Strike a Pose...

Since I was out of commission and vegetating for a month, I was forced to watch (or listen) way too much TV.

I discovered that there’s a marathon of “America’s Next Top Model” running at all times. Not always on the same channel (our cable company offers 50 bazillion channels) – I think they rotate. When it ends on one channel, it starts on another. It seems to be some secret TV law. Tyra must know Oprah.

She (Tyra) has had some interesting judges over the years – Twiggy and Paulina are boring, the “J’s” are fun, Nigel Barker is yummy, but my absolute favorite is Janice Dickinson. That chick makes Charlie Sheen look like an amateur when it comes to bat-shit crazy.

Each cycle is the same – there’s the makeover with the inevitable meltdown (don’t cut/bleach/dye/weave/unweave my hair!!!!!!), the nude or semi-nude shot, the trip overseas, the run your ass off to appointments episode, the animal/reptile/creepy-crawlie shot, and the “Easy, Breezy, Beautiful Cover Girl!” commercial shoot.

I’m not sure what the purpose of this is – you never see these girls in the actual TV promotions. Drew Barrymore, Rihanna, Ellen Degeneres, Queen Latifah and recently, Taylor Swift. But no Top Models… nope, not one.

Each winner gets a $100,000 contract with Cover Girl – to do nothing?

I’m getting really good at doing nothing...

Watch…

See?

Hey Tyra, sign me up.





I'm baaaaaaaaaack! Sort of...

As promised, here is the re-cap of my recent detached retina surgery. I’ll just give you the highlights (if you’re interested in the gross details, check WebMD).

Diagnosis: Sometime around mid-March, I noticed a shadow across the vision in my left eye – made an appointment with my doctor to get it checked out. I had no clue what it meant, but to be honest I didn’t think it was a big deal. Until he said “surgery.” OMFG. Surgery on my eyeball?

From that point on, most of it was a blur. He was great about explaining how it would work, but all the words just ran together – removegelfromeyeinsertgasbubbleineyeballbandbuckleheadpositioning blah,blah,blah.

And all of this would be done as an Outpatient.

The one thing I do remember is that he said nothing I did or didn’t do caused this – they don’t really know for sure but it seems to be more common in people who are nearsighted. And it happens far more often than I ever imagined. Coming as I do from a family where EVERYTHING was my fault, this was very comforting. This was rough enough to absorb without the added stress of truckloads of Catholic guilt.

They talked to me about the recovery process (the surgery is 10% and head positioning 90% in determining a successful outcome) but it didn’t really sink in till later.

Day of Surgery: I have to give huge props to the staff at Yale New Haven Hospital. They run that outpatient surgery center like a gentle assembly line. Kind of like The Wash & Brush Up Company in the Emerald City where Dorothy and the gang got spiffed up to see the Wizard.

Which is a good thing because it was 6:00 am and I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink (not even water!) since 10:00 pm the night before. So, off with the clothes and on with a Johnny coat and some funky socks with rubber grips n them – I guess that’s to discourage patients from sliding down the halls like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.

Then they marked my forehead with a Sharpie and covered me with a warm blanket. Yes, heated – warm. How sweet is that? Didn’t have to wait long (did I mention how efficient they are?) before they walked me into the Operating room.

This is the assembly line part – on the table, strapped down, sheet over my face (except for the eye), bang, zoom – done. The anesthesia was that Twilight thing (without sparkles) so I was in and out during the procedure, but too loopy to really remember much. They rolled me over face down and that was a wrap.

Recovery Week One: Face down, 22-24 hours a day. The gas bubble (in my eyeball!) floats, so to get it to press the retina back where it belongs, you must be in a prone position constantly.

Sounds pretty simple, right?

We rented this ergonomic torture device which came in the form of a chair and another brace to attach to a bed. I’d been on chairs like this before when getting a massage, but I was never really able to adjust this one to a comfortable position. So I spent the week in bed. My face resting in a donut-shaped cushion on a metal frame, attached to the end of the bed. Usually during the night, the donut cushion would shift and I’d wake up with a painful bruise on my forehead from resting on the metal brace. (Ladies, if you ever did it in the back seat of a car, you know EXACTLY what this feels like.)

I was banished to the guest room downstairs because I can’t negotiate the stairs. Navigating is unbelievably difficult when you can only see your own feet. Just getting to the bathroom is an adventure – going anywhere else is terrifying. Especially if I don’t have something (or someone) to hold on to.

Thank God for audio books. I had a portable disc player and a bucketful of audio books – that was my only entertainment. Although, I did tend to fall asleep – this deep, Zen sleep – so I’m not really sure how much of those books I actually listened to and how much I absorbed subliminally.

Recovery Week Two: By now, I’m getting a little stir crazy, so I would wander (face down) to the living room and sit doubled over on the sofa, listening to TV. Then meander back to the bedroom. Other than trips to the doctor’s office, that was pretty much the extent of my traveling.

At the end of week two, the doctor gave me the OK to sit up and lift my head. Although I still have to sleep on my right side.

Yes – Freedom!!!

But…

The gas bubble is shrinking as it’s absorbed and as it shrinks, it moves. I can’t feel it, but my vision is wonkier than ever.

This is the only way I can describe it - you’re looking through a glass of muddy water – the bottom is all murky, the top is clear, and the surface of the liquid (which runs right across the center of your vision) wiggles whenever you move. If I move too fast, I get a little motion-sick.  It's very unsettling to say the least.

And my depth perception is completely out of whack. Little things like putting toothpaste on my toothbrush are challenges – bigger things like going down stairs are terrifying.

Recovering: So, I’m upright now, allowed to read and use the computer – but I’m only good for about an hour on the PC before I get a headache. Still using drops to keep the eye dilated, so it’s very sensitive to light. Can’t drive, exercise or lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk. And on those rare occasions when the guys take me out, I have to wear those stylish huge dark sunglasses. Yeah, I know… stunning.

