Now that my kids are soon to be vacating the house on a semi permanent basis I need to fill a void that has been lying dormant for years. Something that I have been aVOIDing to do based on my life as a wife, mother, dog walker, housekeeper, nurse, chief cook and bottle washer, chauffeur, laundress, accountant, gardener, psychiatrist, travel agent, consultant, sports authority, and sibling rivalry referee………
I am ready to Tap-out now and try my attempt at re-entering the workforce. It has been years since I’ve held full time work and I am not afraid to go out into this world and show them exactly what I’ve got:
I’ve got a wardrobe from the 1990’s.
I’ve got the ability to apply my half -used free samples of Lancome products that I acquired over the years during a Macy*s back to school sale. Yes, I got a little side tracked at the Mall while hunting for back-packs and lunch boxes.
In fact, I’ve got pulled aside by many mall make up artist’s who try to perform their magic on me. I can’t imagine why they keep picking me out of the crowd of soccer moms. I arrive dressed in appropriate attire when the doors open in the morning. I see nothing wrong with waking up and sliding down my fire pole to slip into my uniform sweats that have been standing at attention all night, accompanied by dirty Vans and a Hoodie. I carry an odiferous aroma about my being ranging between Downey fabric softener and last night’s Pizza.
I’ve got my hair in an erect ponytail and I shield my puffy bags with over sized Raybans. I can’t imagine why the make-up crews single me out……..
I’ve got the ability to clean up while driving and apply make-up at stop intervals. The drivers behind me hate it though, they keep honking at me just because I’m waiting for the Stop sign to turn green. I thought it would buy me more time with the Mascara…. I find it takes two applications now. One; to find the lashes, and two; to glue together the few that I have left…..forming a uni-lash.
The downfall about putting make-up on in a car are the bumps in the roads. They are always working on our streets and neglecting to refill the potholes, so when I finally reach my final destination ( usually the school drop off line) and park my car and get out, I notice people staring and kids pointing in my direction.
After transmitting my morning without coffee sneer to ward off evil onlookers, I take a quick pause into the ladies room to wash the morning gas of my hands from filling the empty tank left by my husband. I looked up at the mirror as I rinsed the suds off my paws and saw what the villagers were scoffing at: My freshly applied make-up face resembled a combination of Picaso’s Weeping Woman and Baby Jane Hudson’s as she delivered a Parakeet to her sister…….
I’ve got a pair of pumps that my feet haven’t felt in ages. One cannot describe the agonizing pinch of the toes that have been granted freedom in flip flops with arches that collapsed from the great depression of Ked’s insoles. I took the time one late afternoon to strap on some heels and practice walking in them around the house with no one around to witness the teetering and the giant fight against balance, except Charly-dog, who steered clear of my runway in fear of a crash landing.
I spent the better half of the day shuffling about in my designer heels that peeped out from my Yoga pants. I practiced my walk until I felt I had it down to a science and stopped echoing a staggering drunk on some forgotten street. I felt confident and assured that I had tackled the High Heel dilemma and ventured to take my stiletto’s to another dimension: The Stair case.
Climbing up the steps was met with ease….. it was the descent that had me clinging to the banister like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, avoiding a result mimicking Scarlett O’Hara’s demise after her lunge toward a drunken Butler…….
I’ve got a resume. Somewhere. It hasn’t been updated since the Clinton administration. Just a minor
I’ve got credentials. I’m accredited with incredibility. References available upon request. Go ahead…..request. Request until the cows come home. Habeas corpus; I can produce the body……..it’s just a little rusty and needs a make over….which the Lancome staff has a signed commitment to uphold……
If you don’t like my credibility try my crudites. They are incredible, and edible, but not available upon request.
I’ve got the corporate beige panty hose that are tied up in knots from the last load in the wash cycle.
I’ve got a brief case from 1987 that needs airing.
I’ve got a boat load of humor stuck in me that is trying to float to the surface………………..
spread the humor.
