A lonely word indeed....

Honesty - what a lonely word.

A quote, from someone whom I admired, respected, cared about….and, whom I discovered, the hard, ugly way, would rather believe someone they don’t even knowabout the character of someone they do.

I’ve always been a goody-two-shoes. It’s part of my charm, or, perhaps, the lack thereof…I’ve never smoked pot, which means clearly, I’ve never done any other drugs, since pot is the precurser to all other recreational drugs. I drink, but in the clever, adorable, I look fabulous with a martini glass in my hand kind of way, not the black out binge drinking I’m not fun, kind of way. I only issue heartfelt invitations; my cookies are made from scratch, my pancakes, have been, on occassion, hand poured in the shape of a dinosaur, for Fox. My dad taught me that. It’s a skill I’m glad I learned.

I like argyle. Pink argyle. I don’t lie, cheat, or steal, and while I’ve broken a heart of two, (or so I’m told) I’ve never tried to do it with malice, or vicious intent. I’m toohonest, truth be told (do pardon the pun, unintended, I assure you) so if you’re not sure you want my opinion? Don’t ask. I don’t do sneaky, unless you count well-thought out Christmas surprises, or birthday presents….I have a thing for parties, birthday’s, regardless of whose deserve cake, with frosting; and no one, should ever travel without finding a little something in their pocket, computer bag, or folded into a tee, that smells of me, and them, because well. You never do know when the last time you kiss them, or tell them you love them, may be.

I know this.

I should’ve lived in the ’40s: I knit, collect stationary, make rediculous books that tell people I care about them, scrapbooks, filled with moments, and memories, all the things I cherish most in life. I like hand holding, and kissing, more so than sex; sleeping next to someone special, who’s warm, and kind, strong, and wrapped all around me? Heaven. Small joys in life, that perhaps, some take for granted, but I don’t. Ask me about relationships, and most of my guy friends groan, because I want the drive in movie, with popcorn made at home, not-yet-cold soda in the cooler, and a tired puppy laying in the car with me too. Sure, I’d love flowers - but really? When it’s a horrendous thunder and lightening storm, come home early, hug me like you won’t let go, and do something - anything - so that I don’t have to see the lightening. I’m tired of being brave for everyone, and if I’m alone, I will hide in my closet. I don’t want to do it all by myself. It’s not the trash, it’s the whole….life. I want to stand next to someone, their hand holding mine when Fox graduates from the 2nd grade; at his Christmas pageant, because his big, beaming gap-toothed smile is the best gift I’ve ever received. We’ve ever received.

Favorite movie? Cinderella. Not just because she has great hair at the end, fabulous calves, a whole host of mice working as her ladies in waiting; not even, because she has a fairy Godmother, though I wouldn’t turn up my nose, should one fall into my path. She believes that good things will come, that doing the right thing - what she’s told to do - is more important, even when it’s hard, no one’s watching, and it’d be easy to bend the rules.

I follow rules.

I get hurt.

A lot.

I believe in integrity, and honor; when I find a good thing, I’m going to hold onto it.

So when I get stabbed in the back, by someone, who so clearly intends to do me harm - and, boy, have they ever - I expect, at the very least, to be asked about it. To have someone who claims, they love me, not even tell me what some coward is saying behind my back, well. I’m glad I know now that while he “doesn’t get angry”, he’ll just up and leave, without so much as a by your leave. I suppose, I should be glad I know now, and not after Fox had fallen for him too, and my family. Then again, I’m not sure it could hurt more than it does right now.

I suppose in the end, he truly was right, at least about one point:

Honesty.

A very lonely word indeed

If Life's a Bowl, Mines a Toilet

*warning: adult language, human poop, and rotten fruit ahead. read at your own risk*

I’m done today.

My puppy, while exhibiting signs of Seriously Icky Tummy - aka Giardia - threw up on the floor, the stairs, and my least favorite, in my shoes. Thankfully, not my good ones. Not even ones I wear. Regularly. Or now, at all. There was the Dread Gas, the lack of lunging for people food - a sign, in beagles, of imminent demise. Only, after an expensive visit to Dr. Cutiepants, did we rule out anything of the Nasty Variety growing in her intestines.

Yes.

Pucker’s great. She’s simply working the crotch of all of my fucking panties through her system.

Nothing to worry about. Except maybe what to wear under my clothes.

Fox? Has been complaining for weeks of a tummy ache, and honestly? I figured it was your classic I Don’t Want To Go To School variety. So I sent him. Ignored all the calls I got from school, (except, naturally, the one that included actual vomit) rolled my eyes to the very back of my head when he started whining. Everyday. During meals. After meals. Cramping. Nausea. He didn’t want to go to football; but then again, he hates transitions. Like getting dressed right after school to go knock other little boys down.

The turning point? It wasn’t Puckerbreaking wind to the tune of singing my eyelashes, curling my hair or forcing me off the road. It was Fox. Blaming it on the dog. Turns out that yes, Pucker could’ve gotten something gross by eating Goose Poop (I kid you not) but more than that? Fox could. He plays football on a field loaded with it. The drinks lay on the ground, surrounded by grass, visited by geese, that eat nasty fish, and shit all over creation.

So I’ve gotten the wrong freaking child tested.

And worse? I’d had to fucking pay for it.

Trust me, today I can overlook how badly I should feel getting Pucker violated for no reason.

We went to Dr. Z’s. We got poked, proded, looked at, and I got sneezed on. Decided that lingering cold of three weeks with wet chesty cough needs meds - (no shit, really?) but, we need to test his Icky Tummy for all sorts of gross things. Like E. Coli. Giardia. Salmonella. Etc. How does one do this, you might ask. I did.

And fell over when I realized I needed to head face first into a bowl lined with Saran Wrap.

Not a jello bowl either. A toiletbowl. The Great Throne, in the Halls Of Horrendous Aroma’s. I’d draw a veil over the rest of this experience, only to say, I’d rather try to sneak up behind one of the great danes and get a urine sample than this. I got peed on during that one.

