”

“Sometimes I get out of bed.”

“Oh? Then what?”

“Then I go downstairs and then I go upstairs.”

“What does your mommy say when you get out of bed?”

“She says, ‘hi’.”

“Does she tell you to go back to your bed?”

“No. She says, ‘time to get up! It’s morning!’”

“Your mommy is so smart. Thank you for letting me tuck you in tonight. Night-night. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

 It was the sparkly, magic highlight of Aunt Mary’s day, I tell you.

Anybody got the number for the Marriott?

yes. that is linoleum on the floor.

How ’bout that? Turns out, it really does pay to do your research. It’s just that I got all excited about this writers conference taking place smack in da hood of downtown Atlanta. I envisioned cool artist-type people milling around, ya know, conferencing, so I jumped right in with both feet and a credit card number. The hotel is right around the corner from the conference, so I could totally see myself strolling the half-mile to and fro with my laptop, it would be perfect.

It might have been helpful to know that some would say a night in this hotel is “worse than a tour of duty in Iraq”. Or that others say that it is “ghetto and weed-smelling”. Yes. That would’ve been good information to arm myself with as I called in my reservation. But, I’m an impulsive thing and it never crossed my mind.

Don’t believe me? Check out TripAdvisor’s reviews… I am especially partial to the “Oh My God” post… http://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g60898-d498897-Reviews-Castleberry_Inn-Atlanta_Georgia.html

It’s not that I mind having a crackhead lounging on my car. What kind of snob would I have to be to care about that? It’s just that I’m not up on the latest crackhead removal techniques and seeing as my particular crackhead was shouting to invisible people and making herself laugh hysterically, well… she seemed to be having such a darn good time, I didn’t want to bust up her little party. So I dashed back inside the lobby, where I figured it would be at least quieter.

Nope. Too bad for me, turns out there was a situation brewing in the lobby, which I also was inequipped to handle. A large barefooted man wearing nothing but what I assume were African pajama pants, stood gripping tightly to his plastic Walmart shopping bag luggage and waxing poetic about the injustice of it all. He was tired of it. Tired of it all! And, wow, what very colorful language he used to explain just how tired of it all he was.

Torn between the happy crackhead on my car and the angry poet in my lobby, I retreated even further. Squeezing into the elevator with a couple who was actively trying to make a baby, we all headed back to floor #4. My new friends and I got off the elevator together and – what do you know! – they were in the room right next to me! How ’bout that? Small world.

Dead-bolted inside, I sat on my bed, careful not to touch much, listening to some thump thump thumping and contemplating my next move. The conference was about to begin. I was going to be late. I’ve waited for this for months! Damnit.

I went to the mirror and pep-talked myself. You can do this, Stupid. You really can. Just put on your Don’t Mess With Me face and get the hell out there. It’s half a mile. Go.

So I went. I went four steps out the front door when I saw what I’m pretty sure were the makings of a gang initiation. (I watch 48 hours. I know what’s going on.) So walking would not be an option.

Returning to the parking lot, thankfully my crackhead had left the trunk of my Honda for greener pastures. She’d moved on to a car painted like a Mountain Dew can and was even happier. I was thrilled to see it turned out so well for both of us.

I drove .4 miles down the block to the conference site and how bout that? It was a whole other world. Downtown Atlanta is amazing, I tell you. There were artists milling around, some lady in a cool gypsy skirt invited me to a wine tasting and art viewing. This was my vision! This was it! Oh, if only I could sleep in my car here in this new parking lot.

Night one of the conference was wonderful. The people were great – fabulous people like Hollis Gillespie and Cristal Presley spoke to us about their writing experiences. I got all swept up in it and almost forgot where I was headed to spend the night. Almost.

Eating out wasn’t an option, although to be fair, a group of four friendly men did invite me to “da club”. I declined and headed back up to floor #4. I ate half a box of Tic Tacs for dinner, called my loved ones to let them know I love them (just in case) and called it a night. And by “called it a night”, I mean stayed up until 2:14AM listening to a fascinating argument through the walls, presumably between the baby-makers, about which club to go to. I don’t know if they ever decided, but there were thumps and bumps and slamming doors and I’m pretty sure room 413 is now without a working television.

It’s 5:52AM and I survived the night. I will now embark on my quest for the nearest Marriott before heading to day two of the conference. Right after I go look myself in the mirror and get geared up, un-dead-bolt myself and dash to my car.

ladies! PLEASE! get out of my bathroom!

Twenty three uninvited ladybugs strolling all over my bathroom walls – what kind of way is that to start the day? They aren’t in the den, or the kitchen, or the laundry room. Haven’t seen any in the bedrooms. Nope. All clear except for my bathroom.

Now what?

Were it not for the training I’ve received on “How to Properly Love All Living Things” from my ten year old son, I wouldn’t think twice about sucking them up with a vacuum cleaner or squishing ‘em in a Kleenex while wearing a nasty look on my face. But having graduated from his nature classes, I had no choice. I must either co-exist with the critters peacefully or gently remove them from the room and release them back into the wild with a smile. I’d made a vow.

Because he’d looked up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes of his and said “they’re more scared of you than you are of them, mom” and, “nature depends on us to protect it, okay, mom?” What in the world are these people teaching in school these days? Sheesh. So, yesterday I saved fourteen little ladies as Nature Boy nodded his approval in the background. As a parting favor, I asked each of the girls to kindly share the news with her friends that my bathroom was officially closed for business.  This morning, I discovered that ladybugs are not great communicators.