All in all, I’m getting better every day. The procedure was painless. Even though they prescribed Percocet, I haven’t used them. Had some aches the first week and still get the occasional headaches but it’s nothing that a couple of Tylenol can’t handle.

Meanwhile, the Bear’s been busy.

Check it out!

Yep, he won a beauty contest (although he swears he only did it for the scholarship).

I’m thinking it was the swimsuit competition that nailed it.

Ciao for now

My opthamologist informed me today that I need immediate surgery for a detatched retina. I won't go into the details since they're gross, but the short and sweet is that I'm looking at about 4 weeks recovery time - and I'll be restricted from the computer.

I will try to keep an audio record of my experience so we can share this when I'm back up to snuff. Won't that be a thrill?

So be good, take care and when I'm back from my medically-induced hybernation... we'll do lunch!

Ciao for now,

Joni



Snowmageddon

This is Son O’Mine’s first winter as a licensed driver. So before the last storm, he backed his car into the driveway so he could easily drive out after the snow.

Yeah, not so much.

According to the CT.gov website’s “Weather Fun Facts” we normally average about 12.3 inches of snowfall in January.

This January, we received 54.9 inches.

For those of you who don’t live in climates where it snows, let me try to describe what it’s like on the roads here. Did you ever watch the Luge on the Winter Olympics? The athlete lays down on a teeny sled and is shot down a steep hill through a tunnel of ice. Here’s a shot I took on my drive home yesterday. (For size reference, I drive a Jeep Cherokee)

 

In some spots, the piles are so high and wide that there is barely enough room for two cars to pass with a quarter of an inch to spare.

But we handle it. We New Englanders are a stoic bunch. We know the drill – as soon as we clear the driveway, the plow will pass by and shove more snow in. Each time we unearth the mailbox, the plow will go by and decapitate it again. That’s the circle of life here.

No, the problem we have now is that we’ve run out of places to put it. I actually found myself standing in the driveway holding a shovel full of snow and wondering how much I could pack into the trunk of my neighbor’s car. And every time I see that US Postal Service TV ad – “If it fits, it ships”… I wonder how much we could send to the relatives in Florida …

Today is Feb 2nd. Yesterday, we were on the receiving end of another 5-8 inches of snow and today - the frosting on the cake - sleet and freezing rain. Winter Trifecta!

The one ray of sunshine today – the groundhog predicted an early spring. He’d better be right or we may just go all Sarah Palin on his ass.

And how’s the Bear handling all this mess? He’s hibernating.

Nothin but nose, baby… Nothin but nose.

No penalty is enough

So I’m sure you’ve heard by now that UCONN Football Coach, Randy Edsall left CT to accept a job coaching in Maryland. As the wife of a Football coach, the mother of a former football player and a resident of CT, here’s my open letter to Randy Edsall.

**********

Dear Mr. Edsall,

Edsall, you CLASSLESS, COWARDLY, HYPOCRITICAL DOUCHEBAG.

We’re sorry to see you go.

I’m calling a flag on this play, YOU SLIMY CREEP.

You have been a respected leader and coach to not only the UCONN players, but the citizens of CT.

You are a REPREHENSIBLE, COWARDLY ASSWIPE. Did I say COWARDLY?

You were not only a Coach, but a mentor and role model to each of the young men who played for you.

When Jordan Todman made the decision to leave UCONN for the NFL draft, you made him stand up and tell the team face to face.

And yet, when it was your turn to MAN UP, you tucked your tail between your legs and ran like a dog.

You took that team to the Fiesta Bowl and after a valiant fight on their part, you ditched them like a fat prom date.

While the team returned to CT on a charter flight, you were sneaking off to Maryland without so much as a word of goodbye.

You didn’t have the guts to face those players and be honest with them.

In that one act, you have defined yourself. No matter what success you found (or find in the future), you will forever be known as the COWARDLY DIRTBAG who didn’t have the balls to face the team who looked to him for guidance.

You are the epitome of UNSPORTSMANLIKE CONDUCT.

And to the University of Maryland – you fired Ralph Friedgen after he won the ACC coach of the year award to hire Edsall? This COWARDLY LIAR is who you choose to lead your team?

Shame on you.

So long, Randy – Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.

Karma’s a bitch. I just hope I’m still around to see it when she bites you in the ass.

The smartest thing I ever did

I'm going to let you in on the biggest secret I have:


I didn’t realize it at the time, but the smartest decision I have ever made in my entire life was to marry Sparky.

I recall very clearly on our wedding day, as soon as the JP said "I now pronounce you man and wife," my new mother-in-law said, "I give it a month."

To be honest, I secretly agreed with her. I was terrified of commitment. Before I met Sparky, when a relationship turned serious, my immediate reaction was to leave town within 48 hours. I was positive that once he really got to know me, he'd come to his senses and run for the hills.

Here it is. I am not a nice person. Ask anyone who knows me. I am many things, a published author, a good cook, an uber-organizer, a fair and impartial manager, smart, funny, accomplished. But not one person would describe me as nice.

I am a solitary and selfish person. I am blunt and sarcastic. I don't make friends easily, nor do I keep them. Sparky, on the other hand is still friends with people he went to grammar school with.

He's the nice one. In 26 years, I have not met one person who did not like Sparky. Co-workers respect him, his players admire him, women love him and men just plain like him.

He's that guy.

He's the guy who can make a 79 year old woman blush in the grocery store after he gets that item off the top shelf and calls her sweetheart.

He's the guy who can't go into a store or restaurant without hearing “Hey Coach.” He remembers every player from every team he’s ever coached in 15 years. He also knows where they are now and how they’re doing. Other coaches get handshakes, he gets hugs.

He’s that guy.

True Story: We both grew up in Connecticut. On our honeymoon, in Key West (where neither of us had ever been before), as we’re riding up in the elevator to our room, the bellhop turns to Sparky and says, “Are you from Connecticut?”

