CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?????

Another peaceful afternoon spoiled by my son. If that sounds harsh to you, a mother bemoaning the presence of her very own flesh and blood, well then... come back tomorrow.

How am I supposed to spin it? Make it more P.C.? My tired, hungry son returns from an afternoon play date seeking solace in his mother's heart and a bowl of Special K. Is that better? Whatever! All that may be true but within moments of his entering the peaceful space my daughter and I shared, I was on the receiving end of shrill screams, name-calling, flying objects and fake-out karate kicks. The idea of trying to ease his pain never comes to mind as I attempt to avoid my own serious injury.

Of course, I love my son. He's not always a demon child. In fact, in the past when sharing this behavior with his teachers, they all give me the same look of disbelief. He is a kid who NEVER gets in trouble at school, does well in all his subjects, and is generally respectful, sweet, and VERY amusing. But with me, with dear old mom, after school, he transforms into something altogether different. It's as if he's worked so hard all day to hold it together that when he gets home he erupts. All his pent-up frustrations, embarrassments, and missed goal kicks, come spewing out like an invisible, noxious gas.

Almost immediately, the evening becomes a scream-fest between me, my son and our dog. (I believe if my big, black lab could talk instead of bark VERY loud, she'd speak the famous words of Rodney King - hence today's title.) I slap together cook dinner while my son is upstairs screaming his head off calming down. The glass of red wine I've poured is spoiled but I continue to drink it, too spent to open another bottle.

I call my son down and he asks for a yogurt and some cereal. Within minutes he has shed his ogre costume and the figure of my adorable, approval-seeking boy has returned in it's place. He is fine. Fed. Satiated. I, on the other hand, am a basket-case. A heart palpitating, deep breathing, bundle of frazzled nerves.

He fills his glass of water and says in a casual, humorous tone, "It would be so cool if you were a robot mom. Then you'd have to do everything I told you."

I put down my almost empty glass of sour wine and wonder, "Why didn't I think of that?"





P.S. The picture is not of my son.

40 IS THE NEW 30

Really? Is that what they say? Cause, at 30, I don't remember my mother complaining of crow's feet, hot flashes and incontinence. Truthfully, I don't remember my mother at 30 because I was only 3, but trust me, she didn't talk about these things until she was closer to 50. If our generation is so youthful, so spry, so fountain of youth, then why are all my friends complaining that their bodies have hit the skids? My sister moans that since turning 40 she's had one long, chronic sinus infection and an extra 15 pounds that act like a bad house guest and refuse to leave. A friend complains she has to change out of her cold, sweat-drenched pajamas 2 to 3 times a night. Another one gripes of gray hairs that no amount of artificial color can cover. And when I'm out with the girls we hilariously, like a graceful circle of synchronized swimmers, pull out our reading glasses to read the menus.

Don't get me wrong, my friends and I are no hags. On the contrary, many of us, on a good day, could be labeled as M.I.L.F's. (Okay, maybe only by each other, but HEY, what are friends for??) Most of us eat well, take vitamins, exercise, yada, yada. We do everything most things right but we hit 40 and suddenly it's payback time. We took out high-interest loans on our nubile flesh to afford us a multitude of pleasures, excesses, and stupid mistakes. We deposited these sparkling, wild, and poignant memories into our mental banks to borrow against in our depleted old age. And so the reparations begin. But why should we pay for behaviors or actions that brought us no joy like bad posture, wearing uncomfortable shoes, or bad falls and injuries? That doesn't seem fair. Even having a baby, the most beautiful, natural, life-changing event, takes it's unjust toll when suddenly we can't take a crap without our hemorrhoids popping out or sneeze without streams of pee dribbling down our legs. (This actually happened to me when I cheered too loud after my son shot his first-ever basket and won the game for his team.)

If I only knew then what I know now, I would have appreciated my flat stomach, my strong bladder and my unblemished, silky, smooth hands. I would have learned to love my appearance, make the most of my flaws, rather than be my own worst judge. I would have listened to my OB-GYN and done more kegels!

So what's the point of this post besides sending you all into a depressed tailspin? The point is, whatever they say about 40 being the new 30, let's roll with it. Because when we hit 30, we mourned our 20's, at 40 we mourned our 30's. At 50, I presume we will mourn our 40's. Let's nip it in the bud and not waste any more of our precious time. Dr. Christiane Northrup, author of, THE WISDOM OF MENOPAUSE, describes this phase as an awakening - a time to replay the events of our lives and learn from our mistakes. An opportunity to do the things we've always wanted to do because we are aware that our time is valuable and it is limited.