I received something the other day in the (e)mail. It is entitled:
The Kreativ Blogger Award
No, I did not misspell the word…I’m not that Kreative…
I would like to extend a modicum of appreciation to all the Blogheads out there that actually take the time out of their hectic days to unravel my sardonic
pen and ink……..er…contents of my motherboard……
This is my second honor bestowed upon my Blog and has been brought to you by:
I would like to send a simple and humble Thank You to this inspirational artist that awarded me this honor and it couldn’t happen at a better time…..just after the Oscars….
Unfortunately CW was unavailable to be here to accept this gracious award so she sent her Charly -Dog on her behalf:
Now let us commence with the program:
Here’s the rules of engagement:
1) Thank the person that Nominated you: THANK YOU! & See above in RED…
2) List 7 interesting things about myself: 1 through 7, please refer back to my Versatile Blogger Award…nothing has changed except I am aging…
3) Nominate 7 more Blogheads: My choices are based on the humor these Blogger’s Kreativly Inject and don’t realize how Kreativly funny they are:
woodgatesview.wordpress.com Ignorethebucklesonmyjacket.wordpress.com up2randomthoughts.wordpress.com
pooterandboogersplace.wordpress.com passionateaboutpets.wordpress.com souldipper.wordpress.com
gaycarboys.wordpress.com mostlybrightideas.wordpress.com myzencity.wordpress.com sandysays1.wordpress.com
bridgesburning.wordpress.com leftwingnutjob.wordpress.com newsanvil.wordpress.com digitalbungalow.wordpress.com
and any food, travel, picturesque, blog I may have missed but always enjoy : I tip my Blog off to you.
As you can see I added more than the allotted 7, I believe rules are made to be broken……
Thank you to all my faithful followers and I tip my funny bone off to you all!
Spread the Humor: CW
I like the sound of my house in the morning. It begins with a serene calmness surrounded by an abundance of quiet, and ends with a clamor of energies erupting from a mixture of tyrannical teens, a traveling husband, and a wayward dog.
I fancy the stillness to inspire me to write…or…er..scribble down thoughts, however, the only thing materializing in my brain is “still” trying to transpire. I need a muse. Maybe the sound of music might amuse me and become museful to help with motivation which could ignite and spark a plethora of musettes to clear the cobwebs visiting my minds museum.
Too much quiet seems to have a Sesame Street affect on me and it’s forcing me to spew an assortment of M’s & more M’s. Might as well face it I’m addicted to love of alliteration. It’s a nasty habit, but it’s really just for the pun of it.
For the new year I was trying to get a blog in edgewise at least once a week, but I would find myself sitting and staring at the computer hoping that the keyboard would miraculously take it’s alphabet and form an idea or two….
Sometimes I rest my hands on the keys in the typewriter formation that I learned in eighth grade from a teacher who was missing three fingers, and I would sit in a trance awaiting an idea to hit that compels my fingers to vibrate across the raised letters like a divining tool over a Ouija Board.
Sometimes I find myself sitting at the desk with my head in my hands closing my eyes with all my might in hopes that an anecdote will squeeze out from the darkness. The only things that appear to pop through from that ritual are new wrinkles in the corners of my eyes from clamping my lids shut.
Sometimes I walk around the house looking for anything to stimulate a brainstorm , but, usually I end up facing a few messy rooms that look as though they weathered a storm and curse at the dirty laundry that is multiplying faster than bunnies.
Sometimes I jump into my mom uniform and take the crazy dog out for a walk in the “hood” hoping to grab some outdoor information that could trigger some hyperboles of life. My dog was my original muse when I started this blog adventure, but now we both just walk amongst ourselves in silence soaking in scenery and leftover urine floating atop the grass. Even my dog carries the “No Vacancy” aura atop is pea brain. Lately it feels like I’m taking Eeyore for an apathetic walk…
Sometimes I check my email and witness an assortment of blogger’s have been busy at blogging. I admire the folks that are able to write once a day and even sometimes twice a day. Sometimes I find my Inbox is inundated weekly with subscriptions that I am too caught up in reading and I find I have left no time to formulate my own mental material. I wish I had the time to blog every day or even every week. I tried once, on January 1st of each year since the onset of this blog, I tried with all my mighty imagination to transcribe daily. A day turned into two days….then three days….then a week….then a month….then I found myself caught up in living life instead of attempting to write about it.
