Month: May 2015

If you get a few minutes between your busy life and your dedicated blog-reading, you should check out the CDC’s 511 page report on the state of Americans’ health. There’s no telling how much this research cost taxpayers, so we owe it to ourselves to give it a look. If the fact that you funded this report isn’t compelling enough, you might want to read it to get a much-deserved pat on the back from The Feds telling you how well-behaved your kids are.

According to these findings, we have managed to raise the best teenagers since the government started collecting this particular behavioral data. Our teens smoke less pot, drink less alcohol, have sex less and exercise more than we did. What a relief it is to have our suspicions officially confirmed by government statisticians touting bar graphs.

So, why do today’s parents continue to complain about these Teen-Angels? Because, it’s every generation’s inalienable right to be disgruntled with their teens, that’s why. The government can’t take that away from us. Despite the overall lack of substance abuse, we never run short on things to grumble about around here…

Perhaps this seems minor, but in the Winter, our children require the thermostat on 80, yet at the first sign of Spring, they need the air blasting at 60. Apparently our minds are too drug-addled to comprehend why 80 isn’t as comfortable May through September, as it was October through April. Every Spring, Jimmy and James have a serious negotiation over thermostat regulation that goes like this:

Jimmy: “I better not go upstairs and find the air lower than 73”
James: “63”
Jimmy: “70”
James: “65”
Jimmy “66”

If we laid a finger on my Dad’s thermostat, back in the day, we would’ve found ourselves in a homeless shelter. Our parents firmly believed that shivering in the Winter and sweating in the Summer built perseverance, endurance and a certain ruggedness that you won’t find replicated in the youth of today.

What about the fact that our daughters can’t abide the hair color they were provided with at birth? I never dreamed of asking my parents to fund the altering of my hair color. And, if we’re being totally honest here, I would’ve been justified. I was a Ginger way before they gave it an endearing moniker; they were practically still burning red heads at the stake when I was growing up. Back then, females didn’t color their hair until the first sign of grey. You stuck out your hair color, and if possible, developed a “persona” around it. It was character building.

Furthermore, we are bewildered that our kids can’t stay within the ample data usage we supply them with. Every month, we get a jarring reprimand from AT&T, with the breakdown of our family’s data abuse. We are always teetering at, or already over, the allotted amount and the “junkies” are our teens. They are every bit as addicted to data as our generation apparently was to illegal substances. It’s actually quite commendable that we were prescient enough in the 70s and 80s to procure all of our much-needed information from The Encyclopedia Brittanica, especially since we were all “high.” Surely, this extra effort built up our problem-solving skills.

There’s more. In a restaurant recently, one of our kids glanced over at the total of the lunch tab and said, “That’s not bad!” Of course “it’s not bad,” since Junior’s not forking over the 90 bucks. Our parents took us to restaurants twice a year, not twice a day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m comforted that our teens are “partying” so much less than previous generations. It would be quite an accomplishment to party less than I did, though. I’m sure I’m just bitter that I missed all the fun, but the fact is, I didn’t turn to Martinis and Benadryl until I became the mother of teenagers, and that’s actually called “surviving,” not “partying.”

But, I guess I can reconcile myself to the empirical evidence that we have literally “outdone ourselves” with this generation. According to the Uncle Sam, we can’t complain – Parenthood’s been good to us so far.

One of the most perplexing things for me when I was a new mother, was when people told me, “Trust your instincts!” I often wondered, ‘If I have a feeling of foreboding, is that my gut telling me there really is something wrong?’ When you’re inclined to worry about everything, it’s very hard to distinguish the difference and follow your instincts.

Thankfully, the further down the parenting road I got, the easier it became to parse through any given situation and determine what warranted legit concern and what was just garden-variety mommy-angst. I’m quite proud at how sharply honed my intuition and “gut-instincts” have become through the years. Which explains why I was especially disconcerted as the events of yesterday unfolded…

As with most things in life, the situation started out benignly. Early in the day, Gracie received a text from the ex-husband of a regular babysitting client. He asked if she could watch his baby later that night, offering to pay extra and apologizing for the last minute notice. She accepted the gig. Later that day, she expressed concern over babysitting for him, as he had subsequently sent her a “friend request” on Facebook and commented on one of her photos. She said she was a little “creeped out!” Jimmy and I weren’t terribly concerned, as Gracie has a hyper-sensitive CREEPOMETER and is “creeped-out” at the drop of a hat. Our finely-tuned parental instincts told us that her friends probably scheduled last minute plans, rendering her unenthusiastic about an actual income-producing activity. We instructed her to babysit. We trusted our gut.