He's that guy.

And in 26 years he has been my partner in crime – tiptoeing with me through knee-high snow to stalk the paper boy at 2:00 am when I was convinced he was a burglar.

He has always encouraged me to reach for my dreams and was as excited as I was each time my writing was published – even though he rarely reads anything longer than a magazine article.

He’s been my harshest critic – at times forcing me to face painful but necessary truths about myself and my actions. And he’s been the one holding my hand in times of incredible joy and profound loss.

He allows me the freedom to fly while his strength keeps me firmly anchored to the ground.

He is my hero. He is a model of what it means to be a decent and honorable man.

He's the love of my life and I'm a better person than I might have been because of him.  Yep, marrying him was the smartest thing I ever did.

I’ve never been one for New Year’s resolutions but this year, I have one.

This year I want to become Sparky’s hero.

That's my wish for 2011.

I think this trumps Santa

So Sunday night, Sparky and I were at Home Depot – because of course, we leave all home improvement projects to the last freakin minute…

I was coming off a two day cleaning/shopping/decorating frenzy. I was exhausted and on the verge of deliria, so as he trotted off to the lumber aisle I wandered into the Xmas department. I was mesmerized by all the shiny, sparkly stuff… most especially the ginormous inflatable snow globe with the sparkles flying around inside it… you can get lost staring into one of those. I know I was getting loopy because I was thinking this was just what my yard needed.

I stepped back to appreciate its gloriousness and bumped into this…
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


A manger. Complete with Joseph, Mary, the three Wise men and You-know-who. All of it inflatable.

Now, it’s been a while since I attended church on any kind of regular basis, but I’m pretty sure this falls under that Mortal Sin clause. There must be something in there about “Thou shalt not blow up (or deflate) the baby Jesus.”
 
There is something so wrong about this.
 
Wrong and yet...
 
AWESOME!

Zombies, Vampires and Radioactive Santa

He's baaaaaaaaack!

It's that time again. Time when folks in the CT suburbs work feverishly to outdo each other in cheesy lawn decorations. It generally starts at 12:01 am, the day after Thanksgiving.

The trends seem to have cycles. They don't change as often as clothing fashions, but every few years there's a new big thing and everyone who's anyone has to have it.

For years it was those white wicker Zombie Reindeer. Some folks still have those. I'm ok with those now, but that first year they appeared, they were EVERYWHERE! Herds of them all over lawns. Some were even motion-activated so when you went by, they'd turn their heads. Creepy.

This year, there are Vampire Inflatables sprouting up from lawns everywhere here. You know the ones. Ginormous Santas, Snowmen, and Reindeer that litter the lawn like corpses all day and magically inflate and light up at dark. Vampires. Who else would think that dead Santa on the lawn all day is attractive?

And of course, the Bear has his Santa hat on and a Christmas flag speared through the heart. Each year he is joined by Radioactive Santa. Now, when we originally bought the house, the neighbor's garage was adjacent to ours at the end of a long driveway. Each year, they'd put Santa on the roof and light him up. Son O'Mine would wave to Santa each night. Cute stuff.

However, in the way of the suburbs, things changed. We put on an addition to the house. So within months, the neighbors built a big two-car-two-story garage in front of the old one. We didn't really think much of it, till the night of the day after Thanksgiving.

They put Santa (same Santa 25 years later - CT peeps are crazy, but thrifty) up on the roof of the new garage (which is now in a direct line with our bedroom window) and jammed a bazillion watts up his ass.

From Thanksgiving to New Years, we have to keep our bedroom drapes closed tight now, or Sparky and I get sunburned while we sleep.

I'm considering lead-lined shades - do they come in robin's egg blue?

Season Over

So it's been a few weeks - let me catch you up.

Son O'Mine turned 23. Which makes me … older than 23.

Sparky's football team won their bowl game. So now they are the New England Prep School champs for their league.

And football season is over for this year. Now we get to do things I like – things we’ve been putting off since August.

It was a long season of Sparky being busy 7 days a week, trying to schedule any and all family occasions around practice and games.

In the end, Son O'Mine and I traveled over two hours into the hinterlands of Massachusetts to sit on a blanket on a hill in sub-zero weather to watch them win (I’m pretty sure Massachusetts is above the arctic circle).

Our team is a second-half team. They like to mess with you - they play kind of crappy till the half. Then they spend the second half wiping up the field with the other team. So not only was it freezing cold, it was emotionally exhausting.  They put us through this every week. The championship game was no different. 14-14 at the half. 49-20 final score.

But those home games rocked. Especially the tailgating food. Man, those parents put on a spread. We’re not talking burgers and dogs (although those were present), no… we’re talking lasagna, mac and cheese, chili, chicken gumbo, pulled pork and truckloads of barbecued ribs to die for. Oh yeah, I still dream about those ribs.

And I miss the music – they played Flo-Rida and Will I Am’s “Ayer” every time we scored a touchdown.

Cause nothing quite says ‘Elite Connecticut Prep School’ like a gaggle of chubby football moms bedecked in Lands End fleece singing:

"OH HOT DAMN! THIS IS MY JAM!!!"

To be honest, I’m looking forward to next year.

But don’t tell Sparky. I don’t want to lose my Coach’s wife Saint status.

The "M" word

The “M” word.

One Saturday night, Sparky and I were heading home after a movie and stopped at a local convenience store to pick up milk. I went in (of course) and he waited in the car. So I'm paying for my milk and a pick-up truck came to a screeching halt in front of the building. The driver jumped out and ran into the store to buy cigarettes. As I came out of the store, his passenger (cute guy, drunk as hell) leaned out of the open window of the truck to yell at me.

"Ma'am!!!!!"

And because he was pretty toasted, he screamed it again.

"MA'AAAAAAAAAAM!!"

"Yes?"

"Your hair!"

"Huh?"

