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Not a “Dog Person,” my arse!

I’m sick and tired of people suggesting that maybe I am not a “Dog Person.” This really gets my goat (making me a Goat Person?) I’m not sure there is even such a thing as NOT being a Dog Person. Literally everyone in the world is a Dog Person, aren’t they? Why do people even bother to go around bragging “I am a dog person!” If you are a person at all, you’re probably a Dog Person. I’ll go out on a limb and wager even your common everyday Serial Killers are dog people.

Quite simply, Human Beings are obsessed with dogs.

Which is why what happened to me last week was so terribly disconcerting. My daughter asked me to babysit her new puppy for the day. That’s not the really upsetting part. The really upsetting part was that she came right out and said that asking ME was her last resort. It seems that the Preferred Puppy-Grandmother (her husband’s mom) was out of town, so they were fresh out of daycare options and were exploring available alternatives. The only thing more humiliating than being picked last (I got a belly full of that in junior high P.E. class) was that she went on to imply that I might not be properly motivated or qualified to tend to the needs of a young puppy.

Motivated?

Qualified?

Does she know who I even am? It’s Me – Mommy! Her very own mother, for the love of God. I may not have been any good at _______ (insert name of any sport where a Team Captain was choosing teams) but I excelled my entire life at addressing the wants and needs of Small Needy Things, starting with her. One can only assume that this pint-sized dog will be exactly like my kids, only covered in fur and nice.

After I recovered from my justified righteous indignation, I realized that, if my children truly feel that I can’t be trusted with their pets, this may not bode well for my prospects as an Actual-Babysitter-of-Actual-Grandchildren down the road. So, I did what any reasonable Start-up Day Care facility would do. I obtained a copy of the “Activity Log” of one of the more established Hoity-Toity Baby Day Cares in our town and I structured my little charge’s day as similarly as possible.

Language and Literacy : We read “Polar Bear, Polar Bear What Do You Hear?” By Eric Carle. This helped the tiny Labrador to understand that dogs are not the only animal in the universe

I look as tired as I do in all the pictures of me reading bedtime stories to my toddlers through the years…

Mathmatical Thinking:

We counted her puppy toys, concluding that she has way too many…

Social Development:

Learning to share is so critical to social development…

Physical Activity (aka P.E. Class):

We used a rolling pin in this engaging exercise of chase and be chased! A tail-waggin’ good time was had by all.

They picked their puppy up by 5 pm. I poured myself a glass of wine and looked back over my busy day. I’m feeling pretty good about things.

There’s no doubt that I established my credibility in several key areas:

-By demonstrating such an abundance of unnecessary enthusiasm, I feel that I’ve cleared up the “Dog Person” debate once and for all.

-By demonstrating my broad range of capabilities, I don’t need to lay awake at night fretting that my children won’t include me in their future puppy care needs.

And, as a bonus, I’ve proven I’ll go the extra mile to edge out any and all other Grandma competition, when the time comes…

She looks so fine, she’s all I need tonight… (And a pair of tongs)

It’s always a little tricky when you go to buyin’ someone else a present with their money. The “dicey-ness” of the situation can be further compounded when that individual is a “frugal” person. Yeah, I’m talking about the annual challenge of purchasing my husband’s Father’s Day gift. The struggle is real…

I was thinking it would be a fabulous idea to get him a grill this year. After all, we’ve been talking about getting a new one for about 5 or 10 years now, so I thought I’d surprise him by spontaneously taking action.  Fortunately for me, I had not yet executed the purchase when we chanced to discuss our plans for the upcoming Father’s Day weekend. Imagine my surprise when he threw me this curve ball:

Husband – “Whatever you do, don’t buy any food for grilling, it’s going to be way too hot this weekend to grill out!”

‘Uh-oh, I thought to myself, if he doesn’t want to grill out this weekend, that’s going to take a bit of the zing out of presenting him with a brand-spanking-new-grill.’

So I effortlessly moved on to plan B and bought him a brand new bottle of tequila*  instead.

So, now imagine my further surprise when he said these words to me this morning:

Husband – “I’ve put in an offer on a grill and I’m waiting to hear back!”

Wife -“You’ve put in an offer on a grill? And you are waiting to hear back?”