We drop at the hospital; and I get an email.

From Fuckhead, the Wonder Ex. In glowing terms he comented on my Mothering Skills - see, Fox, who has had several cell phones, as he fucking loses them no matter what I do keeps losing the Goddamn things when I’m not home, and he has a sitter.

“You’re a manipulative bitch. He will hate you when he realizes that you are alienating from his father…”

Really. One does wonder with love like that, why I divorced his fat, stupid, lazy ass.

And you know what really frosts my hide? Last night was Know Your School Night, and not only didn’t he go, he’s accused me of lying about going.

I would never miss out on the note that Fox left me at his desk that brought tears to my eyes; or how they do their work; or how the brand spanking new reading initiative works. I wanted to read his journal, laugh at the parts of his weekends that make it in there, in order of importance.

Like the fact that I burned scrambled eggs while getting Pucker to poop outside trumped us renting a movie, and spending all night laughing.

I’ve stayed calm with FLSX (fat lazy stupid X, lest you wonder) reminding him that Fox couldhave called him on my phone; but he (while not really paying child support) manages to pay to have my number blocked from his phone. That this is foolish and dangerous; how when I’ve needed to reach him for medical things, i”ve been unable to, and, he can’t talk to Fox if he loses the phone.

(I do soooo love this) -

Evidently Foxy doesn’t lose the phone with he’s with his Sperm Donor Of a “Father” - I should be as responsible as he is. I’m not at all surprised that it’s not lost -as he’s with him a mere THIRTY HOURS A MONTH. By his own choice. I’ve offered extra time. He doesn’t want it. But I’m alienating him.

I vented my wrath on the poor unsuspecting potato patch at the grocery store, ran over an egg with my cart, just for the hell of it, and when Fox dropped a yogurt, at five past six tonight, and my hair caught on fire? Because normally? I’m a good shopper, and would pay for this? I fought the urge to let loose a primal scream, and instead, yelled down the way to the poor butcher who actually knows me “CLEAN UP IN THE DAIRY AISLE”.

He, bless his heart, took one look at me, eyes popping, hair a mess, grabbed the carmel apple remnant Fox had left out of his mouth as he’d just picked it up off the floor by the freaking meat case.

Really. What day isn’t complete with rotting fruit, a saran wrapped bowl full of shit, a vomiting dog, and several work deadlines barreling down on me topped off by watching your already ill son pick up food off a floor that is no doubt loaded with bacteria?

I need a drink.

But I don’t want to get shitfaced.

I already did

Lilly......undercovers

There are no cute Lilly Pulitzer items on sale.

There are no cute Lilly items, at all.

Except for the blue jammies, with the white trim. That’s it.

Seriously. I know. You have a shocked face on for real, because when have I ever not like at least somethingfrom Lilly? They are practically known for being the one place on earth, save for say, Tiffany’s, where the box itself, with the Lilly logo on it is enough to send me into paroxisms of ecstacy. Yes, the box alone is nearly enough to induce spontaneous orgasms - and something inside the box?

Well. That’s an entirely indescribable joy.

However, I’ve paged through looking for even the basics - sumptuous cashmere in all sorts of colors, a simple cable knit; the long sleved printed button downs, which are sooo cutie tucked under the sweaters, to give off a hint of elan. Sort of how a great tie can dress up even the most basic suit. Usually, each season features some form of embroided jeans - a size 4, thank you, should you be purchasing any - only this year? You won’t be. The only pattern is this scary pink denim with swirly sparkly nonsense on it.

Where is my Basic Priss? My argyle? I cannot go through life without some pink argyle! Where are the sweaters, the baby cardigans in cotton so soft it melts through your fingers, the twin sets that are to die for, and last a lifetime? Where are the signature jeans? With the little animals on them? So, I didn’t care much for the horses they did one year, but I’m dying for them to do sheep - little white sheep, so I can darken one, you know, the black sheep. How cute would that be?!?!?!

I’m truly frightened by the pattern they’ve selected for their print dress - could be as I can’t pull off the style of the dress, so I’ll look for anything glaringly wrong with it, so the blame for it looking bad isn’t on me.

I could assume this is divine intervention - after all, I’ve purchased six pairs of shoes for Foxy in the last four weeks - in THREE DIFFERENT SIZES - so it’s fabulous that I don’t like any of it. I won’t be tempted to buy any. Or covet any.

Except the blue knit jammie cami and kint pants.

Please. If I didn’t want at least a little Lilly I’d be worried about me too.

A shot...at respect

I’ve never been one of those parents for whom Respect equated to Heart Stopping Gut Clenching Bowel Moving Fear. I found that I felt that way, much of my childhood - no, wait, that would be all of my childhood, and a good deal of my walking adult life. My mother, for example, can inspire, with merely a particular ring of the phone the kind of damp palm, dry mouth, gritty eyed fear that most folks feel when facing, say, a rampaging bull, or really irritated king cobra.

Oddly enough, I’m not the one quaking in my boots this time around, I’m the one inspiring this sort of amazingly attention grabbing fear. Hell. If I’d known how well this worked earlier with Fox, I might just have employed slightly more of it. I stress the slightly - as I still have the occassional nightmare including quite vivid images of my childhood, obviously, I’m not aiming to Scar Him For Life, just, you know, knock him on his ass a time or two.

This past Tuesday, we had football practice (as we do every Tuesday, lest you think we’ve been slacking off!) and somehow, in the midst of some fancy footwork play they were teaching the boys, one of them grabbed Fox as he bolted past, leaving other boys littered on the field in his wake, like so much unwanted seaweed behind an Evenrude. I was summarily pleased. The lovely parent next to me, S, a dad, was equally pleased, which means, I was watching the right thing for a change. (I know! I was shocked I got it right too!!) Anyway. Someone grabbed his ankle, a Great Twisting occurred, and the swollen, slightly blue offending limb was carried off the field, directly to the passenger side of the car, where I waited with ice pack, and baying dog - who was baying at me, doing the I’m Being Eaten Alive By Misquito’s Dance. I’m still unsure if it was bays of sympathy, embarrassed horror that her mother would do something like that, or glee, that I might finally look like her prancing around chasing bugs.