Sometimes I load my brain cells with caffeine to try and jump start a synapse. I step and fetch myself a warm cappuccino thinking the lovely aroma of my Italian espresso blend will activate an afflatus. All it seems to produce is a mild movement towards a quiet ladies room. I never afflatus in public.
Sometimes I just want to stop all this blogsense and quit. Maybe free up my stagnant legs that hide under the desk while the varicosities await their first thrombosis. Maybe give the chair cushion a break and let the micro-foam have a breather and work the dent out. Maybe give my eyes a break from the vibrant glare on my screen….oh…wait…I have transition lenses. I utilize the Hunter S. Thompson technique….minus the cigarette.
Yes, I like the sound of my house in the morning that harbors a unique calmness before it’s inundated with the walking dead teens and a tumbling dog chasing a husband who checks in and out and leaves his keys at the front desk.
The desk that shelters the immobile legs and supports the bent elbows that hold the hands that clasp the head which contains the brain that is trying to channel amusements blogged by a jack of all trades…….
spread the humor.
My high school son announced the other day that he was getting a tattoo.
I told him: “That’s nice, and when you leave for your INK appointment make sure you take extra clothes with you”.
He stated back: ” Why? Do they make you change your clothes?”.
“No”. I smiled back at him….” You’ll be needing something to wear when you find yourself no longer living in this house for doing something stupid”.
“My friend Jordan got one”….He mocks back. “It’s scripture, written under his arm”.
“Well”, I breath out between gritted teeth, “I’m sure God will be pleased to know that his word is being spread through Jordan’s armpit”.
He carries on: “You know I turn 18 soon, and I don’t need your permission. That’s what Jordan did”.
I hate that sense of entitlement and the continual referencing of the legal age of consent being thrown at me. Just four years prior I had to defend against the dark art of over usage of that illegal statement by my daughter. (That’s right..I call it an Illegal statement because teens tend to use it before they are deemed legal).
I smiled that smile you may have seen painted across the Mona Lisa’s face; the one that smirks: I’m not that innocent…..
I shot back: ” Son, you are right, you don’t need my permission, nor my money, nor a roof over your head, nor the car you drive, nor the snowboard and all the equipment that goes with it, nor the food in the fridge, nor the education I provided, nor the pants that hang below the boxer line, nor the straight teeth, nor the numerous Doctor visits to cure your acne, nor…”
“Mom”…he tries to chime in, interrupting my total recall as I tally his bill and prepare an invoice for Mom Services Rendered.
“Moooom, stop already..I get it”.
“Oh sorry son, sometimes my Stepford brain wiring runs amok with phrases pertaining to child rearing chores…”
I continue; ” It triggers a signal when a teen gives me eye rolling attitude and it can fly out of control when such teen harbors intense entitlement followed by contemptible demands that are rooted and enhanced by Jordan’s freshly stamped armpit”.
How is it that I give birth to two different children of two different genders four years apart, yet I am met with similar situations at roughly the same time intervals? How…
My daughter once came to me at the same age and roughly the same time with the same demand: I’m getting a tattoo. Why do they pick a tattoo. Why not a new spiral notebook or a matching pair of High GPA’s. If they are looking to instill the shock value, getting high scores might do it for me…..
As far as I can tell, I quashed the tattoo dilemma with my daughter the same way I managed to hold off any piercings in areas where they don’t belong. When my daughter was five she wanted her ears pierced. Her reasoning at the time was:
“Because her friend Emily is getting her ears pierced”.
I wasn’t going to get into the family accolade of my mother’s comeback to anything I wanted to do in benefit of someone else, that being: “Well would you jump off a bridge if so-n-so jumped off a bridge?”.