(Ginger Snapping: I thought it was too hot to grill out? That’s why I bought tequila**  instead of bratwurst. What’s more, my guy has some pretty lofty ideas regarding grills. I was thinking $400-$500 max. I’m not saying he isn’t a great Dad and all, but for Pete’s sake, it’s a grill. I know when it comes to men and their meat, it’s serious business,  but we have kids to put through college. My husband is pursuing the purchase of a grill that requires the tendering of an offer? Like when one buys a car?)

Wife – “How much did you offer them for it ?  These Grill-Scheisters?”

Husband -“$100 – but it has some scratches, a rather large dent and a broken wheel. I told them I’d be doing them a favor just hauling it away.”

Wife- “It really sounds like you would be doing them a serious solid.   Not to be a kill-joy on your special weekend, but I kind’ve hope they turn us down.”

Like everything else in life, it resulted in a Bad News/Good News outcome…

Bad news: They said yes.

Good news: They said yes.

We stuck it to The Home Depot, but good!

We were there within the hour to load up our brand new scratched, dented, 3-wheeled Father’s Day Grill. After a brigade of overly-supervised  Orange-Aproned Ones carefully loaded it (because we didn’t want any additional dents we didn’t pay for) into the truck, my triumphant husband pulled around to the front of the store.

Wife- “For crying out loud, what are you doing now?”

Husband- “We get a free bottle of propane with purchase! I told you I really stuck it to those M-effers. I took em deep!”

In retrospect, I’m so glad I didn’t rob him of the joy of buying his own gift with his own money.

Clearly, It was the thrill of the kill, more than the thrill of the grill…

*There wasn’t a scratch on that bottle of tequila. It was in pristine  condition.

**In case you’re wondering, I decided not to return the tequila.  Color me selfish, but I’m keeping it to make myself Margaritas.  It promises to be a long, hot summer.

*Warning: May not be suitable for all readers due to violent content!

Throughout my entire adult life I’ve remained baffled  and a bit envious of other families and their affinity for pets. So many of my friends and family members enjoy mutually satisfying relationships with various members of the domesticated animal kingdom. I suppose I owe my children a heartfelt apology that I have never fully or successfully enriched their young lives by integrating animals into our household. I blame this unfortunate legacy entirely on The Gerbil Incident of 1974…

At some point in the early 70s, Gerbils became enormously popular as pets in the United States. Kids and their parents couldn’t flock to pet stores fast enough to complete their image of ideal domestic tranquility with a cage full of these unique kangaroo-style rats.   We were no different. The only problem is that I have never been able to extricate myself from the Tragic Pet Curse I was apparently born under.

A day or two after I discovered not one, but both of my gerbils, Napoleon and Josephine, rock hard with rigor-mortis, my mother took me to get a replacement which I promptly named Mr. Lincoln. Don’t ask me why I was so enamored with naming my gerbils after famous people in history, I just was – that’s all. I proceeded to beg my mom for permission to take Mr. Lincoln to school the next day for Show and Tell. She didn’t fancy the idea on several levels – Permission Denied.

The convenient thing about having a mom that worked outside the home was that a kid enjoyed a fair amount of latitude with respect to total 100% adherence and obedience. Getting my way in this situation was as easy as waiting until Doris pulled out of the driveway for work, hooking the handle of Mr. Lincoln’s cage to the handlebars of my bicycle and taking off for school. I was pedaling away in earnest, heading due west on Rainforest Drive, when the bottom tray of the cage slid out.  As Mr. Lincoln hit the asphalt, his horizons were instantaneously broadened amidst a shower of cedar shavings. So shocked was he by his unexpected and unanticipated freedom, that he began to scurry about in alarm.  I ditched my bike on the curb and went after him.

For those of you who have never attempted to manually capture a distraught rodent on a peaceful neighborhood street, I can tell you the task is fraught with difficulty. Every time I thought I had him within reach, he would hop out of my grasp. I knew I had to be smarter and quicker than he was. The next time I got within range of him, I anticipated his response and lunged forward just as he cleverly attempted to side-step me. In a bizarre twist of fate, the trauma of which has never been replicated before or since in my existence, my shoe slipped out from under me, coming down on him and crushing his tiny whiskered skull. I only thought he was upset before. Now he was in full-fledged panic mode; hopping about, spurting blood like an actor in a B horror film. I don’t recall if he screamed, but I certainly did, as blood spattered like modern art all over my white uniform shirt. I can still remember his beady little eyes locking into mine as if to say, “How did it come to this? I trusted you.”