It’s not nearly as cute as the AARRGGGGHHH, There Are Bees Here! Dance, but whatever. I can’t be adorable all the time.

This was Tuesday. Wednesday, I cut him some slack, wrapped the ankle, slipped on the Crocs, which is not supposed to wear, called the nurse to update, and happily went off to the office. Thursday provided another repeat of the I’m In Agony wailing and gnashing of teeth; and Friday, after a mutinous morning attempting to get out the door early (I needed to be in Holyoke by 9, its a 56 mile trip) and wrestle Fox into a shoe, I finally threw his wailing backside in the car, called the pediatrician, hauled ass to Holyoke, left him sulking in an office for a whopping total of 12.7 minutes, as we arrived at 13 minutes til 10.

I thought seriously, I might rip off his leg myself.

Then, it occured to me, I’d throught the same thing with his arm, and the damn thing was broken.

Christ.

I made an appointment to see Dr. Z, who thought maybe, it was fractured (great. just great. another horrendous mommy trophy being sent to my door), and summarily sent us across town, to get x-rays. A very lovely x-ray tech took us back, snapped about 6 shots of the foot and ankle, thankfully took in stride Fox’s matchmaking attempts, ignored the heat flooding my face, (he was married!) and ended up telling me: it’s not broken.

It’s not even sprained.

It’s not even bruised all that much.

I’m told to call Dr. Z’s office after 2, for “recommendations”. Fox stands right next to me, but thanks to cleverly turning down the volume, he does not hear the nurse tell me where to get him a walking boot cast, and matching crutches, if I really think he’s hurting that much; that maybe, it’s broken, but no one can see it on x-ray, blah blah blah.

I hung up and told quite possibly the biggest whopper of my entire parenting career:

“If that ankle is not feeling better by tomorrow, in time for the game at the very latest, Dr. Z said we are going to get a cortisone shot. It involves a foot long needle, about the width of a strand of spaghetti, and not only does it burn going in, but hurts for hours following.”

Well. I’ll be damned. (do note the sarcasm dripping off that statement)

It felt just fine about a nanosecond after that bomb.

Played on Saturday. Not only did he manage the fancy footwork thing, he sacked the quarterback, stripped him of the ball, and ran it for a gain of 15 yards. He was in the entire game, first as the left gaurd, and then, as some tackle-heavy lineman, or linebacker, or whatever.

He felt fine enough to do his tippy-toed dance of victory after all really good plays, climbed a fence, jumped out of a tree, and took his skate board for a hair-raising trip down our big hill.

Too bad they don’t make a rolicking big shot for snotty backchat, eye rolling, and the whole host of newly employed 7 year old tactics he has down pat, to turn me from my usual self into my very own version of The Fish Mongers Wife

Lucky Ladybugs?....or not so much

I slipped into a vintage Lilly skirt this morning, from the highly coveted Size 2 section of the closet…it might be considered just a smidge too short for the office, should clients be in, but they’re not, so as I’m really only dressing for me, today, why not? I paired it with cutie little flats, white sweater, and matching hand bag. (yes. I know. But you know I’m a priss, this is not a shock to you) – however (yes, there really is a point to this email, other than passing along my fabulous fashion sense…and the tedious details that I arrange my closet by dress size – nothing higher than a 6, thank you very much) I have found out some little, shall we say, nuances to this skirt I’d not realized before.

Maybe, as I’d not have the nerve to wear it before – oh, yes. It’s green, corduroy, with grasshoppers embroidered on it. This does matter, in the end run – as it does, indeed, show off quite a good bit of the legs, and, limits my abilities to bed over from the waist. Not that well-bred ladies bend at the waist either.

Anyhoo, I went into the Boston office, rather unexpectedly, and had lunch with L, who adores me, and pushes all my business through faster than anyone else’s, because I went through the effort of getting to know her – used my bosses office, languished though a delivered lunch, missed apparently, the entire The Delivery Guy Is Ogling You (though evidently everyone else noticed) and finally (we are nearing the good part) I picked up all delivered policies, gathered all the other and sundry paperwork I needed and made moves towards the office door.

I admit now, I had rather noticed that the skirt had more, say, stretch to it than I’d thought this morning; but well. It’s been a long day, who am I to complain that I’m not uncomfortable in said frock?

L (and about 14 of the guys we work with) were all standing behind me – when she mentioned something, her eyes bulging out of her head, my cell phone ringing, papers starting to fall as I dug through the damn bag for the phone – when it hits me.

Air.

Lots of air. Skirts are draughty by nature, but this was a stiff breeze blowing round my now exposed knickers.

Yes. My beautiful vintage Lilly Pulitzer skirt, which I adore, has a faulty, pissy, will let go at any time, zipper.

And it did.

Baring my brightly coloured, pink and ladybug underpinnings. To everyone.

I did have quite a few offers of help, to gather the tossed paperwork, policies, errant lipsticks and wallet, keys and whatnot, which scattered to the four corners of the office in my haste to make a futile grab at the fallen, but I’m starting to wonder if they were hoping for a close up look at the ladybugs. No one was really aiming to get the pen that rolled under the sofa, or really, anything that was more than a foot away from me.

I left. Head held high. Swearing, about vintage this and that.

Face as pink as the panties I thought no one would ever see.

Jinxed

I’m totally jinxed.

It’s been proven; so really, now my only reason consideration is just how far into my life this is going to go.

Take men, for example. I meet one, marry him, and he’s crazy. (There are some rumors circulating that I made him crazy, but if you’d met his family, you’d realize this is strictly Par For The Course with his genes, but still, angel though I may be, I’m sure I wasn’t, ahem, perfect). I take a break, after a fistful of horrendous first dates (charming annecdotes I pull out at parties when wives start giving me the Evil Eyed Stare, lest they assume I’m after their beloveds) only to find that when I’m not looking? I meet someone.