"I LOVE your hair! It's BEEEEYOOOOOOTIFUL!!! You’re BEEEEYOOOOOOTIFUL!!! "

I smiled and thanked him and made a mental note to tip my hairdresser extra the next time I saw her (I go religiously every 4 weeks to get made naturally red). On our way home, I told Sparky what happened and he said in typical male fashion:

“Must feel nice to get a random compliment like that.”

I sighed.

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“What do you mean? He said you were beautiful – isn’t that a compliment?”

“He called me Ma’am – that cancels out any compliment.”

Attention Men… listen up. Unless you are a bona fide Cowboy (YUM), “Ma’am” is not a compliment. To any woman under the age of 150, “Ma’am” is equivalent to “Old Hag.”

Example: There is a full-service gas station in our town. It’s 20 minutes out of my way (going anywhere) but I make it a point to stop there once a week. I will gladly pay the extra 10 cents a gallon. Why? Because the 89 year old guy who works there calls me “Young Lady.”

So guys, pay attention. I don’t mind being called “Sweetheart, Tootsie, Little Missy or even Sweetie.”

Just don’t use the “M” word.

That one hurts.

Unless you’re a real live Cowboy… in boots and chaps and spurs… Oh my.



Kids and Money (Or Things I learned when my son went to college, Part 2)



When my son went to college, I learned that if kids don’t see actual cash, it doesn’t count. Son O’Mine can stretch a buck longer than a week if it’s cash in his pocket, but if it isn’t tangible paper or coins, it doesn’t seem to exist in his world.

Example: We paid for the meal plan at his school, and he also had bucks on the "flex card" which he could use in the school bookstore, the cafe and vending machines on campus. Keep in mind, each time he used the card it told him how many meals and/or dollars he still had available.

A week before the end of the freshman year, we get a call. It was Saturday, about a half hour after the bank had closed.

Son: Hey Mom...

Mom: Hi! What's up?

Son: Ummm... do you think you could send some money?

Mom: Sure, kiddo - how much?

Son: Whatever - say $100?

Mom: No problem, I'll hit the bank on Monday morning.

Son: Oh...

Mom: What's wrong?

**Mom-heart begins to race

Son: Well, I have no meals left on my meal plan.

Mom: What about your card? Can't you grab a sandwich at the cafe?

Son: There’s no money on my card.

**It is at this time that Mom is on the verge of hyperventilating. My son is hours away and STARVING TO DEATH!!!

Mom: Don't you have any Ramen left? (Every kid goes to college with their body weight in Ramen Noodles – I’m pretty sure that’s a federal law - $2 for a truckload at Costco)

Son: Ate that all last week.

**OK, so my panic shifts - there's like a zillion grams of sodium in each serving of Ramen – by now, he is not only starving, but most likely on the verge of a STROKE!

Now that he’s sent me into a complete state of panic, he does the passive/aggressive thing…

Son: It’s ok, Mom… Monday’s not so far away… Thanks anyway…

And he hangs up.

I spend the next hour searching desperately online for some place that would let me order and pay for food and deliver it NOW.

That’s when the voice starts.

You know the one, it sounds just like that cute little blonde PTA president who is also the Room Mom. She scrapbooks, grows all her own vegetables, makes her own fruit juice and bakes homemade cupcakes for every birthday in the class. Her children are perfect and always color-coordinated. Her house is spotless, her car is clean and has those cute little organizers in it. She never forgets the green bags at the grocery store.

She is the UBER MOM (we hate her).

She’s here to tell you what a HORRIBLE mother you are. Your child is miles away from home in a DANGEROUS city, STARVING to death because you are a HORRIBLE MOTHER!!

On the verge of guilt-riddled hysteria, I called Son – no answer.

Uber Mom: He’s probably passed out from weakness.

I sent a text – no answer.

Uber Mom: Those ginormous Baltimore Rats are gnawing on his body – probably nothing but bones by now…

More calls – still no answer.

Ut oh…here it comes - Mom Frenzy (Refer to Lesson #1).

GET IN THE CAR, WE'RE GOING TO BALTIMORE!!!!

Just as I’m dragging Sparky to the car and calling for the 878th time, the kid finally answers the phone.

Son: Hey Mom, what’s up?

Mom: Don’t worry, honey we’re on our way!!

Son: What? Why?

Mom: You didn’t answer your phone – you must be so hungry. Hang on, we’re coming to feed you!

Son: Mom, relax! I guess I didn’t hear my phone. The girls upstairs invited me to a Pasta Party. They gave me tons of leftovers too, so I’m good for days.

Mom exhales and unpacks the car…

Did this little adventure make him more aware of money he couldn’t actually see?

Not really.

Oh, he kept track of the balance going forward, but in his senior year when he and his friends decided to move to a new apartment (while he was in school, we paid the rent) he informed us that the new place was “only another $125 a month.”

Only… uhuh.

And what did I learn?

Well, I learned that the odds of my kid starving to death while away from home are slim to none. And now that he’s back home, I’ve learned that he’s pretty smart when it comes to money. If I give him $10 to go to the store for milk, I never see any change. But if I’m running late and don’t want to stop at the ATM, he doesn’t have any cash.

And yet… when he wants to go out with his friends, he’s got money.

He’s one smart cookie, Son O’Mine. He should be – we paid enough for it.



Things I learned when my son went to college

I used to think that college was a time warp. Now I think I have it figured out. College is a completely different dimension. It’s a parallel universe where time has the ability to stand still, fly by or completely disappear.

When you’re the student, you’re completely unaware of time except when you’re shitfaced drunk and realize you have class in 4 hours. That’s when your math kicks in and you do some quick calculating. Not long enough to really sleep and get up, might as well stay up! Let’s have another shot!

Once you leave college, the memories fade. Until the time when your own kid goes away to college and as you drive away from that campus, it will all come flooding back with crystal clarity. Those moments that cemented your awesomeness in school (like puking for distance while hanging from your feet from a car doing 45 MPH) – those images will come back with a vengeance when your own kid goes to college.