Needless to say, this catastrophe has haunted me throughout my life. On the one hand, it translated into a positive behavioral investment ushering me obediently through the turbulent teen years. When Doris told me I couldn’t drink alcohol or smoke pot, I said, “Yes Mam” and never once considered crossing her. But, unfortunately I’ve never been even remotely successful at owning pets.  Alas, it’s truly the only thing that’s stood in the way of me being the perfect mother.

I also get pretty sketched-out by Modern Art.

Mimi is serious about her makeup!  She “never leaves home without it!”

As one might imagine, the topic of “aging gracefully” and general overall “lucidity” has been on the table ever since our two mothers spent a few days with us attending graduation festivities last week. Right before we took my husband’s mom to the airport to catch her flight back to New Orleans, we stopped for a light lunch, which was really just an excuse for a few more minutes of soaking up her wisdom, chatting about life and stuff. That’s when Mimi tossed out this precious gem…

“Well, all I can say is…Y’all will know when I am LOSING IT. Y’all will be able to tell if I ever even walk outside or, God forbid, go anywhere without my makeup on.”

The Graduate and 3 Easy, Breezy Beautiful Covering-it-up Girls!

I met my mother-in-law when I was 17, and even back then, as a know-nothing young girl, I pegged her as the true blue, dyed-in-the-wool Southern Belle that she is. One look and you can tell she has some really high standards with respect to appearances, but still, her comment gave me considerable pause. (The fork in mid-air, I-even-stopped-eating-for-a-second kind of pause.)  I looked at my hubby in mock concern…

“That may be fine for gauging Mimi’s mental state, but I run all over town without an ounce of makeup on now, so we can’t be relying on that as an indication of when I start LOSING IT.”

“That’s the God’s Honest,” he readily agreed. “Or if you start ramming our cars into one another on our driveway, no one will be worried. We will just know that’s the kind of thing you’ve always done.”

(Touche!  I’m sure I deserved that!)

Foolishly caught up in the moment, I couldn’t resist adding, “If I’m an old lady that turns on the faucet and then forgets to turn it off and floods the entire Senior Center, you won’t be panic-stricken, like ‘Oh My God, she is completely losing it!’ You’ll be all calm like, “That’s just her way!”

“And, if you completely fall off the face of the Earth and don’t answer anyone’s phone calls or return their texts, no one will think a thing of it!” Mimi offered, in that sort’ve sympathetic ‘Bless Your Heart’ style only a truly Southern mother-in-law can pull off with charm and  ease.

Undaunted, my husband continued, “Or even if I found your car keys in the freezer or fact-checked your embellished statistics and stories, I wouldn’t blink twice!”

“Or if you threw away actual money!”

I get it. I get it. I get it.

He’s just all bent out of shape because one of the first payments I’ve ever received for “published writing” came in the mail the other day and he brought it straight to me, bubbling over with the joy and relief of a man who just realized he might be in a “dual-income relationship” for the first time in 33 years of marriage. I was standing in my closet at the time he ceremonially handed the check to me. We haven’t laid eyes on  that check since the initial 2 minute celebration, but I’m sure it’s in my closet somewhere.  Besides, it still counts as “getting paid to write” regardless of whether or not you get around to cashing the check.

But that’s all completely beside the point – I’ve got bigger fish to fry here.   With no distinct or discernible signs of my own mental impoverishment, my loved ones will be completely clueless. If I start to unravel, how will they be alerted to the utter gravity of my condition in order to render aid?   I’ve got to pull my act together somewhat.

I’m turning over the proverbial new leaf. I plan to tone it down and rein it in a bit from here on out. I’ll start by tearing a page out of Mimi’s book and splash a little more make-up on consistently every day, for that dewy-fresh “I’ve totally got my crap together” look!

“Age-defying makeup” just took on a whole new meaning for me…

Bless My heart, Y’all.