He’s funny, and charming; he’s great with my little guy, teaches him how to nail golf balls off my fabulous deck, adored my danes, and even allowed them to sit on his in his Dry Clean Onlies. We date, exclusively, only to find that yes, he doesn’t love me. I could go in for all the gory detail, but as I’d rather draw a veil under much of those conversations, (ending in the return of my Rooster - the Holy Grail of our relationship, as it were) we’ll simply forge ahead.

Some idiot tells me that time heals all wounds; life is only just beginning!

Total rubbish. I meet someone, totally innocently (yes, this would be Mr. Knight in Shining Wrinkly Scrubs) ….eyes that twinkle, a devilish laugh…within weeks of meeting me, he’s laid off, and then, the coup de gras - he’s commissioned to IRAQ. Deep breath. Not the end of the world; he still wants to hang out and stuff, and well, he says he thinks I’m a cutie - but seriously? IRAQ? I don’t do bugs, which is immaterial really, since they don’t allow visits (not that I’m signing up to go there) and he’s not back until next November. I recover, slightly, figuring I’ve time to get in a few dates before he ships out (or whatever it is that you call it)

Which is when I blow up my car (yes, I blew the entire engine apart, dropped the transmissions), killed a cell phone, and if you’ve been keeping up at all? You already know the whole host of things I’ve managed to murder in the short month of July. Vacuums. Small appliances. My bathroom drain first showed signs of slowing down; this morning, it refuses to drain altogether. Toothpaste suds and soapy bits are still floating in there unattended, which makes me rather nervous. Unattended Floaties make it quite tough to force upon said drain high octane drain cleaner. Not sure if it mixing them together will create that poisonious smoke that might kill me.

I don’t really want to me found dead on my bathroom floor. Even though I am looking lovely having dropped 15 pounds. I’m on the Stressed Out No Sex diet; it leaves me totally not hungry at all - though schlepping round at football may also have contributed. Sure, I’d look good in the coffin (if I found someone to tame the Really Pissy Hair I’ve been sporting) but I’d rather go out with some elan - not having succombed to noxious fumes of my own making.

Plus also? Pucker (the little bitch) ate one of my favorite shoes - the hot pink patent leather ones wtih the big bows over the toes? With the peep-toe? SOOOOO cutie! Well. Not anymore. She’s rather torn through the side of the heel, ate the buckle off the strappy thing on the ankle (which came out surprisingly how it went in - though, er, chocolate covered) and demolished the cutie bow on the top. I’m incensed. Those were my lucky shoes. My favorite shoes!!

So here it is, the end of September, and I give up: I’ve replaced all the necessary but broken bits and bobs of my life: I’m only wearing the Uglier Shoes, as those will be the ones with the most enticing aroma’s for the puppy, I’m barely driving, especially on crappy weather days when I might destroy something, and men?

Well. I daren’t go near any now, shall I?

We’ve enough unemployed people as it is. I shouldn’t add to that list.

See. I TOLD you I was jinxed.

Princess Priss vs. Dread Fox the Pirate

Donning a suede skirt this morning, atop smoothly shaved legs gave me the decided Pick Me Up I so desperately needed….honestly, it’s so lovely to slip into something that fits again! Added little kitten heels, to feel feminine, yet powerful - I find that on days when I’m dragging quite a good bit, being dressed in something sumptuous helps.

And, let’s face it, with the office feeling more like a snake pit these days, than a restful place to be productive, any little bit helps. The well-dryed hair that is still looking as good as it did in the bathroom mirror, the fact that I’ve managed to do a lovely shave job, without bleeding like a stuck pig from the backs of the ankle -which means, no Spiderman Bandaids* to mar the expanse of slowly paling calf. I nearly feel as though this one morning, I’m on top of my game.

At least, as far as my ability to dress.

Fox on the other hand, has. Well. Rather…lowered the bar for picture day. We argued over the trouser selection I had chosen; he won that round when he decided that left over chinese food was a perfect breakfast, and proceeded to wipe his greasy hands and face on the khaki’s. He’s wearing sweatpants.

Fox: 1. Mama: 0.

He wanted to wear the oversized hand-me-down Cape Cod shirt from Auntie Mag’s boys, but I drew a line in the sand - he wore it yesterday! It had paint, handprints, dog snot and God only knows what else on it. After a bit of a tousle (ie., tug of war with a cotton shirt) we agreed that he could have the pick of three shirts selected by moi.

He didn’t care for my selections.

The navy and white striped polo? So cute! Hated it. Ditto the maroon, and the pale blue with fish skeletons on it. (is way cuter in person, sounds a bit…er….natty, but Target does have the most fabulous things!) Listening to his diatribe on fashion sense (or lack thereof, if you ask me, which he clearly did not) I falied to grasp why dressing as a Pirate awash on a desert island would make a good school picture. In a moment of inspiration, I compromised: the black, collared polo (thank you Target!) with white skulls and crossbones on it.

There. Respectable, as it’s a polo. Piratey, with the symbol for an imminent poisonous death plastered in minature all over it.

Fox: 1. Mama:1.

Running my hands over the hem of the skirt, the suede smooth and nearly creamy, in a warm richly creamed coffee colour, soothes over the ragged edges left by knowing my entire family will be receiving a Christmas card from Dread Fox the NGES Pirate. With my luck, he’ll bare his teeth in some semblance of a snarl, and look as though he’s been diagnosed with scurvy.

Thank goodness for seuded skirts and kitten heels. I may have lost most of the battle this morning, but I look like I’ve won the war.

Cha-Ching

Football season is upon us, bringing to mind all the joys of the late afternoon light in the fall, the sight of little boys learning to be men, and the never ending sound of the cash register at Dick’s Sporting Goods. It’d thought, originally, I’d gotten off lightly this year - we were given all the equipment we needed, save for cleats (bought them for baseball, and they still fit - thank God), a cup (evidently his cup was “all up in his goods”) and a practice jersey.

