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The two of us in simpler times…when carol was doing his laundry

I really think, from a public image standpoint, Jimmy has fared pretty well in my blogs, to date. It should be apparent that he is the Heartthrob of Many….

My Mom ( see blog #13)
My Sister-Wife, Hazel (see blog# 12)
Me (see the Hickey blog # 10)

A little background- As some may know, Jimmy is in the restaurant business, so it should come as no surprise that we met while working our way through college as a cook and a waitress. We were both 18. Jimmy dated every girl that worked at “The Sizzler,” before he asked me out. I waited patiently for my turn, which was fine, as I was busy planning our wedding.

Been planning this wedding since before the first date!

As in every partnership, there are ongoing issues that need to be hammered out and negotiated almost daily…

Maybe it’s the cradle-Catholicism or maybe it was just inevitable, but I notice, that when communicating his “concerns,” Jimmy tends to opt for the Martyr Method. This involves prefacing every complaint with a personal disclaimer.

PREFACE #1: “I HATE TO COMPLAIN, BUT…”

This is how Jimmy lets me know it’s time to go to the Dry Cleaners or perform other sundry tasks, in which, by his estimation, I’ve fallen behind.

(We have had an ongoing problem with dry cleaning since Day 2 of our marriage. It would’ve been Day 1, but nothing was dirty on the first day. His mom sent him with clean clothes.)

When he leads with, “I hate to complain, but…”
I typically respond with, “Seriously, you hate to complain??? because, WOW- you are pretty adept at complaining. People usually aren’t quite so proficient at doing the things they genuinely loathe!”

It’s not that I don’t think I should pick up the dry cleaning, it’s the least I can do- But I’m certainly not buying that he hates to complain…

PREFACE #2: “I’VE ONLY EVER ASKED YOU FOR ONE THING!”

This is another popular way Jimmy initiates a grievance. He then inserts the ONE THING he happens to want right at THAT particular moment.

“I’ve only ever asked you for ONE THING and that’s some clean underwear when I open my underwear drawer”

“I’ve only ever asked you for ONE THING and that’s to not be late for church”

“I’ve only ever asked you for ONE THING and that’s, don’t drive around with the gas tank on Empty”

That’s 3 things right there…

PREFACE # 3: “I HATE TO TELL YOU THIS, BUT…”
(Sometimes Jimmy finds himself to be in the delicate position of being the Bearer-of-Bad-News)

“I hate to tell you this, but we are out of milk”

“I hate to tell you this, but your car needs new tires”

“I hate to tell you this, but the dog threw up on your brand new comforter”

“I hate to tell you this, but I weighed at the gym this morning and our scales are 6lbs under”

The truth is, I see through all of these, because, I happen to be a SEASONED EXPERT at breaking bad news to one’s mate. When you are despondent over having to deliver a crippling blow to your spouse’s otherwise happy day, it sounds more like this…

“Hey Honey – how was your day? Tommy was lead scorer in his basketball game this afternoon, I swung by the liquor store and got you that vodka you favor, and…you know that dumb ‘Arm Thingamabob’ that goes down when a train is coming? Well that thing went down right on the top of my car this morning!!! It left a wee gouge.  It’s so tiny – you probably wouldn’t even noticed if I hadn’t mentioned it!

Want me to shake up some martinis?”

The considerate spouse will just tell it like it is, and chase the bad news with a cocktail!

Hope this makes up for everything!

“The weekend at the college didn’t turn out like you planned, the things that pass for knowledge I can’t understand…” (Steely Dan – 1972)

Last Friday afternoon, when we got ready to depart for “Arkansas-Alabama Weekend” at the University of Arkansas, Jimmy pulled out his laptop and settled into the passenger seat, casually saying, “You drive!”

I was miffed.

“I hadn’t planned on driving,” I responded.

“Neither had I!”

I ended up driving because he trumped me with the “work excuse“. But, I thought to myself, ‘No Matter- this won’t last long...

I had a plan.

We have been together since we were 17, as such, we employ some very “sibling-esque” approaches to Conflict Resolution. These solutions resemble the sophomoric ways a brother and sister would solve an issue, much more than a committed mature adult couple.