You can listen to the recording here:

http://www.npr.org/2016/05/22/479048499/to-put-an-end-to-her-daughter-s-bullying-a-mother-takes-a-page-from-darwin

I could hardly sleep last night knowing I would be making my radio debut this morning.  I’ve never been a debutante* before, so this was heady stuff!  I set my alarm for 7 am, as the Producer at NPR told me the show would air at 7:20.  I figured that was enough time to make some coffee and get situated to listen.  But it didn’t matter because I was wide-eyed and bushy-tailed by 5 am.  It’s not everyday I’m on the radio, so I was pretty stoked.

I followed Jimmy out to his truck, in my Christmas pajamas** with a steaming mug of French Roast and we tuned into KGOU in Norman, Oklahoma.  They were playing some type of historical documentary about Vietnam.   It was informative, but…

“Maybe she meant that we should be ‘in listening position’  by 7:20 and the show actually comes on at 7:30!” I offered optimistically.

A few minutes later texts started coming in from friends and relatives congratulating me and saying what a “kick” it was to hear me on the radio.  We had completely missed the broadcast – my radio debut.  I did what any professional radio personality would do.  I started to cry.

“I wanted to hear myself on the stinkin’ radio!” I blubbered inconsolably, “Is that just too much to ask?”  (That’s entirely rhetorical – I mean, yes, apparently it’s just too much to ask – to hear yourself on the radio…)

Jimmy, The Crown Prince of Compassion, said,  “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now, and crying sure as Hell isn’t going to get you on the air, so let’s go to the gym and squeeze in a workout before Mass.”

Bewildered, I emailed the Producer, who did some sleuthing and emailed me back to say that Oklahoma operates 2 hours behind NPR’s schedule (even after factoring in time zone changes.)

Bad news/Good news scenario:  Oklahoma is behind in something else and I air at 9:20!

When we finally did get to hear the interview we thought it sounded pretty good.  We thought they edited the hick out of it.   But then…because we had the link, we made the mistake of listening a few more times.  We started to pick the damn thing apart.  Why did I say this? Or that?  A little nasally here, and babyish there.

And drawly..Lands Sakes y’all!   Now Jimmy has me saying, “The Rain in Spain Falls mainly on the Plain,” 1000 times before my next speaking gig.  It takes me a really long time to say that.

“The Rayun in Spayun (y’all) fawls mainlyyyyyyyy on the Playun!”

But I’m gonna keep on sayin it…999 more times to Jimmy.

*Debutante – From the French. Meaning “female beginner.”

** I’m not saying I’m a Fashion/Style Blogger, but the rule on Christmas pajamas is that you don’t wear them after Memorial Day.

Catholic School Days – Buzzing around the school yard before the “Social Activism” years. (Disclaimer: Most of these girls were not the “ribbon cutters!”)

I wrote an article recently that my family affectionately nicknamed “The Bully Blog.” It centered around an almost-bullying episode in my youngest daughter’s life that was thwarted by me. I gave the piece a catchy title, “My Worst Nightmare – What a If I Raised The Bully?

“http://www.faithit.com/worst-nightmare-raising-the-bully-leslie-blanchard/

But – it will live on in posterity as “The Bully Blog.”  After the post went viral, it sparked a family discussion of several other “dodged-a-bully” experiences we had during the exhaustively arduous process of raising 5 kids…

One such incident that we recall with utter clarity, is a story we refer to as, “The White Ribbon Campaign.” It’s a saga about an unfortunate 5th grade boy,  budding sexuality, a spool of white satin ribbon, some Hitler-style armbands and Feminism gone awry.  Unsurprisingly, my fair-haired daughter was right in the thick of things, yet again.

It started on a seemingly innocuous Wednesday afternoon in March, as I pulled into the parking lot of my children’s Catholic grade school to drop something off. As I negotiated my parking space, I waved at Sue, another mother I vaguely knew, who was walking out of the school office with her son Chandler in tow. She did not wave back. Neither one of them looked happy. In fact, Chandler, a “spirited” boy, looked downright broken.

I hoped there wasn’t a bug going around.