This little dynamic is proof that Life has a sick, twisted sense of humor. This time, when you enter “The College Zone,” you’ll be on the other side. Don’t be scared though, I’m going to share some of the stuff I learned. You won’t find these tips in that cute little “parent’s guide” they give you. But if you’re smart, you’ll take notes.

Lesson #1 - The Window of Time.

When your kid is living away from home, there’s a window-of-time in which they MUST reply to a text or Voice mail from Mom (doesn't need to be anything huge, I’ll take a "k" or "I'm busy"). If that time expires without any answer, we fall into what I call "Mom Frenzy" where we imagine all of the horrors that can possibly happen (and we can be quite creative).

Example: We live in CT. Son O'Mine went to college in Baltimore. That’s 5 hours away. Multiply by the child’s age, carry the 4, divide by 36 to the 5th power… the window of time is roughly 2 hours. If I sent a text or voice mail, and got no reply within that window of time, we would begin the journey down the slippery slope into "Mom Frenzy."

It goes something like this:

"He's not answering - his phone is broken - we have no way to contact him - no, wait, some crackhead stole his phone – now that crackhead is making calls to all of his relatives in Columbia, running up our phone bill - the crackhead who mugged my son - and left him lying naked and hurt and unconscious in a ditch somewhere - GET IN THE CAR, WE'RE GOING TO BALTIMORE!!!!"

Husbands, there is no use arguing over this when Mom is in the throes of a frenzy, JUST GET IN THE DAMN CAR.

Once we all understood that it was either answer call/text within 2 hours or see my crazy face in 5 hours, we were good.

And that's how the window of time works.

Next time, we’ll discuss kids and money. Review your notes from this lesson.

There will be a quiz.

Suburban Sports

Sparky is a jock. He is an exceptional athlete. He is obsessed with sports. Playing, watching, coaching, it doesn’t matter. He’s there. He’s been known to watch fishing and golf on TV if there are no baseball or football games on. I mean, really. Fishing? Could anything be more boring than fishing? Yep, watching fishing. But his first love is and always will be – Football.

So when we had a son, I know that Sparky’s mind just exploded with fantasies of all of the Superbowl rings and Heisman trophies his son would bring home. Unfortunately, the kid inherited my non-existent athletic talent.

Our son is a creative, artistic soul. This was evident from the time he could hold a pencil. As an only child and an only grandchild, this kid had a million dollars worth of toys before he could walk. And yet, with every toy in existence at his disposal, he was most happy with a pad of paper and a pencil. Give him tape and a stapler and he was producing figures with movable parts at age 4.

When Son O’Mine started school, much to his father’s delight, he decided he wanted to play a sport. Just one problem, he didn’t know what sport – just “A” sport. So we set out on a quest to try every sport till we found the one he liked.

In Kindergarten we signed him up for soccer. We were sadly unprepared for the suburban sport scene. Practices were pretty uneventful – parents would drop their kids off and peel out of the parking lot at the speed of light. We seemed to be the only parents who stayed. Since neither of us knew much about soccer, we made the effort to learn. We didn’t realize that everyone else saw practice as free babysitting for a couple hours.

However, Game Day was a whole other story.

The sidelines were packed with tripods and cameras. It looked like the set of a Spielberg epic. A crowd of thousands (Parents and Grandparents sipping from what I suspect were vodka-laced thermos bottles) watched and filmed as a pack of 5 year olds ran up and down the field kicking each other. An hour later it was over. Score: 0-0. That’s pretty much how the season went. At the end of the season, we asked if he wanted to continue with soccer.

“No. Too much running.”

The next spring, we tried T-ball. This we understood. Sparky was the king of softball at that time (he played on no less than 5 teams), so he was able to give the kid all kinds of tips. We made sure one of us went to every practice and Sparky tried to get the kid interested in catching in the back yard. We were interested in T-ball. The kid – not so much.

He played in the outfield. Most games would find him out there with his mitt on his head, looking for 4-leaf clovers in the grass. I can’t really blame him, there aren’t many 6 year old power hitters so it’s not as if the ball ever got out there. Although there were a few that rolled out there by accident. He just never noticed.

Sparky, being the most competitive man on the planet, could not comprehend how his son just didn’t care if his team won. It drove him nuts. He just couldn’t understand that for a 6 year old, baseball didn’t consist of hits and runs, but it meant “put on the uniform, stand in the field for a while and then we get ice cream.”

So much for T-ball.

The next fall, it was basketball. We even bought a basketball hoop for him to practice. I believe it was used a total of 6 times before we dumped it at a tag sale. The only time he ever earned any points was after a girl *gasp!* took the ball from him and scored. He was so pissed he went back in, swiped the ball and ran the length of the court to score a basket. That was the first and only basket he made. When we asked him if he liked basketball, the answer was “Way too much running.”

Ok…

Next – Lacrosse. Yeah, we live in one of those towns. Lacrosse. It’s like soccer with a big fucking stick. He didn’t much like the game, never really understood it and again, hated all the running. He did, however like the stick. He carried it everywhere. Suffice it to say, every time he turned around, something crashed to the floor. In the course of one Lacrosse season, he managed to destroy every breakable thing in this house.

We were running out of sports.

And then… Sparky discovered Youth Football. But the kid was too young. He was 8 and the minimum age was 9. OH NO! But wait… read the fine print. The child had to be 9 on the 15th. The kid’s birthday was the 14th.

YES!!! (Insert Hallelujah chorus here) Sparky did the happy dance. FOOTBALL. Not only could the kid play, but the Spark man, he, himself could volunteer to coach. YIPPEE!!!

I always told Son O’Mine that we had him so his Dad would have someone to play with but he didn’t believe me – now he knows the truth.