We can look at this time in our lives as a glass half-empty or a glass half-full. I'm choosing the latter. You?

TIRED MOMMY

I just got over my third cold since Xmas and last night (just one day later!) a brand new scratchy throat and runny nose kept me from falling asleep. I didn't finish posting my last blog until around midnight (though I had started drafting it much earlier in the day) and I'm thinking between the new home biz and this blog (oh, and the kids, too), I'm burning the candle at both ends and in between. I don't know how you other bloggers manage to put out posts, quality posts, day after day. I'm exhausted. (As you may have noticed given that Monday's post referred to "yesterday" as a school day. That day had really been last Friday. Oh well.)

So, today's post is going to happen right now. No coming back to it after the kids are asleep. I will (hopefully) be in la-la land shortly thereafter.

I have no idea yet how to put this info in my sidebar (help, if any bloggers are reading...), so I'm going to share with you some of my favorite current reads. They sit on my nightstand in various stages of being read and provide me with much needed enjoyment and escape. Hopefully, you'll agree.

• SLOUCHING TOWARD BETHLEHEM, Joan Didion. These essays are so sharp, so exquisitely drawn. She is a magnificent writer. Loved YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING as well.
• WHAT WE TALK ABOUT WHEN WE TALK ABOUT LOVE, Raymond Carver. I have only begun to read his stories. His dialogue is incredible. Most, if not all, of his story and character are revealed through dialogue. I love his gruff, yet sensitive, male perspective.
• AFTER RAIN, William Trevor. Short stories by an author who was an important, inspiration to Jhumpa Lahiri. His story, "A Day," is sparsely written but nothing is left to the imagination. He also breaks the "rules" by shifting back and forth in time without warning, yet it is easy to follow. Brilliant. I can't wait to read more.
  
• HYPOCRITE IN A POUFFY WHITE DRESS, Susan Jane Gilman. I stumbled across this in my local bookstore and I'm loving her self-deprecating, comedic style. Anyone who grew up in the 70's will love her essays about growing up a chubby girl in New York City.
  

And though I'm not currently reading Jhumpa Lahiri, her short story compilation, INTERPRETER OF MALADIES, is a book I refer to often for inspiration and guidance. I can't wait for her new short fiction coming out this Spring. Also, I can't forget to mention one of my very favorite authors, Aimee Bender. She writes surreal fiction with such insight and heart, she makes you believe it's all real. I especially love her short story compilations, "THE GIRL IN THE FLAMMABLE SKIRT," and "WILLFUL CREATURES".

As you can see, I love short stories. I always have but especially now as a mom, I can at least finish a story and get to the next one, whenever. I have countless novels that have been read halfway through and still languish on my bookshelf. Short form is far less frustrating.

Please feel free to offer up any of your favorites. I'm always looking for a good read. No chick lit please. Most of it just ain't worth my valuable free time.

S.O.S. - Shit. Oh. Shit

Yesterday, my adorable, little 7 year old boy, while relaying the particulars of his day at school, called a friend who had behaved badly, a SHITHEAD.

WTF! No, he didn't learn it from me. I can't shuck all of the blame but I do know that lately he and his friends at school have been working on "vocabulary - building". And if it wasn't bad enough hearing that word emanate from his heretofore chaste lips, today, while doing homework, he yelled at our barking dog,

"What's your fucking problem?"

I knew what he said. I knew what I heard. Nevertheless, I could not believe my Mommy-In-Denial ears.

"What did you say?" I asked giving him a chance to redeem himself.
Quickly he conjured up, "Freakin'... I said freakin'."
"Hmm, good one," I thought to myself.
To him I said, "Up to your room. That language is not acceptable!"

I don't know about you but hasn't "that is not acceptable" lost it's mo-jo? I've been using it since I enrolled in my first rip-off baby class and where has it gotten me? It's like that great book, NO DAVID! After a while, the same phrase repeated over and over just falls upon deaf ears.

So what to do? Intellectually, I know curse words are empowering. That they have a cathartic release like no others. They're sexy and they're all around us. Back in July, our family stood on an airport security line next to a man who dropped his laptop on the floor. He yelled out, "Son of a Bitch!"At first, my son was shocked into silence. But within minutes he barraged me with questions.

"Mom, did he say Son of a "B" word?"
"Mom, what does that mean exactly?"
"Mom, why did he say that and not the "F" word?"

He still talks about that moment to this day.