In which I always responded with: “Possibly… it depends on the weather”. Or some ending that would throw her a curve ball and cause her Stepford Brain to re-route…
I brought my daughter to a local mall to get her ears pierced as she petitioned. As we stood next in line, the first piercing victim was a four year old girl stepping up to a high stool minus any arm support. We watched as the ear-piercing attendant approached her with a giant gun that shoots studs into her delicate lobes. My daughter witnessed an unbearable Ear Piercing scream from the cute little waif and grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit doors.
The next piercing conversation that came up was in her teens when the rave was attaching a gold hoop through your navel, nose, tongue, and any other not for prime time area of the body. I merely discussed with her that should she attempt to pierce anything but the lobe of her ears, I will personally shop her down and remove the piercing my self….no anesthesia required…..
My first born’s inclinations for obtaining an underage tattoo came about later ,nearing her high school graduation. She, too, offered up the proverbial ” Household Teen Amendment” of: “When I’m eighteen………..”.
It was then I took the medical approach to describe in pain staking detail to my daughter the artistry of Tattooing, knowing full well of the intense fear she has of needles. I know this first hand from the early years of her receiving inoculations by the Pediatrician. My daughter required a Swat team to steady her limbs…..
I continued my diatribe of the long term effect of hosting a tattoo. I calmly explained that depending upon the physical location of this desired Ink Splotch, she will wake up one morning with that cute little butterfly she posted on the lower 40 anatomy and discover its collagen wings collapsed and fell into a fatty fold. And in another thirty years or so she will experience the butterfly defect of The Girl with the Dragging tattoo….
For all you fresh parents out there who shelter tiny tots and elementary dumplings who can’t imagine ever being confronted with issues outside of Gerber, Lego, and little league; hold onto your diaper bags when you hit that bump in the stroller. There will come a time when one has to confront the battle of the almost legal teen who proudly injects their unprincipled Bill of Rights onto your List of Wrongs.
Just make sure you don your under armor and prepare for the battle of parental injustice as they cry foul play when you take their hand in yours and guide them down that road of teenage wasteland to take a sneak peek under their armpit nation…….
spread the humor. This one’s for you Karen…
I have been doing time as a quasi- stay- at -home parent for..let’s say…..22.5 years. I believe I have met the necessary requirements and demands that became the imprisoned criteria throughout those years in order to obtain freedom from: boring PTA meetings, exhaustible Fund Raisers, Mad Max Sports Chauffeur, 24 hour on call chef , Personal Shopper, Emotional Referee, and in-house psychiatrist…..All this parental jurisprudence under one leaky roof to allow freedom while enforcing order among family chaos….
I have enjoyed my time in this institution of parenting through each and every stage of child development. All the way from directing developing girls into their first wonder bra, to underdeveloped boys figuring out how to un-hook them.
It seems like only yesterday that my daughter was putting her toddler feet into my size 8 Charles Jourdan’s teetering and shuffling through the house while leaving a trail of scratch marks on the hardwoods. Now she is grown and shuffles her Knock-off collection between college and home via the trunk of a car, and still teeters and stumbles in her stiletto’s on the hardwoods.
And my son, soon to approach high school graduation and walk towards that collegiate path where he will pick up the fork in the road and use it as a reminder of all the lovely over cooked meals mom made for him. I think he will enjoy his “leaving the nest” gift I constructed out of the equipment and attire that lays suffocating inside his sports bag gasping for a breath of fresh Febreze huddled in the garage for months on end….…..oh it just brings tears to my eyes……..
Yes, time flies when you’re raising kids. Sometimes too fast and in certain predicaments, sometimes not fast enough. Looking back for example: Potty training. My children had stubborn bottoms. There was no way in Hell that they were going to plant their tuschies on a porcelain stool containing water with a hole in it and “let loose”. They might fall in and who knows where that would lead to.