We have something that resembles a ‘Peace Accord’ in effect.  In dates way back to the early 80s and clearly stipulates, “Whomever is driving the vehicle at the present time, retains full control of the radio and the temperature of said vehicle.”

So, I cranked the heat up, (Jimmy HATES to be hot) and turned the radio dial to Christian Talk Radio. I knew it wouldn’t be long until he started craving both AC and AC/DC, but I was wrong.

All I can say, is that he would’ve made an excellent POW during one of the wars, as I was never able to “break him” and ended up driving us all the way to Fayetteville.

To amuse myself while driving, I planned my “Game Day Ensemble” in my head. I was a little distracted thinking about my limited fashion options. For starters,  I don’t own a lot of Arkansas-red clothing; as a Red-head, I was brought up believing that red garments clash with orange hair.

And, secondly, the Razorbacks really need a textile! At some point during the Bear Bryant years, the University of Alabama adopted the houndstooth fabric as their “signature fabric”.  The Alabama fans sport this print in everything from baseball caps to rain galoshes.

I was pondering the notion of a Paisley Pig or Herringbone Hog, and apparently failed to notice the “check tire pressure” light when it came on, at some crucial moment in the journey…

As we were checking into our hotel, I was preoccupied catching up with texts, (because – driving) when I overheard Jimmy having a discussion with the hotel clerk.

“Will you be selling those tomorrow?”

Hotel Clerk- “That depends on whether we sell them all today, Sir…”

Looking up from my phone, to see what they were discussing, I saw on the check-in counter, a basket full of hideous red plastic ponchos, with a sign attached that said,

Arkansas Razorback Rain Ponchos -$5

Fashion dilemma solved!

Now, if Jimmy balked at spending $400 money on a dog, you can just imagine how recalcitrant he is going to be to buy a poncho, on the off-chance someone else is going to be selling them cheaper somewhere else.  I can also tell he is thinking that it’s quite possible the weatherman is wrong and there isn’t actually a 95% chance of rain. What if we spend that money and don’t end up needing those ponchos?

He’s planning to sleep on this decision. So, exhibiting the financial recklessness he so often accuses me of, I boldly, with wanton disregard for our financial future, shelled out $10 for 2 ponchos.

The next morning, when it was time to leave for the football game, Jimmy reclaimed his manhood and got back in the driver’s seat. We had barely driven out of the hotel parking lot, when we noticed the flat tire. He spent the next two hours changing the flat, getting the tire repaired and cussing up a storm, (no pun intended) in the aforementioned rain.

But, honestly, you never heard such language.

While not necessarily wanting to exacerbate our delicate and trying circumstances, I couldn’t resist noting a few things out loud:

1. 4 hours of Christian radio the day before didn’t improved your attitude in the least

And…

2. Aren’t you glad I bought us those ugly rain ponchos?

“Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, hold the touchdown!”

Its the end of the 4th quarter, we are losing the football game, but not by much. The Coach calls an obscure play, “The Wedge”. While it sounds like a salad to you, you know its a football play, because your son has talked about it. They’ve gone over it in practice. The Quarterback hands off the ball to your son, to run it in, for the greatly needed 6 points!! YOUR SON!!! The fans (parents and grandparents, all) are cheering from the bleachers! A win against the Middle School down the block is within our grasp! Because YOUR SON has the ball. The very ball he has never touched in the 6 years of playing football, except to snap it to a boy named SOMEONE ELSE’S SON… The ball your Other Son never touched in HIS 9 years of playing football, except when he tackled the boy who did have the ball, also named SOMEONE ELSE’S SON, and then deftly handed it to the Referee after the whistle.

Two things I’ve never quite understood – Football and Women who Understand Football. There are basically two types of women in the United States. Women who understand football and women who don’t understand football. My entire family falls in to the latter group. In fact, we have actually gone out-of -our-way in recent years to get at least a remedial knowledge of the sport, so that we can enjoy time with the men in our lives who live, eat and breathe football. I didn’t approach anything that even resembled caring about football until my sons started playing. Bear in mind, at this point, I had been a Mother for almost 20 years and a Person for 40….