So, I ask again, what to do? Lock the kid up? Send him to Catholic school? (My temple might not be too thrilled.) Home school him? No, please God, no! Not that! I've heard it takes a village...but what kind of village? Is there really a village? In Los Angeles, it certainly ain't my village.

I've read this article and that article seeking help but putting money in the swear box quickly grows old and eating soap just seems so Donna Reed.

Tonight, after reading a bedtime story, my boy, as he often does, asked me to crack an egg over his head to help him fall asleep. As I danced my fingers from his wavy hair down past his arms, his giggles and sweetness brought me back to a more innocent time: the scent of Johnson and Johnson, the softness of peach fuzz, the knowing embrace of tiny, curled fingers.

I think of this and I want to help the foul-mouthed, little booger. S.O.S.

Until tomorrow...

CLOAK OF SHAME

I could have written this blog last night but all I could manage after putting my kids to bed was to crawl under my covers and let the day fade into null and void. It was a humiliating day. A degrading day that kept on giving.

I awoke sick with my third cold since Christmas (damn those kids!). Hubby is out of town on his boondoggle business trip, so I dragged my congested self out of bed, pulled my dirty hair into an unattractive ponytail, skipped the make-up and drove the kids to school. I left the house feeling shitty and looking worse but since I was already out I figured I'd get some errands done so I could go home and rest. As some of you know, I started a business from home. It requires frequent trips to the local post office. I'd been there a few times before but until now I didn't realize the postal ladies have worked there forever. Customers know their names and they know the customers. Now that I have this business, I'd begun to establish a nice rapport with these ladies. I ventured in to send an international package. I didn't have the right box to ship out of the country so a friend who has a similar business suggested I turn the Priority box inside out and tape it up. Perfect, I say. So I do that and wander in with my package. Anita was taking care of me when her supervisor, Trini, took notice of my box.

"Is that a Priority box?" Trini asked.
"Yes," I told her not thinking anything of it. "I was told I could turn it inside out."
"Oh no. You cannot do that. Very bad. Very bad," Trini scolded.
Anita looked apologetic and handed the box back to me.

Now this box, this package, for reasons too boring to delve into here, had kept me busy ALL morning. I wanted this package out of my hands and pronto. I won't go into the embarrassing details but suffice it to say, I did something stupid. M-O-R-O-N-I-C. A big "L" for loser should have been stamped on my forehead. I did something, that as I looked back on it all day and into the evening, I shivered from the memory.

I blame it on the illness. My usual intelligence must have been suffocating, struggling to get out from under vast gobs of gross green gook.

Like a swarm of rabid school girls the postal ladies called me to the mat.

Yvonne stood, her hand on her hip, glaring at me, "Do you think we're stupid? Is that what you think of us?"
"No," I mustered.
"You are insulting us," she accused me.
I looked down at my purse in crimson-faced shame and murmured, "I'm not trying to insult you."

My excuse fell flat. She was right, I did insult them. I just wanted to get my business done so I could rest before the after school chaos. Insulting them was not my intent, just an unfortunate by-product. They did not let me send my package. Sheepish, I exited .

Hoping to wash that moment away, I ran some additional errands around town. At the UPS mail store, I stood on line next to a man who asked, "Aren't you the woman from the post office?"
"What?" I asked, as my bacteria-laden brain slowly registered his face.
"The woman who just got yelled at at the post office...wasn't that you?"
Sigh.
"Yes, yes," I admitted, "That was me."

I walked down the block to where I'd parked my car. A women looking for a space pulled up and asked if I was leaving.
"Yes, I'm right there," I pointed to my car.
"Great. Thanks."

I was doing a nice thing, I told myself. Being proactive. Changing the vibe of my day. Right, Oprah? Wrong. The passenger of that car got out and walked next to me.

"Oh," she said as she saw my face, "Weren't you just at the post office?"
"The UPS store?" I asked. Hoping, continuing to shell out those positive vibes.
"No, the post office. Weren't you the one they were yelling at."
Sigh.
"Yes, yes," I admitted. " That was me."

Was I wearing a scarlet USPS logo on my jacket? Did the whole community witness my humiliation. Were people talking about me over their mocha lattes?

I skulked around the rest of day, useless. I couldn't shake the cloud of disgrace that enveloped me. I wasn't myself with the guys at my favorite hamburger stand. I could see their concern when I didn't smile or try to make them laugh. No matter how many years had passed, no matter how much therapy and experience I'd had, no matter how much I'd changed, this one incident resurrected deeply buried feelings of isolation and shame. Oprah and her The Secret experts had a point. I put the "I am worthless" vibe out there and that's what came back to me. I felt alone, glum, as I had so many times in the past.