Nevertheless, I did prudently plug the guy’s address into my GPS and kept my cell phone handy, on the off-chance there was indeed a problem. Later that night, I received the dreaded text from her saying that “The Dad” called to say he was “running a little late,” but would “be home soon” adding that he’d “love to take her to this restaurant” sometime soon. I jumped in my car and was in his neighborhood before you could say “Cagney and Gracie.”

Once I arrived, I realized I didn’t really have a formal action-plan. This guy is probably just a harmless idiot, I reasoned. He mistakenly believes, at the ripe old age of 32, with one divorce and a baby under his belt, he still has a shot at a 19 year old college co-ed. What he failed to understand is that she continually referred to him as, “The Dad.” He had crossed-over a metaphorical bridge; he doesn’t even have a First Name in her world.

Never one to over-react, I considered my options and decided to merely conduct a Stake-Out from my vehicle. This could’ve been me being “chill,” or could’ve been due to the fact that I was already in my pajamas.

A little information and advice about Stake-Outs, for those of you who don’t yet have this covert operation on your parental resume:

-They start off titillating, but can hit quite a dull lull before the excitement picks back up. So, take your cell phone along.

-Make sure your cell phone is fully charged. I speak from experience when I say, you don’t want to run down your battery texting and chatting with your friends. When the “moment of truth” arrives, it’s stressful to be dangling on 3%.

-Don’t park under a street light. The neighbors can see you there, in your PJs fiddling with your cell phone, understandably arousing THEIR suspicion and concern.

-The Suspect will probably have zero regard for your bedtime. Sketchy people are sketchy that way.

The Perp/Perv pulled in his driveway a little after 10 pm, which is well past my bedtime. I yawned 3 times, before Gracie appeared at her car with a check and a to-go box. As we caravanned out of the neighborhood, she called me.

“He paid me $100 for 3 hours and brought me a piece of Key Lime Pie. I’ll take the money and you can have the dessert!”

Motherhood – it may not be a piece of cake, but it’s easy as pie…

Legally Blonde

Every mother fancies herself the epi-center of her child’s existence, and I am certainly no exception. When my daughter packed and left for college last August, I truly believed there was never a child more distraught to be wrenched from the arms of their mother. For months afterward, I was besieged with texts depicting the deepest depths of darkest despair. In fact, so palpable was her homesickness, I thought we would never be able to send her back to Arkansas after Fall Break to finish out her first semester.

So, imagine my astonishment when I learned that she WOULD NOT BE RETURNING to the loving bosom of her family to spend the summer. She has secured a nanny position in Dallas and plans to live with my mother.

It seems that NO ONE in all of Oklahoma, requires the services of a Full-time Nanny. The only people in these entire United States, that actually DO need a SUMMER Nanny, randomly live in Dallas. Coincidentally, so does my daughter’s new boyfriend. Considering what a big state Texas is, it’s even more remarkable that he resides just minutes from my mom’s house. You were right Mr. Disney, it IS a small world after all!

This is not my mother’s first time around the block with a challenging, self-absorbed teenager (my siblings were a handful). Last week, she informed us that she would be drawing up a contract for her new ROOMIE to sign. As soon as she finished drafting the aforementioned document, she promptly emailed it to me and my husband (aka “The Guarantors,”) for full disclosure. There aren’t words to express how delighted I was when it popped into my inbox this morning.
Upon perusal, I found immediate clause for concern:

-The Curfew Clause:

Mom has a curfew for this girl. We never actually imposed a curfew on our kids, because, in this day and age of cell phones, it was easier for them to just connect with us hourly; besides we haven’t slept in over 20 years. Throughout each step of their evening, our teens apprise us of their plans, and either receive a “green light” or a “get your booty home now!” It’s our family’s middle-of-the-night version of the classic children’s game, “Red Light/Green Light.” Grandma does not like this game and expects my daughter to pull in to the driveway at what a 75 year old woman considers “a reasonable hour.”