I would go to the little boys’ games and ask Jimmy a million annoying questions. These were questions about the very basics of the game, but laced in to those questions was an undertone of concern, as it started to become apparent that MY SONS weren’t getting their turn with the ball. It just didn’t seem like “sharing nicely,” which had been emphasized over and over in my house full of women and girls. It sure seemed like my boys were having fun tackling the boys that did have the ball, but, it seemed to me, it would be more fair, if they tackled the boy with the ball, that it should then, logically, be their turn to run for a touchdown… But no, there they were tackling again. And what about that boy who catches the ball? It would be fun to be his mother. As the Quarterback throws the ball, and it spirals through the air to HER SON, everyone’s heart stops beating for a moment…and then….he catches it!! First Down!!!

About that time, in my boy’s football careers, as I was starting to put it all together, I started noticing a few other things. There seemed to be a group of Dads, who drove their kids to football practice and stayed. They weren’t actually Coaches, but admittedly, it was hard to tell at first, because they dressed in team colors, wore a team ball cap and ran up and down the field yelling and red-faced spittle-screaming at their son and everyone else’s, too. In an on-going effort to explain this phenomenon to Jimmy, I coined the term “DADVOCATES”. It seemed to me that these Dads had made it their business to help the Coach decide who got to play each and every position. This appeared to be done, before practice, during practice and over a beer after practice, at Buffalo Wild Wings. I beseeched and beseeched Jimmy to get on board with the New World Order for today’s young athlete and go dadvocate for our boys. But, Jimmy would not be budged from his position (pun intended) that he better served our family’s needs by going to his paying job.

Jimmy – “I’m not pandering to those coaches. Our boys are either going to make their bones on their own, or they’re not!”

Me- “Okay Don Corleone” (Seriously? Pandering? Make their bones? Am I married to the Mob? I’m trying to get a football position, not a Consigliere!!)

So, I did for my sons what any Red Blooded American Mother would do. I bought a push-up bra and stayed at those practices my damn self. And, I think it helped. All-in-all, the boys have both had pretty distinguished runs at the sport of football. As their Sports Agent, who doesn’t really speak the language of football, I never got them any “touch” on the ball, but they contributed well in a variety of other positions. Which takes us back to last night…

Picture the beautiful October evening, you drop your surly, hormonal son off at the gate, so you can go park the car.

You say to him in your chirpiest cheerleader-mom voice, “Have fun!!”

As he struggles with his pads he says, “It won’t be fun, I’m sick of football!”

You respond, “It’s the second-to-the-last game, GO MAKE IT FUN!!”

‘ It hasn’t been easy always being the positive one,’ you think to yourself, as you navigate a parking space. You should probably leave a little early, during the 4th quarter, and run through Braum’s drive-through to get him some dinner. He’s always too keyed-up to eat before a game and ravenous after!!

So…it’s about 9 pm, the sun has set in a beautiful Oklahoma sky, the stadium lights are shining on the field, the parents are on their feet; Hell, even the grandparents are on their feet. YOUR SON is running toward the end-zone!!! It’s the very moment you dreamed of ever since the sonogram first showed a you a boy-part. The announcer shouts, “TOUCHDOWN!!! CHEYENNE!!! WITH TOMMY BLANCHARD ON THE CARRY!!” Where are you?

….In the drive-thru at Braums.

“I’ll take the Bag-o-burgers, please, No lettuce, no tomato, no touchdown.”

The Good Times were Rolling 2-ply (inside and outside)

Remember the story about that little girl, Goldilocks, who theoretically trespassed on the private property of those 3 bears, while they were away, unmaking all their beds and eating all their porridge? And, remember how that Mama Bear came home and knew instinctively that there had been some unauthorized crap going on in her house while she was gone? Well, the longer I’m a mother, and the more I really think about that story, the less plausible it seems….Do we really think some Random-Little-Blonde-Girl wreaked all that havoc on her own? Or- Isn’t it more likely that those idiot bears left their Teenaged-Son-Bear home unsupervised? I’m betting, that just like me, Mrs. Bear arrived home, after a lovely weekend and bearly had time to set down her purse and overnight bag, before she noticed the tell-tale signs that something was amiss.