So we signed the kid up for Youth Football and Sparky volunteered (Pick ME!! Pick ME!!) to coach. Thus began our family adventure into Suburban Football.

Now I, being female, knew absolutely nothing about football. And 12 years later, I don’t know much more than I did then. Which is as it should be. Some things should remain a secret.

The first thing to change is that I was not allowed to attend practice. “Mom, that’s just dorky!” But I was expected to be at every game. I thought this would be like the other sports where they played other teams in town. Yeah, that’s not how it works. You see, now we were in a League which meant that we had to schlep to some distant town always requiring at least an hour’s drive. Every Sunday was taken. No more sleeping in, no more lazy Sundays just hanging out. Each week it was a major production – white pants or black pants, red shirt or white shirt, cleats or sneakers, get the helmet, get the shoulder pads, water bottle, mouth guard, clean socks, jock strap, etc, etc, etc. Pile all our crap into the car and meet everyone else in the grocery store parking lot so we could caravan to the far off field.

At first, I learned the Mom Dance. Here’s how that works. Kid falls down, Mom stands up. Kid gets up, Mom sits down. That’s it.

But as the years went on, I began to find myself understanding a bit of what was going on down on that field. I don’t know how it happened, I’m thinking osmosis. Big mistake, though. Because the basic rules of football are stupid.

Don’t believe me? Try this: Find any man who is a football fan (any straight man) and tell him that a down is when the guy with the ball falls down. He will immediately say “No!” and launch into some long and complex definition that when you really listen just means a down is when the guy with the ball falls down.

But I digress.

So now that I am gaining this great understanding of Football (which seems to have unwittingly caused a shift in the universe which I believe may be responsible for all of the natural disasters of the past decade. Sorry world, I didn’t know.), I began to recognize just how really freaking stupid the Youth Football League rules were.

They managed to take one of the toughest sports there is (second only to Rugby - Rugby is #1 tough - Rugby players eat their dead), and suck all of the competition out of it.

Here are some of their rules – I refer to this as “The Dumbass guide to Noncompetitive Competitive Sports.”

• Every kid makes the team.

• Every kid gets to play at least 10 plays per game.

• At the end of the season, every kid gets a trophy.

This one is the worst: If any team wins by more than 35 points, the coach of the WINNING team is suspended for the next game. Are you freaking kidding me??

They punish them for winning! How can it possibly be beneficial to encourage children NOT to play to their full potential?

“We don’t want the other (LOSING) team to feel bad.”

They should feel bad – THEY SUCK!

All those “how to be a parent” books really fucked us up. Our job as parents isn’t to remove all obstacles from their path so they slide through life without expending any effort. Our job is to prepare them for just how crappy life can be. Life isn’t fair. It’s not supposed to be fair.

How will they ever learn to improve if they never lose? How will they ever learn to fight for what they want if they never fail?

At one game, a mother actually wanted the coach to stop the game and move the players around because the kid guarding hers was bigger than him. I scored lots of points with the Dads when I said, “Lady, it’s football, not a tea party!” I wasn’t too popular with the Moms after that.

I understand the desire to make things easier for your kids. But I think we’ve taken it too far. In our zeal to make life smooth and easy and warm and fuzzy for our kids, we have done them a huge disservice. If they never know what it feels like to fail (BAD), they will never truly appreciate how it feels to win (AWESOME).

So let them fall, slap a bandaid on it and shove them back into play. By the time they figure out that we were just winging it at this parenting thing, they’ll have kids of their own.

Shame is not a bad thing

"Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to."
~Mark Twain

This politically correct “I’m-ok- you’re-ok-we’re-all-perfect-we-never-fail-because-that-would-make-us-feel-bad” crap that has spread like a cancer over the past couple decades has completely obliterated one of the most essential and valuable emotions we humans are capable of – Shame.

Did you follow the Tiger Woods scandal? More than a dozen women couldn’t wait to tell everyone (especially the press) that they had sex with Tiger. For a while there, they seemed to be slithering out from under every rock in America. My favorite was the porn actress who said she had a three-year “relationship” with Tiger and was upset when he didn’t mention her in his public apology.

Huh?

Oh yeah, she hired that attention whore, Gloria Allred because her heart was broken. Which apparently could only be healed by the quick application of large wads of cash. She gave up her porn career for him! He told her she was the only one he was CHEATING on his WIFE with.

Her attorney said, “A woman ought to be able to believe a man when he tells her that."

Are you freakin’ kidding me?

A few weeks ago, we fired a guy for sending a photo of his “parts” to a co-worker through company email. Now he is disputing the unemployment decision to deny his compensation claim. Dude, how can you possibly defend this? What - where you come from was it “Take your Dick to Work Day?”

There was a time when these things were considered shameful. An affair with a married man wasn’t done openly, it was kept a secret because it was WRONG. Exposure brought… yep, you guessed it – SHAME.

But psychologists (semi-psychiatrists – you know, the ones who couldn’t get into Med school?) have decided over the past 20 or so years that shame is a bad thing. It hurts your feelings. It makes you feel bad. And we don’t ever want anyone to feel bad, right?

WRONG. You should feel bad, YOU FUCKED UP!!!

Shame is that hot, flushy feeling you get in that moment when you realize you haven’t lived up to your own standards. It doesn’t involve public humiliation. Doesn’t even matter if anyone else ever knows - it’s between you and yourself. YOU know and so, you feel shame.

Shame has gotten a bad rap over the years. There’s nothing wrong with shame – we all feel it at one point or another (If you don’t, you should).

Shame is what motivates you to get your shit together. Without shame, we never take responsibility for our actions and therefore, never change, never evolve, never grow.

It’s been said that it is not our mistakes, but how we handle them that define us. So embrace your shame. Recognize it for what it is. It’s the internal alarm that keeps us progressing as human beings. It’s that kick in the ass we all need every once in a while.

So be ashamed. Acknowledge that you messed up. Then get your shit together and move on.