Really, and idiot can shop for these. A single mom who has no clue can shop for these things - I would know, I did it last year. Sure, I put the cup in upside down the first time; (and, ahem, the second and third times) I’ve managed to screw up which are the thigh pads and which are the knee pads, but I’m one of the only moms who got all of the mud and grass stains out of his pants. After every game.

This year, seeing as how I assumed I’d only need a cup, I figured, I’d gotten off lightly - maybe a total outlay of twenty dollars. A measly twenty dollars at Dick’s - my goodness! perhaps, then, I should buy something for myself, seeing as how I’m used to dropping the same amount of money in Dick’s as I am in Target, and they’re known as the Hundred Dollar Stores. In my head, I’ve planned the cutie little golf skirts (that are also on sale!) the argyle sweater I’ve been eyeing since it came out, and if you add in the coupon I had? The cup is practically free.

Hmm. Maybe it’s the skirt that was practically free, since I went in there to buy the cup in the first place.

So this morning, while I’m doing the Walk The Dog, Feed The Dog, Yell At The Dog And Child Routine, I ask Fox to go upstairs and grab his football bag. The enormous one. He decides to throw it over the landing - on the side near the hanging chandelier.

ARE YOU NUTS?! I yelled, yes, my Inner Mommy Ugly Voice appeared, as the light swung in a rather delicate arc, between three walls, while the bag essentially dripped onto the floor in agonizing slow motion.

His response? I’ve always said that light was ugly. OH. My. GOD.

Deep breath, and a couple huffy breaths later, along with a fair amount of swearing under my breath later, we’re all packed up to go. I reach to throw in the cleats - only to be told, they’re too little. The practice jersey from last year? The small? Nope, Coach says he needs a large. And a medium cup. And new socks, as his have a hole in them.

I take my lunch hour, and frantically fly down to Sports Athourity - which in my opinion? They were not. Yes, the gentleman that greeted me was enormously helpful; he led me right through all the football stuff, lamenting for me, that only the more expensive brands were left. (Add grinding of teeth here)…oh, boy, they’re all picked over. I should have come earlier. I should have sent his father. (I refrained from commenting here, but the voices in my head sure had plenty to say on that subject) He wanted to know how big my little guy was - so I held up my hand, you know, yay high? And he says, no, lady (don’t call me lady, it’s rude, it’s a cartoon dog for heaven’s sake!) I mean, how big are his boys? How much of a handful?

He’s seven. I’m not about to go wandering in during shower time and adjust them for him, so I can get a feeling for how they fill a hand! And you know what? I don’t want to know if Fox is hanging out in the shower testing size and weight in his palms either! Aren’t there some sort of guidelines for this sort of thing? In the back of my mind, all I can think is that the words average, or about this big, with a finger measurement, are the absolute wrong things to say - but then, so is, he’s really hung, or, uh, he’s really out of proportion feel unseemly as well. I don’t really feel I should be discussing my sons balls with anyone, let alone a stranger - but then, that begs the question: do I discuss his “goods” with my girlfriends who have sons?

I’m pleading the fifth.

I should have gone to Dick’s, I should have driven out there, and taken my coupons, gotten my Dick’s points, and my extra points, for purchasing football related items. They may not have had a better selection, but I suppose, I’m more comfortable when I know the guys that laugh at me in the store; and they laugh with me, not at me. They encourage me to bring Fox with me, so they can help me out - and not in that decidedly judgemental way that says I don’t know my own child. I do.

Thus, here I am, back in the office, a whopping sixty dollars poorer, having only purchased a cup and a jersey. I’ve still socks and cleats to go….not to mention raffles, and fundraisers, not to mention the sheer volume of Gatorade this kid takes down.

Soon, I’ll have emptied my wallet, praying to the Great Football Gods at Dick’s Sporting Goods, and all I’ll have to show for it is a football bag that took out my light filled with stuff that smells so badly I have to leave it in the garage so it doesn’t take the finish off the floor. I’ll pile into the stands with the other moms, sporting last year’s sweaters and jacket, realizing that in nearly all the football photos, I’m wearing the same things - the only way to tell the years apart is the how tall Fox is. I’ll sit with moms who have holes in their socks too, with red noses from the cold, mittened hands clutching hot cocoa against the early morning chill, and at some point, it’ll hit me:

I’m so glad my son didn’t take up hockey

Bigger can be better

I really like him.

Yes, he's being sent overseas. Yeah, he'll be gone a year - a whole year - oddly enough? That doesn't scare me.

He makes me laugh. Hard. And smile, til my cheeks hurt - the kind of smiling that I can't stop, especially when he and my little guy are together. Sure, it doesn't hurt that he's hot, with a body I so cannot compete with; but more than that?

I feel safe with him.

Even though he takes up like most of my house when he's here; but he doesn't loom over me the way a lot of really tall guys do, and he knows that his size is intimidating..or, I suppose, I should say, was. I'm not intimidate by him now.

Now?

He picks me up when he kisses me, (I love that), he's an aggressive cuddler, he doesn't care when I call at 3am, because I can't sleep and he's going to crew, just to hear his voice.

I really like him. I miss him, when he's not around, laugh out loud at all the texts we've swapped; and grin like an idiot when I think about him.

Mag's says we're perfect together.

Dont' tell him okay?

But I think so too.

The Date that Really Wasn't

Mr. Tall, Bald and Handsome, shows up, a little early, to find me all in a dither - gee, get our your shocked faces - my hair is sooo not behaving, the lipstick fell into the sink, my hands are shaking, and as we are going to an early movie, I’ve finally settled on jeans, a tee, and a sweater, tied jauntily round the shoulders. The knot of the sleves, hit right in the middle of the vee neck tee; thus calling attention to the girls that I wish were part spandex - this whole rolling them into a bra and hoping to hell they stay there just makes me feel old.

But, I digress. The doorbell rings, Foxy’s off like a shot, puppy barking madly behind him, while also simultaneously chasing her tail, and then? There he is. Overwhelmingly large in my wee condo - he takes up as much room as say, a tank, or a moose. Only, far more attractive, and well, as the moose comparison goes, far less smelly. He thows some balls with Fox, who is ecstatic, that someone other than Mommy is tossing around a ball (okay, so it helps that he can actual throw the ball, whereas I more…like….throw like a girl) and Pucker? Well, she may not be bright, but she has rather excellent taste in men. Or, so I thought.