Later that afternoon, after pulling out of the carpool lane at my daughter's school, I waited at a red light on a busy boulevard. A man on the sidewalk pointed to my front tire.

"Oh, no. Please God no, don't let it be a flat, " I said to myself. "I just don't have it in me today." I opened my window.
"What's up?" I asked using a cheerful voice to mask my dread.
"You've got an orange construction cone stuck to your tire. You're driving around with it," he said

At this point, the light turned green and traffic started to move. He told me to back up and he'd pull the cone off my tire. Trying to back up during rush hour on a busy boulevard in Los Angeles is no easy task. Not only was I holding up the cars behind me, I was asking them to move back! Loud honks and angry screams later, the man peeled the flattened cone off my tire and tossed it onto the sidewalk. I thanked him in the quickest way possible and blew it on out of there.

This morning I pulled out of the same school parking lot after drop off to find the dirty orange cone standing upright next to a bus stop advertisement of Kate Hudson and Matthew McConnaughey for "Fools Gold". Despite it's slovenly appearance, the cone stood erect and proud next to the pair of glistening Hollywood gods - like it belonged there.

I'll take symbolism anywhere I can get it, especially if it means shedding my cloak of self-contempt. I had planned on taking my package (now in a non-Priority box) to a different post office to avoid further ridicule. Instead, I walked into my local post office and faced the enemy. I greeted the postal ladies warmly and contritely. They shipped off my package. I closed the circle on a bad day. I smiled.

I think I'll bring them some home-baked cookies next time, just in case...

(Moral of the story: Never turn a USPS Priority box inside out. They give it to customers free and don't want you using it for other cheap-y services. Or... just make sure it's sealed and they can't tell!)

CHEATER, CHEATER

I'm going to bed tonight with two men and neither of them are my husband.

Before you get all holier-than-thou on me, or wriggle with envy, let me introduce you. The two men I'm sleeping with tonight are: Raymond Carver and Jon Stewart. Odd choices... an unlikely duo...you say? Well, it works for me. and me is what tonight's all about.

My husband's away on yet another boondoggle business trip and I'm here with the kids, the dog, the dishes, the laundry. Same ol', Same ol'. So why not stir up the pot a little? I love my husband and I enjoy sex (at least some of the time) but tonight I don't need to linger in the bathroom flossing-every-tooth-and-plucking-every-hair. Tonight, I can get right into bed and the pleasure will be all MINE.

Now you may think you know where I'm going with this. Raymond +Jon+the energizer rabbit bunny=1 satisfied merlotmommy. But no. This is not at all a physical endeavor. With a little time on my hands, I'm scratching the itch for a little intellectual stim. A few beautifully constructed sentences. A couple of crafty jokes. I'm getting under the covers with these two creative fellows hoping they will rub some of their genius off on me. I'm using them and loving every minute of it. Now, I'm outta here, I've got two men waiting for me.



Until tomorrow...

I'M IN!!!

Thank you to She's Just Another Manic Mommy for tagging me with this meme and making me feel a part of the group! It's just like junior high school without the mean girls (at least I think without the mean girls...this has yet to be seen...)

The rules are as follows: (1)Link to the person that tagged you. (2)Post the rules on your blog. (3)Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself. (I apologize in advance!!!)(4)Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs. (5)Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.

1. I kiss my dog more than I kiss my husband.
2. I wish I could date my son.
3. If you leave anything out for more than a few minutes I will throw it away.
4. I love to read books but I'll be a grandmother before I finish any of them.
5. I'm an NPR Junkie who listens to podcasts on my earphones in the bathtub.
6. I never look as good in the real world as I do in my bathroom mirror.

I'm going to tag Slouching Mom because she has been supportive of me and my newbie blog status. (BTW - how do you use strikethrough on blogger!!) And I'm sharing the love with Tracy Gallagher, travel correspondent extraordinaire because she's a great person and the only personal friend I have who also has a blog. I'm reaching out to Dawn at Belle of the Blog because she too has been a member of my (hopefully growing) support system. Robert Flutie because I forgot he's the ONLY OTHER friend I have who has a blog. Jenn who is a new friend in the blogosphere who doesn't share the blog-love as much as I'd like her too. And, last but not least, Rose because she was the very first to respond to my blog and she did it while breastfeeding. The reason (or so she claims) for her eye-catching freudian slip.

And, of course, thank you to my agents, my manager, my lawyer, my business manager, mom, dad, dog, etc...