You’ll be a better person for it.

M Bear Ass yourself

So the other night the Sparky (the Spouse) and I went to a Jackson Browne concert (Shut up, the tickets were free).

Now, neither of us had a flipping clue who he is (Give us a break – the 70’s was nothing more than a cloud of funky-smelling smoke), so we Googled him. “Doctor My Eyes,” “Running on Empty,” Oh yeah, ok.

Not a big thrill, but the tickets were free and it was something to do on a Friday night.

Our seats were way over to the side, but not bad (they were free, remember?). And with the seats in front of us empty, we had a pretty unobstructed view of the stage. So far, so good.

About two minutes before the show started, two couples came stumbling in to fill the seats directly in front of us. There was Steve and his wife (didn’t catch her name), and another couple. Never got the second husband’s name, but he was sporting a snow white cottony afro sprayed to within an inch of shellac. With his deep tan and his white pouf, he reminded me of Lambchop.

Back to Steve- Steve is what you would call… how shall I put this… a loser.

You know that guy who never has been and never has any hope to be hip, cool or even close? The guy who is always just one beat off when everyone’s clapping?

Yeah, him. That’s Steve.

Mrs. Steve – well she was something else. She was better looking than Steve and from the looks of it, in her youth she was a bit of a party girl. She was feeling no pain and in that narcissistic way of drunks, oblivious to the fact that there were other people on her planet.

She was yakking with her BFF who was half a section away- yelling across another quiet couple (We’ll call them Couple #2).

Now, Couple #2 seemed to be an easy going pair. They appeared friendly (and sober) and just there to enjoy the music. But, they couldn’t even hold a conversation between them with Mrs. Steve leaning over them to shout to her friend.

Throughout the first act, Mrs. Steve continued to aggravate Couple #2 – When they complained about her yelling back and forth to her friend during the music, she whipped out a cell phone the size of a Nook and began texting – of course the white screen lit up the entire section where we were sitting with a radioactive glow. To the point where Mr. Couple #2 (who was sitting right next to Mrs. Steve) had to cover his eyes to deflect the bright light.

At intermission it hit the fan. Mrs. #2 confronted Mrs. Steve and told her that her behavior was rude and disrespectful – talking and texting during the performance.

I think what really set her (Mrs. Steve) off, was when she (Mrs. Couple #2) told her to shut up and have another Gin and Tonic. Is there anything that offends a drunk more than the implication that they are indeed, drunk? At this point, the two wives were on their feet and the folks behind us had begun to choose sides and take bets in the Mrs. Steve vs. Mrs. Couple #2 conflict (Our money was on Mrs. Couple #2).

Meanwhile, old sad sack Steve was attempting to make peace and shut his wife up. It was pitiful- he was pleading, begging her to hush up because she was embarrassing him.

And the more he tried to shut her up, the louder and angrier she became.

Mrs. Steve was pumped up with righteous indignation, she just had to repeat the whole drama to Mr. and Mrs. Lambchop who were apparently a bit hard of hearing.

It went something like this:

Mrs. Steve: “They got pissed that I was talking, so I texted and he said it was BLINDING him!”

Mr. Lambchop: “They got what?”

Mrs. Steve: “BLINDED – By my phone!”

Mrs. Lambchop: “Who were you calling?”

Mrs. Steve: “No I was talking and they got pissed so I texted and he said it was BLINDING him!”

Mr. Lambchop: “Tell them to Fuck off!”

This went on and on for almost 10 minutes like one of those never-ending video loops (Shortened for your sake).

We had a moment of hope when Steve pointed out the rows of empty seats behind us and suggested they move, but Mrs. Steve (encouraged by Mr. Lambchop “Fuck’em! Tell them to Fuck off!”), she got that spiteful, mean girl smile and refused.

“I have every right to be here. What, I can’t TALK? You don’t tell me what to do, STEVE! I’m going to stay right here and bust their stones! I’ll stand here, and sing and dance all night long if I feel like it, STEVE!”

Now, since I was the person sitting directly behind Mrs. Steve, I would’ve paid cash money to see Steve grow a pair. It would’ve been awesome to see him shake off his humiliation, stand up and say, “Sit down and shut the fuck up, you ignorant twat!”

But no, not Steve. He just didn’t have it in him.

Every 10 minutes or so, Steve would climb over everyone and make a break for the bar in the lobby. He’d return with two drinks (Mrs. Steve was drinking “Effin Vodka!” don’t ya know). My guess is that he most likely slammed one down and then bought two more each time he hit the bar because it wasn’t long at all until old Steve was pretty well toasted.

Steve, who started out this little adventure as the party-pooper, the drag, put everything he had into a last ditch effort to out- drink the wife.

And when it came to being an obnoxious drunk, Steve apparently had way more practice. At one point, he attempted to bond with Mr. Couple #2 by throwing an arm around his shoulders and whispering (loudly) “If they go at it, you grab yours and I’ll grab mine, ok Buddy?”

He was the life of the party. Go Steve, Go!

But she was crashing. As Steve got louder, Mrs. Steve got quieter. Now it was Steve who was dancing in his seat and screaming “WOOHOO!!” while she tried desperately to shut him up. The shift in dynamic was fascinating.

Through all of this, Jackson Browne sang his heart out. The crowd loved him and by the time he wrapped it up with “Running on Empty,” most were on their feet, riding the wave of nostalgia, completely unaware of the drama unfolding in Section 100.

That’s when we made a break for it.

Funny – when Son O’Mine went to college, he made a comment that he was glad to be leaving the drama of high school behind. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there is a large faction of people who are never able to evolve beyond the emotional maturity they have at age 15.

Those people like the Steves and the Lambchops who even in their 50's and 60's never outgrow the desire to show their ass in public.

He’ll figure it out soon enough.