They are back in droves, and contrary to the teachings of Nature Boy, they are not one bit scared of me. I stand there naked and trembling, trying to regulate my breathing as one takes her sweet time crawling over my bar of Dove soap. To distract myself while she makes her leisurely climb, I count twenty two of her friends. They are dancing around having a big time all over my walls. Several appear to be doing the cha-cha.

Now that the soap is too gross to touch, I decide to lather up head to toe with shampoo and just be done with it. I just finished tying the sash on my robe when guess who shows up at the door ready for action? “How many are we gonna save today, mom?” Seven shaky Kleenex rides out the front door later, the coast is clear.

What I need is some common sense. Maybe if Nature Boy thinks that the ladybugs are dangerous or that they could harm me in some way, he would allow for an intervention. I am his mother, after all. My friend Tracie knows about all kinds of dangerous stuff, so I call her. She says that ladybugs are good luck and that I better not kill one. Great.

Common sense is not to be found, and I am still in my bathrobe. I turn to Nature Boy, at a loss.

He’s feeling quite lucky, I guess, so he flings open the front door and yells out into the yard with a smile, “see ya tomorrow, ladies!”

Wake up, Chicken!

Boo! Snake!

The first few minutes of the day that can flat make it or break it, don’t you think? Those initial blinks of consciousness set the tone, I’d say, so that’s why I like to wake up my boys with a nice backscratch, some low lighting, and maybe some gentle music. We can all start the day off gently, maybe softly singing a little, “good morning, Sunshine…” 

So imagine my surprise this morning when Nature Boy decided to commence our day a little differently. Apparently, our mornings around here haven’t been quite thrilling enough for him.

Believe it or not, that kid and I have a lot in common – we are both fond of orange TicTacs and the way Magic Shell perfectly enhances a plain bowl of vanilla ice cream.  Also, we get a kick out of foreign accents and big ole fat, happy babies. We love to make each other laugh, and agree that we are most definitely uninspired by formal Sunday morning church worship services. We totally dig baseball and will read anything we can get our hands on. Well, okay, he’ll read anything. I have my limits.

For the last ten years we have spent our evenings snuggled up in his bed reading Star Wars, select Junie B Jones, and anything by Beverly Cleary. We’ve gone through volumes about dinosaurs, and turned him into the most well-read shark expert in his fourth grade class. But every time he tries to sneak a book about snakes into the mix, I freak out. And not just to make him laugh. I seriously can’t handle it. The pictures, the word, I can’t. I just can’t.

“Mom. Get real. It’s only a book. It won’t hurt you. Come on.”

NO. Never. Pick something else.

 ”You are a total chicken, Mom.”

Yep, and I’m fine with that. How ’bout a chapter of Hardy Boys?

“Come on, Mom,” he taunts me with a little chuckle, “please?”

So I am forced to explain. I tell my ten year old punkin’ all about what happened to his wonderful Aunt Susan, my little sister, when she was only five years old and she cleaned out the filter in our backyard pool. I tell him that, yes, she survived the bite, but that I barely did because I couldn’t breathe until she was out of the hospital. So there will be no books read to him on the subject. Not on my watch. It’s my cryptonite.

He patted my head, nodded his head solemnly and handed me a nice Dr. Seuss book. What a good boy. God, how I love him. He is so full of compassion. Bless his little heart.

And then this.

He should’ve been in bed for over thirty minutes when he broke the silence of the house with a holler down from his room last night “MOM!! Be sure to wake me up in the morning!” I could hear the grin in his voice, but didn’t discover what evil wickedness had been taking place up there by the glow of his nightlight until I tip-toed up the stairs today at 6:40AM in my pajamas to wake the little darling up.

There was a special message arranged on the floor,  just for me. Written in meticulously coiled up shreds of Kleenex, leading to the open contraband book itself, “Boo! Snake!” He’d even crafted a scared face to mock me.

So that is why this morning was anything but peaceful, as Nature Boy woke up in a fit of laughter and a giant pajama-clad chicken leaping into bed with him shrieking, “SNAKE!” I’d say he definitely set the tone for the day.

beautiful day we’re havin…

Oh it is a beautiful spring day. The forecast said, “sunny with a high of 82 and a nice breeze” so it’s not up for debate. That right there is some beautiful weather. Everybody except me will totally agree. Just ask ‘em, “Whatcha think about this weather we’re having?” Well, they will reply without giving it a thought, it is beautiful.

Well, wanna know what isn’t beautiful? My fat white legs in shorts, that’s what. So that’s why these “beautiful” days are throwin’ me into a full-blown panic.

If only I’d cranked up the old Jane Fonda VHS  tape, thrown on my leg warmers, and got to steppin’ back  in January like I promised I would, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. If I woulda drank my eight glasses of water and nibbled on my carrot sticks, I’d be fine, out there in my shorts blabberin’ on about how beautiful the weather is, like the normal people are doin’. But no. I chose instead to shove Reeces cups into my mouth all winter and so here I am inside the house. Wearin’ big ole baggy sweatpants. Lookin’ out the window, bitchin’ about the warm sunny weather.

I guess if I started my diet tomorrow, I could end up comfortable in my shorts by, say, August. Maybe. If I didn’t get distracted by the stockpile of snacks in the pantry. I know what. I’ll start by cleaning out the pantry. Once that’s done, I’ll go buy some carrot sticks, pour a nice glass of water, and dust off the Jane Fonda tape. First thing tomorrow. I hear it’s gonna be another beautiful day.