Well…there certainly was a “bug.” There were several.  I just didn’t yet realize that one of the bugs was my very own daughter, one of a hive of Queen Bees down at the schoolyard.   But, my prescience hadn’t kicked in full-throttle.  I dropped off whatever it was in the school office and didn’t give the matter a second thought, until later that afternoon in the carpool pick up line.

One thing I have to say about my darling offspring, if I listen for the right cues, and then proceed with the proper questioning, she will give herself  right up. It’s like watching an episode of Law and Order MVU (Mini Van Unit). One of the first things she rattled off about her school day was that, “Chandler went home early.”

“Oh, yeah…I saw him with his Mom. Was he sick? What did he have? What were his symptoms?”

When she hemmed and hawed around with her answer, I started to smell a rat, or at the very minimum I smelled a story. Something more interesting than a kid getting sick at school – I mean, that happens every day, right? It’s not exactly headline news.

“Remember I told you he was acting like such a PERV the other day?” She said.

“Telling other boys that he could see all the girls’ bras through their white uniform blouses?” I said, mom antennae nervously on the rise.  Yes, I remembered that.

“Yeah!” She answered.

A group of girls in their class decided that the “pervy” behavior of the boys in their class needed to be dealt with swiftly and surely. There was no time for pesky parental or teacher intervention . They would take matters into their own hands the very next day by making an example of Chandler.

Sure enough, the next morning, one of the girls brought a brand new unused spool of white satin ribbon and a pair of scissors from her mother’s sewing kit and rallied several of the other girls outside of their classroom before school for a ribbon cutting ceremony of sorts. They cut lengths of ribbon, tied them around their forearms and called them “purity bands.” They spent the rest of the day smugly impressed with their own homespun brand of sisterhood-inspired solidarity.

The original explanation that spread like wildfire throughout the school, was that the armbands were a sign of the girls, “not wanting remarks and undue attention called to their undergarments.” (Bravo ladies – very discreet!) But, like all things 5th grade-related, it morphed, and by 3rd hour, kids were whispering that every girl wearing a white ribbon, “Hated Chandler!”

Needless to say, it was all more than young Chandler was equipped to handle. A genuinely kindhearted kid, he could barely make it through his next class, and ended up in the Principal’s office until his mother could arrive to rescue him from the throes of vigilante justice.

Like an experienced priest in a confessional, I pulled the entire tale out of my daughter before we made it home. I was stunned and in disbelief, trying to decide the exact right course of action. There was not a doubt in my mind that I had a phone call to make and that my daughter had some serious amends to make.  

I was just sick when I looked in my rear view mirror at my own two innocent little boys in the backseat, just a few short years away from making their own ill-advised, pre-pubescent “bra remark” as Chandler had, only to pay a price excessively dear.

I called Chandler’s mother and told her the story verbatim as I learned it from my daughter. (Well…maybe I left out the word, “PERV!”) The most important points seemed to be that:

-the girls should not have done what they did
-the girls did not dislike Chandler, just his remarks
-my daughter would be publicly apologizing to Chandler for her part and setting an example for her cohorts to do the same

In addition to acknowledging the snowball effect of her and her friends’ actions, another thing I wanted my daughter to understand, was that her younger brothers, will undoubtedly  “step in it” at some point down the road. Will she be comfortable with any level of disciplinary action meted out and deemed appropriate by a jury of their female peers? Something to think about…she sure adores those younger brothers.

We required our daughter to apologize to Chandler. Her friends followed suit. Chandler apologized for his behavior as well. The entire episode blew over (as they always seem to do) after a few days.

Today all the kids involved are happy, healthy young adults who learned valuable life lessons when they were young. They love God, family, friends and are loved in return. With a modicum of awareness, parents can seize and actually embrace life’s “teachable moments” to help their children grow into the kind and compassionate human beings they are truly meant to be.

For my part, I am determined that, feminist or not, some things have to get nipped in the bud.

We have the quietest kitchen timer in the world.  It came with the oven, but it just doesn’t go with our house at all.   It makes the softest, most unimposing little dinging sound you ever DID NOT HEAR.   Completely unacceptable in our  LARGE,  LOUD and CHAOTIC household.  Not to mention, I’m one of those people that needs to be hit over the head with a 2 x 4 if something is ready in the oven, or I am going to leave it in too long…

The other day I was standing in the kitchen helping our youngest son, Tommy, with a school project, when our older son, James slid a frozen pizza in the oven. He looked over at me and said,

“Hey – will you keep an eye on my pizza while I jump in the shower?”