Express yourself

A few weeks ago, we took a family trip to Baltimore for Son O'Mine's college commencement. We arrived on Friday afternoon and promptly headed for the Inner Harbor. My mother and sister-in-law (neither of whom had ever been to Baltimore), both avid readers, were suitably impressed with the massive Barnes & Noble standing center stage.

The first time we ever saw the Power Plant, my son commented, "Look - it's our family - ESPN Zone (Dad), Barnes & Noble (Mom) and The Hard Rock Cafe (me)!" So, each time we walk over the bridge, we always pause for a moment and admire The Holy Trinity.

After a couple hours perusing the stacks, we emerged from Book Heaven to find a parade going by on Pratt Street. Marching Bands, Dancers, a Kettle Drum group playing Michael Jackson - This parade had it all. And the folks watching were just as excited. The strange part - not one person we asked (and we asked plenty) had a clue what the parade was for.

And to most of them, it didn't really matter.

I told Son O'Mine that the parade was for him for his graduation. But he didn't buy it - I guess the days of the kid believing every fairy story Mom tells are over. Ah well, I knew it would have to end someday. So we enjoyed, we danced, we cheered and once the parade had passed, we strolled back to our Hotel. The doorman clued us in - the parade was for Preakness which was the next day. Ah ok.

Over the course of the weekend, we ate ourselves into a stupor (Acropolis in Greek Town is to die for). Then on Monday, the commencement ceremony. Now, college commencements are generally a largely formal and impressive occasion. However, MICA (Maryland Institute College of Art) is still, an art school. One of the sculpture professors wore a huge (gorgeous) Native American feathered headdress. Another professor (Fibers) was dressed head to toe in hot pink and neon orange. And that was just the faculty.

The students were even more creative in their commencement ensembles. One student had an interesting suit that lit up - giving the impression he was covered in fireflies. Son O'Mine - he wore a viking helmet.

It was a bittersweet day - the kids vacillated between excitement about the future and a sadness to be leaving the MICA campus. It is perhaps the most nurturing and supportive environment that an artist can experience. In his 4 years there, we have watched our son grow and mature as a person and an artist and we are grateful to the administration and faculty of MICA.

Then, after all the fun, the hours in the car, moving 4 years of accumulated stuff back home...

We arrived home to find that the Bear also had a new outfit. A patriotic sequined hat and bowtie - and the stars and stripes speared through the heart. I expect this one will last till July 4th.



Perhaps he's just expressing himself.

Funny thing is that the Bear is simply out of place here. I know that if he were transplanted to MICA, he would be embraced fully and celebrated in his 'Bearness.'

And I'm sure he'd have much more inventive outfits.

"Have your camera ready..."

I was at work when I got the text from my husband.

"Have your camera ready - they changed the Bear."

Oh good grief, what now?

As I made the 45 minute commute home, various bizarre and demented visions danced through my head.

Spring flowers?

Ducks?

Pink Flamingos?

Noooo....

Baseball.

*sigh*

Well... at least they picked the right team.

As if his humiliation was not complete

An Easter Basket?

Really?

Really???

Come on...

Really???????????

These people have no shame.

On behalf of humanity I apologize to bears everywhere.

Spring Makeover

Ahh, Spring.

Time to put the winter duds away and freshen up your look for the warmer weather.

So the Bear got a makeover. New face paint, bright red lipstick and a ring of perky daffodils.

Just what every bear needs.

I wonder if our neighbor ever thought when he grew up, he'd be putting lipstick on a wooden bear. Isn't that every little boy's dream?

You're never fully dressed without a smile...

Actually before they painted, I was on my way to the store and I saw the neighbor's wife out there with a garden hoe digging around the bear's feet. I was so tempted to slam on the brakes and snap a pic...

How perfect would that have been? I could've titled the post "Ho'in for the Bear."

I really need to become a ninja photographer...

Jonesing for a dog...

There he is.

My dream dog.

How can you not love that face?

But... I'm not allowed to have pets.

I broke the last one we had.

You see, we had this cat. Cody. We didn't choose him, he chose us. When they sold the farm across the street, the barn cats scattered. Cody showed up on our front porch one day. He was a scrawny looking tabby cat with one extra long canine tooth and a scar on his right ear.

I was working nights at the time, so I didn't notice as much. But one Saturday afternoon, my husband mentioned "There's some cat who keeps trying to get into the house." As he said this, Spousal One was filling a dish with cat food and another with water and leaving them on the porch.

Not exactly designed to send the feline away.

So, we had a new cat. Now, I love cats, I've always (till now) had cats, but most of them were females. This particular cat was male.

Completely, absolutely, without a doubt MALE.

He had one long canine tooth that was so long it hung below his chin. This cat was a grunting, farting, furbag with the worst breath you could ever imagine. He smelled like something crawled inside him and died.

He was an enigma. A very affectionate pet, but he'd disappear for weeks at a time. We suspected that he was cheating on us. That he had another family somewhere. Because he always came back from these little vacations looking well fed and happy.

When Cody was with us, we enjoyed him, but he had this one bad habit of darting in front of vehicles when they drove in the driveway. More than once, we said "One of these days, that cat's going to get squooshed."

Well...

One day I came back from shopping and as I came into the driveway, I felt a *thump* heard a "meow" and the cat dragged himself out from under my Jeep.

I never saw him till it was too late. We raced him to the vet, but there was nothing they could do for him. So, I held him in my arms as the vet gave him the injection that would send him up to Kitty Heaven.

Now I have been "Pet-less" for the past several years and I have to say it's weird. We've always had some sort of pet in the house whether it was cats, dogs, gerbils, turtles, hermit crabs or birds.

On one hand, it's a bit of a relief - we can pick up and go away for a weekend without having to make arrangements for pets.

But I have to admit, I am longing for a pet. I've got my heart set on a bulldog. Either an English Bulldog like the one above or maybe a French Bulldog which is a smaller version with bat ears.

I know it's selfish. We both work, and Son O'Mine is away at school...

But look at that face...