The ride up to the theatre is rife with my little guy laughing, like he’s not laughed in a long time; I’m all misty eyed in the front, thinking rediculous things…like could this be it? Could this turn into something great? Foxy adores him, and he’s known him a nano-second, Pucker laid at his feet and begged him to touch her - slut! - (really, you never show the belly and pink parts til the 6th date!) - and me? I’m all smiles, and actually forgot about my hair.

Really. That’s saying something when a man can make you forget your hair looks as though you’ve combed it with a backhoe, and styled it with a nuclear weapon.

But at the theatre? I paid. For the tickets, the popcorn, the blue icy thing (blech) and the arcade….which makes me wonder, if he’s all Officer and a Gentlemen, where is the Gentlemanly Whipping Out Of The Wallet? Was I supposed to pay if Fox didn’t go? Sure, I’m kind of enlightened - if the date sucks, I’ll offer to split the check, but basically, it’s a general rule of thumb: he who invites, pays. She who accepts, does not.

So I’m miffed; slightly…..though, I am soaking up the Wonderful Mommy Points I was getting from Fox.

The lights dim, and the next thing I know, I’ve got two sets of hands holding mine (good dieting trick, no hand for the popcorn) and M is warm. And big. Solid. Strong. And well…..lovely to sit next to. With that to-die-for-voice thing going to, when he whispers something about the movie into my ear. Dreamy, really.

Foxy’s more sticky, and wet, needing napkins, and a little messy with the popcorn, but as this clearly isn’t a Real Date, it doesn’t really matter. Plus also? I’d never pass up an opportunity to hold hands with my little guy. He’s already getting way too close to the Girls Have Cooties Don’t Touch Me stage.

And, then, when the lights go up, and the screen goes dark, and we’re slipping out into the falling night, Fox pipes up and says, this is the bestest date he’s ever been on.

It’s the ONLY date he’s ever been on. But, I gather, that M doesn’t think so….from the look on his face, you’d have thought I separated some important life form from his body. Like the two little bags he carries his brain in. Honestly.

Fox falls asleep, when we get home, Pucker does her Touch Me! routine to the hilt, and he kissed me goodnight. He’s a good kisser. A really good kisser.

But.

I have to say.

This whole paying for everything, and then getting kissed goodnight? Feels like I bought it - and that sucks. No wonder men who pay for lobster think they’re getting laid - they’re buying the best thing on the menu, so shouldn’t they get to sample the best thing on your menu?

I cannot have my whole perspective of dating - and the world - be upended. No, that simply won’t do.

If he wants to see me again, then he’s going to have to pay for dinner, or drinks, or the movies - then, it’s not like it’s a Bought Pity Date; it’s a real one, where he invited me because he thinks I’m witty and fun, cute and adorable….with clearly outrageous hair.

By the way?

If he does ask me out again?

Don’t tell him - I don’t want his head to swell or anything - I think I might just say yes.

Movie Night At The Museum, Smithsomian

I went on a date.

With yet another M. Yes, I know; if you can’t get over the first M, get underneath another M.

Or, at least accept a movie date with hot hunk, who has made not so veiled comments about making out at the movies. Which I’ve never done. A rated R, grown up movie. With popcorn. And hand holding. And maybe? Some breath-catching kissing. So at least, should he be horrendous, I can mark off making out at the movies the list of things to do before I die. Easy peasy. Hire sitter, have enough food in the house for the Ravenous Beast to eat, top off all prep with a pre-date cocktail, just to be loose, witty, and not attacked by giant condors floating around in tummy.

Since this is ME, we’re talking about, it went rather not at all like we’d thought, and rather more like my life usually is - a mess. First, I have the day from hell, discovering that yet again, my ex is a tool, and would be less expensive to me dead, than alive. The dog needs a trip to the vet for some Icky Tummy that I rather wrote off as worms; and is not…is STAPH. The Not Good Kind…well, not, I suppose, that there IS a good kind of staph, but I was not in the mood to shell out more for meds than I did on the shoes I’d planned to wear.

Add insult to injury: the sitter bails, and none of my girlfriends are around (they would have taken him in a heartbeat, as everyone - and I do mean everyone) has been on my case to actually date Mr. Tall, Handsome, and Wears Several Uniforms (coast gaurd and fire department: yummy) so I do the only thing I can do at this point: cancel. Which he refuses to take as an answer; how bad could my day have been? Did I mention the voice that melts ice caps from 30,000 miles away? Or how he’s taken to calling me Babe, just to undo me totally? His answer? We’ll just take my little guy, with us, and change our movie selection…what did I think of the new Night at the Museum flick? Would he like that? M says he was indeed, a history major in both college and as a masters (seriously?) so he’d love to see that too. Can they play in the arcade first? Eat popcorn and drink soda til they puke?

After I burst into unladylike tears (complete with sniffling and snorting, red rimmed eyes, and a rather ugly puffiness that no amount of ice could cure) I tell him I’m not sure that’s such a good idea…afterall, I am sporting hair that makes Medusa look well-groomed. Along with the aforementioned facial issues, and a gassy dog who took the leather off the doorjambs of the car on the way home from the vet.

Foxy hears the entire exchange, (the movie part at least) and leaps at the chance to go. He’ll be on his “bestest behavoirs”, he swears, and this time? he’ll share the popcorn. Honest mama.

Okay. Adult movie out, kid flick in.

There is something very touching about a man who without batting an eye invites a child he’s never known on a date with his mom.

Not sure where we’re going next; but I will say this - he can take us to the movies anytime.

He’s a fabulous kisser too, should anyone be wondering (yes, I know, everyone is wondering!!) - maybe next time, he’ll really sweep me off my feet….he’ll show up in uniform.

Knight...in comfy scrubs

I’m back on the market, full time.