A more believable story: Once upon a time there was a family…. A Mom, A Dad and 3 little Girls. Were these girls drama? Of course they were! Did they cry over spilt milk? Every stinkin’ day! But -they were clean little darlings, who prissed  about wearing coordinated outfits and following rules. But, they didn’t like football and they didn’t watch Zombie shows on Netflix and they couldn’t carry on the family name, so the father told the mother, “We are missing some people – our family lacks testosterone.” And so, just like that – they added some boys.

At first, the boys were no problem at all. But, they learned to walk fast, talk loudly and throw things… No matter though because their sisters were bossy little tattle-tales by nature, and helped the mother keep the bros in line throughout the early years. All went smoothly, until the girls grew up and moved out of the house. The parents soon found that, if they wanted to go absolutely anywhere together, there would be no one home to supervise the boys – also known as “holding the fort down”.

And that is when the Goldilocks story started to unravel a bit for me…

We took a risk, this past weekend, when we decided to go to The University of Arkansas to visit our daughter  for “Dad’s Day.” Obviously, it’s no problem to prevail upon a friend or two to keep our middle-schooler while we’re gone.  And, actually, it’s not really a problem to have the teenager bunk over at a friend’s house either. The problem arises, when ALL THE OTHER HIGHSCHOOLERS find out that ANYONE ELSE’S parents are out of town, they immediately spread the word, “Let The Good Times Roll!!”

We farmed our 14 year old son out and made arrangements for our 17 year old, but in my gut, I knew, this was not sufficient damage control. We’d no sooner crossed the Arkansas-Oklahoma state line, when I received a text from the mother of a high-school girl, asking if I was home, as her daughter and several friends were looking forward to a lovely evening at my house. Needless to say, those young ladies never made it over here this weekend…

Friday night passed without incident, as we proactively asked another Dad to patrol the premises. A quick “drive by” was all that was required. The following night was a different story, however. Like an errant stone rolling down a hill, by Saturday night, this one had gathered some moss. The good news had spread, through the Teenager-Underground-Railroad, that the Blanchard Parents were out of town!! By the time our friend made his rounds, The Good Times were definitely Rolling! As we heard it, our friend, walked right in, and, without so much as a “last call,” had the place cleared out in no time.

Thus, the only issues I actually had to deal with when we got home, were some minor casualties.  The first thing I noticed as I walked in the door, was a plant knocked over…

Me -“Why is my plant knocked over?”

Boy- “I think that was already like that before you left!”

Me- “That’s right Son, I went out of town and disregarded a plant the size of a small tree, tipped over on its side, because that’s who I am – I’m literally that CHILL”

He then changes the subject by complimenting me on my RENT-A-DAD program, sarcastically adding , “thanks for trusting me by the way! ”

I explained it like this, “James” I said, “If I were a Farmer, I’d know Farmer-type stuff. I’d seek out the experiences, wisdom and advice of my fellow farmers on when to plant and when to harvest. Likewise, were I a Hairstylist, I’d know all the new products with which to color your hair. I’d spend my spare time hanging out, with other hairstylists discussing the latest trends and styling tools. I’m in the Mom-business, Son, and when I spend time with other mothers, we ‘talk shop,’ and its widely agreed upon by me and my Colleagues that, as a general rule, we don’t trust anyone whose age ends in the word, ‘teen’…”

“So, I think I’ve seen everything that there is to see downstairs, and I’m about to mosey on upstairs…. I’m going to give you a 5 minute head start; I strongly suggest you get up there and make sure there isn’t any porridge mess, or EVEN WORSE: a Random-Little-Blonde-Girl!!