I invested in a lot of time and energy and “potty” reading material in order to get my kids trained in toiletry. I researched all the child experts and read their advice on bathroom training and the commode controversy. All that information just filtered an assortment of crap that drained me and I was left pooped for the day. Who has that kind of time to sit and read lengthy descriptive potty books to toddlers in hopes to encourage a movement.
When my kids did finally concede to try the pot located in a chamber adjacent to their rooms, they found themselves actually liking it and would sit for what seemed like hours. Once my son hopped off the pot to go grab a toy and return to the bathroom theater to reenact the “mummy” with Elmo wrapped in Ultra Soft.
My daughter took a more regal approach and dragged her Crayola markers to the throne as she mastered an imitation of a Calder painting onto the toilet tank.
Yes, those were the days that I didn’t mind if the hours raced on ahead…
Lately,I find myself caught in a web that spins in only two directions as my parenting comes down a home stretch creating a possibility for early parole….if you’ll Pardon the expression. There is a minor offensive feeling of freedom when you are about to face an empty nest. It’s sort of an unleashed guilty pleasure of retreating back to what was once designated as ” Me Time”; yet, at the same time, harboring a push-me-pull-you defense against “letting Go”.
Just as I came to grips with the realization that my household was soon to be down to basically Charly-dog and me, and I started to feel the content and joy of releasing most of the everyday tedium involved with indwelling kids. Just as my heart started to jump for joy as I unfastened the shackles of daily duties revolving around kid schedules and looking forward to…oh….I dunno………. perennial Spa time?……..
I received a phone call.
My son’s school called to ask if we could be an “emergency host family for a foreign exchange student from Holland who needed a place until graduation in June”.
This all came about before the holidays. I could not lie and tell my sons school that there was “no room at the inn”, so I took the little Dutch boy in.
Apparently Amsterdam Boy and my son are two tulips in a vase. They became best friends at the beginning of the school year. When Holland boy’s window of opportunity landed from Netherland into our home, I swear I had met my sons Doppleganger. They are the same size and shape. They laugh alike, they walk alike, and times they even talk alike.……….in different languages.
They are both carved out of the same Dutch Elm. Both their bedrooms resemble an aftermath of the Fourth Anglo-Dutch war. The shrapnel of clothing splinter out from the opened dresser drawers and wounded trousers lay lifeless on the floor from their nights frivolity. I gather up dirty laundry from two countries now. I find myself lost in the glory of scooping up the minor coins that strategically drop from loosened pockets throughout the house. I’ll hang onto the Euro’s from Dutch boy until the exchange rate drops to our level, then give him a buy back option…
I will conclude that hosting a foreign exchange student has actually turned out to be a pleasure. There are no major complications and the language barrier is minimal. He respects my professionalism I’ve acquired in the experience of teen behavior: Eye Rolling is International.
Yes, confronting the empty nest syndrome has had some effect on me. It caused me to confront the hollow spaces left behind where dirty laundry and missing History assignments use to congregate. I always thought when this time came, I would succumb to the sadness of a half empty house and wallow and wine as I second guess my parenting skills. Skills that did not include instructions from the onset. Skills that you obtained through trial and error and all the Dr. Spock books in the world could not prepare you for. Skills that have been handed down from generations nursing verbal acuity with four simple words:
“Because I said so….”
Yes, the bars will be lifted soon and I will be set free to roam about the cabin without tripping over size 13 shoes left in the middle of the kitchen floor; accompanied now with size 12 Faux Wooden clog slippers. Something tells me my nest won’t be empty for long and my parental ship will not be sailing into the sunset where freedom rings and Chianti flows rampant, and responsibility can take a back seat. Something out there is still lurking around and sniffing about my feet to fill the void that is soon to come…..
Oh..yea… I forgot………Charly-dog.
spread the humor
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,300 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.
I think I may try to post something once a day to drive the readers crazy or to possibly have them ask for more……
Last night I had a dream about Bill Gates. I have had dreams of famous people before but never one of this caliber or fortuitous in nature. I don’t know why Mr. Gates decided to pop into my castle in the air, maybe it’s the menopause gods messing with my brain; but he landed there anyway and the dream took place in an automobile. He was driving of course, and I was in the passenger seat.