“Of course!” I agreed.

20 minutes or so later he came blasting back in the kitchen and looked at me stunned, as I methodically glued Tommy’s English poem to his picture board, completely oblivious to the pizza blackening in the oven.

“Mom! Do you not hear the timer going off for my pizza?”

I looked up surprised, and then gradually tuned in to the low-key, discreet chiming sound emanating from my oven. “That timer is far too submissive for this home!” I complained.  James actually nodded his head in agreement. Everyone around here knows we require more dominance and assertiveness in our warning sounds. We don’t respond to that sort’ve passive gentility.

As James put it,

“Our timer calmly and politely suggests that one might, if one were so inclined, want to survey the status of one’s oven item…”

When I woke up this morning I realized the timer has gone off on my 4th child.  (I hear quiet gentle dinging…) It sounds like my  boy is done. He graduates today. We’ve had the date circled on the calendar for quite some time.

His school says he’s done

His coaches say he’s done

At 6′, 185 lbs, he certainly appears to be done

I’m ticking through the mental list of everything I thought we needed to do to raise a young boy,  from the very moment we first glimpsed a ‘boy part’ on the sonogram screen:

We played every sport that involved a boy and a ball, we endured scouting as long as possible, I taught him to waterski and then he “one-upped” me by wake boarding, we caught fireflies in mason jars. Every time a great song came on the radio, I drilled him to identify the band until he had quite an impressive catalog of ‘Classic Rock’ knowledge. I can still taste the marshmallows we roasted, remember the books we read, hear the slightest discernible lisp I couldn’t bear to correct and picture the exultant joy from a few game-winning free throws. I would’ve been arrested if DHS knew how much Sonic and Little Caesers we ate.

It seems like only yesterday he told us he had “3 huge goals for the year!” They were to:
-tie his shoes
-learn to whistle, and
-snap his fingers

He set about in little-man earnest to accomplish all three and he did. He set a few loftier goals later, and accomplished those as well.

So, as far as this leg of his journey goes – the part that began and ends under my watchful wing – I’m going to stick a fork in him, just to see if I agree with the gentle suggestion that he’s done, but he probably is…

However,  I did passive-aggressively manage to misprint an entire stack of his graduation announcements. They were, of course, supposed to say “2016” and I printed “2017” by accident. So, it’s entirely plausible, that if it’s just all too much, or too sad to endure today and I simply can’t bear the thought that my baby boy grew up so fast, I can just “put him back in” for another year and he can graduate next year.

Because, the more I think about it, I might actually prefer a timer that merely suggests when something might be ready. I reserve the right to have the final say.

I’ve never really fancied myself a very helpful person. I know I’m not the first person you think of when you want a charity event chaired, a car wash Fundraiser staffed, or your dog fed when you leave town.

I doubt mine is the first name that pops up when you need a dozen cupcakes baked, but you might think of me when you need a dozen half-baked opinions. And, I know for a fact, that people reach out to me when they need to feel better about something dumb they’ve done. I can always be trusted to keep the bar low…

It’s become a ministry of sorts.  In addition to tattling on my own unnatural disasters and string of embarrassing family happenings, this blog has also provided me a unique opportunity to broadcast my viewpoint and opinions well beyond the scope of mere family and friends.

Not that any of the stuff I write about is earth-shatteringly original. It’s the stuff I’ve been yammering about for years. As my oldest daughter said one day shortly after I started writing and asked her if she was reading my blog, “Mom, I could lip-sync that blog. It’s your shtick. I grew up hearing that stuff!”

Okay…good point, But we gotta address the sass factor

The story about my third daughter and her friend, Bethanny, went viral last month. I noticed that just yesterday it was read in 52 countries.

The article contained a personal anecdote and a few of my views on bullying I’ve been sharing with my girlfriends over a glass of wine and a wheel of brie for years. I’m sure my besties are glad to finally see me in print, hoping that outlet might shut me up. (Probably not.) I loved all the feedback and commentary I received and it was beyond thrilling to feel like my little story touched people’s lives.