I’ll skip the exact gut-wrenching movie worthy moment of when I decided this, but let’s just say, he couldn’t have been any clearer. The worst part is, he’s no clue really, that we’re totally done; it’s not, obviously, sunk in yet. I’m guessing, he thinks I’ll just get over it, this….incident…on the phone; when really, what he said just….left me completely without the ability to draw breath.

So, I decided that perhaps, the best way to get over someone, was to get under someone else.

KIDDING!

But….I did allow Mag’s to rather push me into (or perhaps, just nudge me along a bit, he is rather delish) emailing back the Knight in Shining Armor (or scrubs in this case) who rescued me from Vinnie T’s and total foot hell. (In a nutshell? I whacked my foot on a wrought iron table; enough to fracture my ankle and a metatarcil, and he carried me out) He had a great sense of humor, ragging on my less than stellar shave job (who doesn’t miss a couple stray ones near that funky bone that sticks out of your ankle?), my cutie sandals that clearly had a great deal to do with why the chair I was moving back from the table, didn’t actually slide my oversized ass anywhere. It just allowed my foot to slam into the table.

He was in scrubs. Mag’s and I debated about whether or not to bother him (I was in the Very Firm NO camp; she, clearly, was not) and Mag’s being Mag’s, she won. So, I very politely entered myself into their convo, and thunked my injured foot in his lap. He did the doctor thing, pronounced it broken and carried me out. Very sweet. Cutie dimples. Wide green eyes. Built like a brick shithouse. Solid as a rock. Not once did I think he was going to drop me.

So I emailed. I called. And now, I’ve a date! He’s sweet, and funny; charming, and all in all, he’s great…..but the timing’s rather off. I am still nursing a very broken heart; and, naturally, his name is M too. Honestly. What kind of freaking Karma is THAT?!

Military, (read: fab uniform) fireman (who doesn’t love a fireman?!) and works full time at the hospital. But seriously, knights in shining armor, don’t really exist; there’s always something wrong with them. So what’s wrong with him?

Is he unavailable too?

Is he going to tell me he doesn’t love me, he never did, because he chooses not to?

Or, do I leave my otherwise pathetic peasant of an ex in the dust, climb up on his steed, and save a horse, ride a cowboy?

Jack Shit

My mother told my son, on a recent visit, that brocolli was the colon’s broom.

Thank you, mom, for attempting to get my son to eat something, by appealing to his very deep seated desire to discuss poop at the table, but somehow, this grossed even HIM out. It’s hard to out-gross a six, going on seven year old. He fully enjoys nearly every conversation that revolves around some bodily function or other; but this one, I daresay, went a tad over the top. I mean, there is a statistic I read somewhere, that grownups laugh about 13 times a day, and children, 300 times a day….the difference? 273 poop jokes.

I suppose, I can’t totally blame her; I was the one that tried to interest him in corn by telling him it’d show up the next day, and let’s have a race! See who poops out corn fastest! Or, how baked beans make you fart? (another word, by the way, I detest) It’s a sad day in Mommyhood when I resort to these sorts of tactics to interest my little guy in shoveling in something resembling a veg….other than, say, cesear salad. For the record, I’m not against cesar sald! Not in the least. I, personally, don’t want to see it everyday. And also? I’m not so sure that eating the same veggies everyday gives one the necessary nutrients generally found in the Big Gas Producers in the produce aisle.

Sure, I’ve gotten clever: I hide baby squash in mac n cheese. Like in Kraft mac n cheese. I kid you not. It works, and, it adds a rich creaminess to it that you don’t find in the Just Milk and Butter kind. I’ve tucked baby carrots into pumpkin muffins, marinara sauce, meatloaf muffins, and Halloween Mashed potatoes. But the biggies? The ones that really pack the punch? Broccoli, zucchini, peppers, mushrooms, spinach…those are not so easily hidden, and seriously, let’s face it: I’m tired of having to Be Crafty.

Spare me the whole I Force My Kid To Eat Stuff method - my son will puke on demand, and there is nothing I hate more than puke at the table. I prefer runaway flatulance, frat boy belching, and nose picking - except, I should say, for H’s friend, H, who can - I kid you not - stick his tongue up his nose. That makes ME puke. So, I suppose, to a certain degree, I’ve embraced my mother’s method (shudder, boy, I never thought I’d say THAT) and have taken on trying to entice him with the Tales of Jack Shit.

This is the corn, swept by the broccoli, that cleans out the colon, seen in the log that Jack Shit.

Here is the carrot! that brightens the corn, swept by the broccoli, that cleans out the colon, seen in the log that Jack Shit.

Yes. I have indeed, taken about forty steps backwards. Here it is, seven years into this whole parenting thing, when I spent the better part of years 2 and 3, teaching him that only certain things went into the potty, and how he should avoid staring into it, playing in it, or flushing foreign objects, like fake flowers……..and now, I’m encouraging his rabid disection of Floaters, Ghost Poop, and the ubiquitious search for Tracer Elements.

I suppose, then, it’s only fitting….and, H is right.

Mom knows Jack Shit.

Is it drafty in here? Or just me?

My pants don’t fit. And, not, well, just my pants either…turns out, the other day? When I was wearing this relatively Big Girlish type dressy thing, which is in this slitherly material, that rather…comforms….to one’s shape, I decided to slip on my Pants Of Steel (aka, Spanx. They are on sale, currently, at Steinmart’s, if you’re interested in purchasing some) Anyhoo, back to me - I slid them on. Okay. Fine. I didn’t slide them on.

I got both legs in, all six of my thighs, and started hopping around trying to get them the rest of the way up.

Or, I suppose, in the interest of honesty, over some other bulging things. H, my little guy, totally loved watching all of this, as Parental Privacy is still a concept not really accepted in my house. He did, however, match up the navy shoes to the dress, so I forgive some of his rude and unnecessary commentary. Seriously, I didn’t need to hear that maybe they “shrunk in the dryer, mama” - and while I give him MAJOR POINTS for male sensitivity, since he was wise enough not to say it might be me that got bigger, I’m still training him that we just don’t discuss those sorts of things with a girl. Ever.