The car in the dream was not the one I actually found myself leaning on one cold afternoon outside the Westin Hotel while waiting for the airport Taxi to arrive. In the dream, this auto was a very sleek Cadillac Escolade with tinted windows…
I have never had the pleasure to meet Mr. gates. I have only seen pictures of him on integral publications. I knew his dad was a lawyer in Seattle like mine was, and maybe, just maybe, they crossed paths a few times in the court house elevator to exchange briefs…….
Anyway….. as I was heading back to Los Angeles and awaiting a transport vehicle to pick me up along with the other less fortunate’s who couldn’t afford a cab, the “Sit-n-Wait” bench was occupied and I was left with standing room only. Nestled under the car port in the semi circular drive to the entrance of the Hotel I noticed a Mercedes abandoned sitting close to the pick up area. I mozied on over and leaned my too- tired-to-stand-anymore- rump against the rear fender with one leg propped atop my Hartman carry- on, balancing the Times on my knee working on a puzzle I started three days earlier. Just when I finished filling in an 11 letter word for Mega rich person who monopolizes the computer industry……….
I heard an attendant scatter about rustling a set of keys and running after a man walking towards the Teal car where I was resting my laurels and he tossed out a quiet yell:
“Here’s your keys Mr. Gates”.
My tuschie came off the back end of that car as if it had just sat down on a wet seat on the Subway headed to Coney Island. I slowly looked to my right to catch a glimpse of what I presumed might be the Billionaire, (it could also have been my eighth grade science teacher. Same name different
incomes outcomes). It turned out to be the Microsoft Mogul and I was hoping he wasn’t going to instruct the attendant to have me removed and get his car dusted for commoner butt prints….
What I actually witnessed was Bill giving me a double take. He looked at me twice before he opened his car door to get in and didn’t utter a sound.
There are only a few reasons I can think of when someone looks at you twice:
one: you think you recognize that person,
two: you like what you see and you have to have seconds.
three: “what was this girl thinking resting on his specially made Teal Sadies as if it were a hitching post equipped with a watering hole. Why the nerve of that girl placing her back pocket of her designer jeans against my hand crafted rear panel indulging in the New York Times Puzzle. What,….. she’s too good for the Seattle Times Sudoku??”.
O.k…That actually happened…..with the exception of the NY Times…..I was reading the Horoscope section holding a pen………
My dream last night about Mr. Gates opened with the two of us riding about in a giant SUV and he was yakking about how we were going to go swimming at a club that my family belongs to.
He was very concerned about my “knowing how to swim”, and “do I like swimming”.( I didn’t know how to respond because it was 30 degrees out and snow was still on the ground and swimming was the last thing on my mind.) As I sat there in the passenger seat groping for an answer that would honor the Mega- Trazillionaire, my puppy , Charly-dog, popped onto the dashboard and rummaged through the front seat of Gates car as if he owned it.
Mr. Gates started quizzing me about Charly-dog and asked: “what kind of food he eats” and “if the food was expensive” and “was it tasty“.
I informed him of the brand and mumbled that I had not yet sampled it.
Then I woke up. I woke up with a feeling that I had just held a private meeting with one of the top richest men in the country and our conversations centered around swimming and dog chow, instead of great stock tips or insight to a new pc product. I was left drowning in a Pool of Purina……..
I don’t know about anyone else, but conquering menopause without medication is starting to have it’s effect on me. The estrogen has now hit the subconscious below sea level. My anterior pituitary has reached its last droplets of hormonal secretions and is casting its FSH out to the sea of dreams. Flooding the GATES of REM. I use to have dreams that had me floating atop the clouds care-free……with no Dog interruptus……….
Thank God my puppy was there to witness the whole thing, he smiled at me in the morning as if everything went swimmingly well…..
spread the humor.