People wrote me from all over the world to tell me their heartbreakingly personal stories from their childhoods or their children’s. This was a topic that seemed to pierce hearts from one side of the globe to the other. I’ve told my own children for years, “no one escapes bullying.” If someone appears to escape it in their own life, it always seems to catch them somewhere down the road –  if they happen to love someone else. (A child or a grandchild, for example.) That’s just the way it goes.

On a lighter note, I wish I had a dollar for every person who has come out of the woodwork to tell me they’ve crashed one of their cars into another one of their family’s cars in their own driveway. I would be rich! But that’s okay, the solidarity has been compensatory enough.

Equally gratifying was the email I received the other day about my hickey post…

Apparently, there’s a lovely woman around my age running around in a state north of me right now with a hickey on her neck.

I’m privy to this information because of an email I received from a mutual friend of this woman’s and mine, asking me to send her a link to my blog post about the time I had a hickey on MY neck. The point, of course, was to offer this woman comfort in her time of embarrassment and public distress.

Always delighted to help a sister out in her time of mortification, I sent the link immediately. Apparently, when she read my story, she pulled herself together and wrapped a scarf around her neck. (I’m glad it’s still chilly up there where she lives and still warm in her marriage.)   If you do happen to run into her, don’t be a bully, she’s already embarrassed as it is.

Somehow it’s enough for me to know that my bar is low enough to bring comfort to some and high enough to inspire a few others.  Don’t look for me at that car wash next weekend, though, the only thing I’ll be waxing is philosophical.

A Ginger Snapped Prayer:

May God always allow us to keep the bar LOW on the stuff that doesn’t matter and HIGH on the stuff that does, and the wisdom to know the difference…

You couldn’t stir ’em with a stick down at the Kendra Scott store this weekend. It was the same next door at Lululemon. I was running errands on Friday, saw all the crowds and wondered to myself,

‘What the heck is going on?’

Then I remembered Mother’s Day is coming up.

Honestly – Mother’s Day isn’t one of the Majors around here. You could actually miss it if you blink. We tend to ‘do it up big‘ for Christmas, Easter and the children’s birthdays, but we take a more toned down approach to Mother’s Day. It’s not that our kids don’t love and appreciate us; it’s just that the little ingrates don’t go ‘all out‘ by setting up a tree, decorating the house, baking cookies or singing special songs dedicated entirely to celebrating us and our special day.

No matter – I can usually depend on my husband to acknowledge me with something fairly generous every year.  As tempting as Kendra and Lulu looked that afternoon, I didn’t dare enter either store. Mainly because Jimmy and I had already squared-off for Mother’s Day 2016.

We settled up earlier in the week when the subject of my Visa bill arose.

My Visa bill got a little out of hand back in March when I took a short trip to New York City with my daughter, Gracie.  In my defense, most people will agree that New York City is a pricey place.

What with the exorbitant airline fare, the swanky Manhattan hotel stay, all the great shopping, mixed in with cool restaurants (three times a day to keep our energy up) it costs a small bundle to go there. So, when it was time to pay the nice folks down at Citibank Visa, I thought to myself, “God only knows where I’m going to get the money to pay this…”   And that’s when it hit me.

While my personal bank account was quite depleted, my Tithe Checking Account runneth over. Yes, you heard me correctly, no need to re-read that last sentence. I’m saying it straight out, “God is flush!” I borrowed the money from The Big Guy.  Got right on my knees and promised I would pay Him back as soon as I was back on my feet again!”

I thought it was a “capital idea” and it totally was, all up until The Other Big Guy got involved. I’m not gonna lie, Jimmy hasn’t always been a fan of my fiscal creativity through the years. I don’t know what his problem is.  Maybe he isn’t as confident in his personal relationship with God as I am.  But, whatever his reasoning was, he offered to pay off my debt to The Lord for Mother’s Day.

I balked a tiny bit because I was feeling pretty content with the clever arrangement I’d already hammered out with the Man Upstairs. So, naturally, I had thought of several other glamorous things I’d really prefer to receive from my husband for Mother’s Day.   But if you could’ve just seen the look on Jimmy’s face.  It was as if, after 33 years of marriage, his entire opinion of me might hinge on this one thing.