Now, I’m sucked, tucked, dressed, shod and ready to go (the make-up thing happens in the car). I did the whole Run Into The House Four Times Before Leaving thing - to get the jounral project we’d done involving photos of the pet moose that came home from first grade, two, to get the cell phone, three, he forgot his snack, and lastly, I forgot the damn keys.

Manuvering the trash can out of it’s hiding space in the garage (very stiff rules here at the condo, no trash cans anywhere, EVER, other than in the garage) I felt a draft.

Skirts are drafty, right?

Wrong.

Pants Of Steel that have the ass blown out of them are drafty.

Really drafty.

Plus also? To add insult to injury, (and yes, I do find losing my Pants Of Steel quite injurious to my Thin Pride) I was no longer sporting anything resembling that fabulous 1940’s hourglass shape.

I’d gone straight back to Bosc Pair. Little on top, all six thighs a-hanging in the breeze on the bottom.

I did the one thing any self-respecting girl in my situation does: drop the child at school, picked up a skinny latte (see? calorie management already! talk about putting that diet in motion immediately) and staked out a prime space in the parking lot….right in front of Steinmart.

When in family court, while I was losing, I still managed to not only sniffle my way out of the courtroom, but call and entertain my girlfriend with my tale of woe, coupled with how my tights lost their elastic band in the middle of the proceedings. I stood there, next to my Big Bad Dog legal beagal, sneaking a hand towards my posterier to yank up my tights, in the manner one usually witnesses on Dress Up Day in Kindergarten.

Naturally, I’d considered just how that would look to the packed courtroom I was not facing (but my backside was) and honestly? In this instance, desperation trumped ladylike behavoir. The snickering behind my could have either been towards my Ex’s lackluster pity party pleading to the judge, or, the good stiff yank I gave to the tights. I’d love to say that they laughed at him; but as he was clearly winning, on this one particular point, my guess is, they were laughing at me.

I’m not big on tights anyway; but I hate hose. If you don’t shave your legs, they feel funny. And they’re itchy. If you do shave, and apply lotion, they don’t sit well, adhere to your thighs all twisted up, and they’re terribly uncomfortable all day long. Plus also? You can’t get them down, when you finally finally get a potty break. For those of you without children, you don’t know this feeling - but trust me on this one - when you have to go, there really is no fooling around time before it can Get Ugly.

I know this. Very well. I wore hose the other day, simply for the control toppyness that managed to suck in enough things to a, locate some form of a wasit, and b, to slip into the skirt I had on, without unsightly bumbs (well, okay, mostly so the damn zipper would actually grip itself). I’d just shaved, so of course, they didn’t go on correctly (and spare me the whole User Error issues - I know how to put them on!), they were itchy, and I think seriously, if you want to torture out answers from possible terrorist cults, make them wear hose for a couple hours, deny them access to a loo while plying them with six gallons of water, and then, put them in three inch heels, and watch them race each other for the bath, fighting to keep their knees together. I hardly made it in time to do the Shit They’re Stuck On Me dance, lock the door, and then exhale as the additional pressure from the slimming top really makes having a camel bladder impossible.

I’ve decided, therefore, that hose are not for me. It’s considered a luxury anyway; the price of milk has now eaten into any funds I might have spent on hose or tights, as clearly I cannot give up on my precious shampoo/conditioner budget, for something that chokes my thighs to within an inch of their lives.

Perhaps, then, I’ll stick with my original plan - once a week, in the winter, I’ll shave my legs, and go naked legs to work, with a skirt on; it’s so cold, I’m lucky if the shave job lasts from the garage door to the cardoor, so I’ll don slacks for the rest of the week. Add cutie shoes, and even the palest, stubbly legs look longer, sexier, and dressier.

And, then, being so financially savvy, I can save the dough I would have spent on the sheerest of leg coverings, and use it for something important - like Ben and Jerry’s.

I've had, for lack of a better way to say it, one of those blindingly painful several months of ex induced agony, coupled with a serious consideration about where my relationship is/was headed, and, whether or not I was strong enough to take on anything more pressing that what exactly, I would be serving for dinner. Should have been an easy choice: we had either breakfast items, or, well, breakfast items. For like a month. Sadly, still, wasn't an easy choice - I would have preferred to crawl into a hole and stay there.

However. I have learned a great many things, like you do indeed find your greatest strength in the moments of weakness. And, truly, there is no bad time to eat already cooked breakfast sausages. By the dozen. Because turkey sausage, has way fewer calories than regular, and, it comes in this amazing maple flavor of which I've become increasingly fond.

So, in light that the New Year has arrived, along with several days spent indoors due to Weather Related Conditions (ie, school was closed due to ice and snow, so we played Eskimo and stayed inside) I've had plenty of time to think about where I'd like to go this year, as I've had it up to my eyeballs with last year. It was, you know, so last year.

Thus, I'll take time to count my blessings (see below):

Obviously my little guy, who not only has a new hamster, but, gave me a camera so I am able to actually capture some of the funniest/cutiest moments ever, and shar them, with our loved ones

M. Sweet, adorable, slightly screwed up M; and his dog, Mac, aka Thunderpaws, who has taken to eating linolium (not mine) and breaking furniture (mine). Apparently, labs are neither graceful, nor terribly smart.

Sure, I love my job; not that I'm raking in huge chunks of cash, but, in light of the market, the cutbacks, layoffs and unemployment, perhaps, I should feel lucky I still have a job, and worry less on becoming say, solely independant financially, and just keep plodding along.

Lastly, this is a biggie, a great pal moved closer - half the country closer!! So maybe, just maybe, they'll visit us, in MA, and meet my little guy. Maybe? Yes?

Am now, getting beyond playing the Looking Busy ast Work game, I should return to the land of fiscally responsible (or not!) clients, and attend to more pressing things....like whether or not I look as bad in the sweater I'm wearing as the woman down the hall from us does; we're wearing the same freaking sweater. If I look like her, please, harpoon me.