-The Tidiness Clause:

It seems Grandma would prefer my daughter’s personal effects not be “strewn about the house,” but rather, be confined to her personal quarters. Mom may need to expand her definition of “personal quarters,” as this kid considers her living space to be inclusive of, but not limited to, all of Planet Earth. The entire 18 years the child  lived under my roof, she routinely established small domains throughout the home. These areas started out as juice boxes, hair bows and Barbies, and graduated through the years to cell phones, lap tops, retainers, articles of clothing, and other minutia. This was a daily assault on the OCD that I inherited from my mother, yet, failed to pass on to my own children. As I write this, the theme song from “The Odd Couple” is stuck in my head. That was my mom’s favorite show in the 70s. Hopefully, Mom still finds that entire scenario amusing.

-The Date Night Clause:

To say the least, this is a delicate topic to broach at any age, but apparently, when you’re 75, there’s no need to mince words…Grammie just laid it on out there.

Per the contract, on the nights that my mother’s “Gentleman Friend” comes to call, henceforth and forewith to be referred to as Date Night, My girl is to “scram.” This is the geriatric version of a necktie on the doorknob. The good news is that Grandma has graciously offered to sponsor her evening out on those particular nights.

My daughter has enthusiastically described her summer arrangement as a “win/win,” but she hasn’t actually laid eyes on this contract yet, particularly the codicil at the end, whereby Grandma reserves the right to attach addendums to the agreement, throughout the summer on an “as needed” basis. (Thereby negating the entire concept of a contractual relationship?)

If I thought for one second my kids were inclined to honor any agreement, I would’ve dipped all their little newborn feet in ink before we left the hospital, had them sign off on my terms and conditions and enjoy a lot more Mama-Leverage than I do currently…

“Sign right here kid!”

"Here I Am Grandma – Signed, Sealed, Delivered – I'm Yours!" (Gracie & Stevie Wonder).

“Till Death Do Us Part”

Yesterday must’ve been “Take Your Wife To Work Day.” After a long, exhausting day of my own, Jimmy asked me if I wanted to have a “Date Night.” I mustered up a marginally-enthusiastic,

“Sure… but let’s have a stay-at-home date night. Won’t that be fun? The kids all have plans, so it’ll be just the two of us!”

The next thing I know he is dressed and heading out the door. (Apparently, he had to go in to one of the restaurants with or without me, on a work-related issue and really just wanted me to tag along.) I figured there were worse offers out there, plus a girl’s gotta eat, so I threw on some clothes, splashed on a little makeup and out we went.

After he addressed whatever work matter was at hand, we nestled in to a secluded corner of the bar, which was veritably humming with the vibe from a crowd of our area’s Beautiful People at every age and stage of life. It’ll be entertaining to relax with a cocktail, catch up on life and engage in some frivolous “people watching!”

At this point, I was glad I decided to tag along.

When our drinks arrived at the table, we tipped our glasses to one another, took a big long sip and began to let the troubles of the day melt away…

When suddenly, apropos to nothing, Jimmy says,

“If you die, I don’t think I’ll go too young on my next wife. I’ll probably consider someone in their 40s, but I would go as high as 50s, provided she has kept herself up!”

Isn’t it invigorating to realize that after 30 years of marriage your mate can still stun you speechless?

Perhaps because the bar was dark and my face was illuminated solely by a small candle on our table, he couldn’t see my reaction. So, he continued on descriptively…

“She will, of course, have to be intelligent, amorous, energetic and I would definitely need her to be a bit of a Susie-Homemaker type!”

A little about Me (Wife # 1)

-I’m 52 (which is the new 40, by the way)
– I exercise daily
-I wear my seatbelt regularly
-I don’t drink in excess
-and I don’t smoke at all

In short, I really hadn’t planned on dying anytime soon….

But now, the desire to Stay Alive has taken on a new meaning. It seems my WIDOWER-TO-BE has great expectations, as well as some lofty requirements for his second wife.

Let’s re-cap the REQs for wife #2:

This hot little number in her 40s or early 50s, with above-average intelligence, is up for big fun in the boudoir, just as soon as she pulls her cupcakes out of the oven and scrubs one more potty!

I woke up this morning with a new lease on life. I find that my will to live is stronger than ever. I ran around the block a few times, did 20 push ups, 50 Jumping Jacks, scheduled a mammogram, a colonoscopy and a heart scan. Then I ducked into Walgreens for a huge bottle of Geritol and some SPF 80 sunblock.

I really can’t afford to take any chances. My SUCCESSOR, Mrs. Blanchard-The-Second, sounds positively
“TO DIE FOR!”