He’s judgy that way.  I really had no choice but to accept his gracious offer.

It’s not like I’m pouting, but, while all the other mothers in America were out milling about in stores like Kendra Scott and Lululemon, wantonly indulging their desire for useless baubles and high-pressure workout attire, I was sitting around appreciating my BRAND NEW SOUL.  Apparently I’m going to need it.

But only if the good die young.

I’m one of those people who favors that expression, “long-story, short.” I don’t know why I say it so much. Probably just to throw people off.  But, honestly, if I prefaced a story with, “short-story long” or “long-story, even-longer” you know you’d come up with some clever excuse to get away from me…

Sunday was my first time to speak publicly, with a real live microphone.  Okay, I guess that’s not true either. I wrested the mic from my husband during the traditional Father-of-The-Bride speech at our daughter’s wedding in October. But, I’m not sure that really counts as, “public speaking,” because we were serving Beef Tenderloin, Smoked Salmon and plying our guests with free booze, so the least everyone could do was nod appreciatively and feign interest in my remarks.  Thus, I’m counting Sunday as my first official “gig” because the audience wasn’t bribed and most actually paid for their tickets.

I loved my 6 minutes and 45 seconds on stage!  So exhilarating!

Don’t get me wrong. Everyone who knows me, knows I typically talk for way longer than that. I can barely ask for directions to the potty from a total stranger in less than 10 minutes. In fact, I think several of my friends only attended the event to see if I could rein it in at the podium and confine a rant to less than 7 minutes.  My family has never experienced that level of brevity from me before, so they thought it was the best $20 they ever spent.  (More lies…I actually bought their tickets.)

When I first heard about, “Listen To Your Mother” an international movement, founded by blogger Ann Imig, designed to “Give Motherhood a Voice,”  while raising money for charitable organizations, I knew I had found my ultimate calling. I was born for this.  A little about LTYM here:

http://listentoyourmothershow.com/

The first step was to submit an essay. Easy-peasy. I blew the dust off a “Doris Blog.”  And why not?  People are wild for stories about my mother, Doris. Her sassy, southern, filter-free mothering style has them weeping with laughter over their smart phones, lap tops and computer screens.  The woman has always had a way with me; the essays practically write themselves. It almost felt like cheating.

After my submission was accepted, I was invited to come down and audition. AUDITION! Not wanting to jinx myself, I didn’t tell anyone except my husband, until the night before, when I casually let it slip to my friend, over the telephone…

“Well, I better hang up now, it’s getting late, I have an early audition in the morning..”

She responded, “Okay, talk to you later!” (Completely unimpressed, as if she hobnobs with Hollywood-types on a daily basis…)

On the way to the audition early the next morning, I had a panic attack and told My Driver, “Pull over, let me out, I can’t do this!”

Fortunately, My Driver was my husband, Jimmy, who said, “Why the Hell can’t you do this?  Talking is your thing.  It might be even be your best thing!”

I explained to him that talking off-the-cuff at cocktail parties and interrupting other women at Book Group is not the same as “Public Speaking,” where you are actually SUPPOSED TO BE TALKING and people might be looking at me with expectations. I hate expectations.  I will cave under the pressure.

But then I didn’t…

I guess those Catholic School nuns were right about me all along.  I’m just a Talker.  I stumbled across this realization the other day:  In 29 years of parenting, I’ve never “grounded” a child. I just lecture them into submission. I’ve had children literally shove their car keys in my hands and plead with me to confiscate their cell phones, merely to extricate themselves from one of my lengthy sermons, but I never let up. I just continue to verbally illustrate my point about the error of their ways, until they vow never to stray again.

So, suffice it to say, I survived the audition process, was cast in the show, rehearsed with my fellow cast mates for a few months, and then actually managed to deliver a monologue about my mother in just under 7 minutes this past Sunday.

What an incredible experience. And, hopefully we even raised a little money for our charity – Positive Tomorrows, an inner-city school for homeless children. An amazing organization.  You can read more about them here :

http://www.positivetomorrows.org/

One of my oft-touted sentiments about motherhood is that EVERYONE can talk about this topic.  Mainly, because everyone either is one, has one or knows one.

Long story short –  You really should come talk about your mom next year…