My Mom
(I’m not the only one with an IPad)

My 75 year old mother just pulled out of my driveway this morning, headed back to Texas, after a short visit here…

The great thing about Mom, is that she doesn’t arrive with an expectation to be entertained. Coming here is a pseudo-business trip for her, so there’s no need to wine and dine her. I’ve come to realize that, while Mom allows her children to live out in the world on their own, she really believes that she is the Chief Operating Officer of this corporation we call a family. She works exhaustively while she is here evaluating our operation; she probably writes the trip off on her taxes. She rides alongside me as I run my errands and perform my daily activities, offering an Audible-Audit with suggestions on how to improve our overall functionality. We are graded on categories ranging from primarily minor issues, such as profitability (“Why do you buy straws at the grocery store when you can simply grab a handful at Subway?”) to potentially major and life-threatening, (Good parents don’t let their children play football!!!) Here are just a few of the oversights from this week, in which we fell well below the expectations of CORPORATE…

DRIVERS ED GRADE: FAIL

Just because YOU are behind the wheel of the car, and, at a glance, appear to be the driver, one must understand that if Mom is anywhere in the car, SHE is the actual driver. Doris is the original Siri and and in most cases puts Siri to shame. She doesn’t have to hide in your cell phone like a coward to tell you which way to turn. She’s an “upgrade” in that she also tells you WHEN to turn your blinker on, WHEN to execute the turn, WHERE to park once you’ve mastered the turn sequence, and how close to get to the other cars around you.  She expresses white-knuckles-on-the-dashboard concern each and every time I pull into my garage (a relatively unchallenging maneuver that I manage to perform successfully several times a day, even when she isn’t in town.) As we are driving down the road, she will often shriek loudly if another car gets within several hundred feet of us, I’m sure that’s to check my responses and reflexes. “Driving Miss Doris” is truly an interactive experience and definitely not for the easily intimidated.

CHILD PROTECTION/CHILD ENDANGERMENT GRADE: NEEDS IMPROVEMENT

In addition to our typical schedule of football practice & games, basketball practice & games, carpool, groceries and other Mommy Minutia, this week provided the added challenge of an MRI on my son’s recent football injury, along with the requisite orthopedic consultations and discussions about whether or not to have a surgery, which would allow him to continue to play football in his Senior year. This afforded Mom the opportunity to assess our competence during a real- life “parenting dilemma” and grade us on our overall handling of this situation. We seemed to score slightly better here, than in the driving category, but that’s because My husband was involved, which I’m sure falsely inflated my score… (Mom is enamored with Jimmy and it’s quite obvious that somewhere through the years, her memory twisted around and she genuinely thinks she raised HIM and didn’t meet ME until our wedding) Every conversation we had about the pros and cons of the shoulder surgery, prompted Grandma to shake her head in disappointment and offer Pearls of Wisdom, such as, “If he injures himself again, he won’t do well on the ACT and get into a good college!” Rebuttals such as, “Grandma, his shoulder doesn’t affect his brain functioning” were dismissed as excuses and further evidence of weak and inept parenting skills.

HOME SECURITY GRADE: FAIL

There was a ton of controversy a while back over security at the White House, culminating with the resignation of Julia Pierson, Director of the Secret Service. They simply had the wrong person in charge. If you really want to keep the White House safe, fire all those Secret Service Agents and hire a widow in her 70s- like Mom. She is positively convinced that someone is attempting to break into our home, all day, every day. To steal exactly what, she won’t say. She was appalled by our constant breeches of security. She kept telling me to lock the doors and finally I said, (exasperated) “But Mom, Tommy is out on the driveway shooting baskets – won’t we then be, in effect, locking him out there with all the Bad Guys???” ( I should get a few points added back into my Child Protection /Child Endangerment category for this vigilant maternal observation!)

Yesterday, I took the trash can out to the street and was literally locked out of my house, when I attempted to re-enter just 2 short minutes later. I stood there knocking on my OWN door and ringing my OWN doorbell. Eventually, she came to the door and yelled in a terrified voice, ” WHO IS IT?” To which I respond (admittedly agitated). “It’s Me, Mom, your daughter, The Homeowner”. She let me in…

I can’t imagine how difficult it must’ve been for her to leave here this morning; abandoning her grandchildren to be recklessly driven around to football games, whilst people are breaking into our home stealing our belongings. But, alas, she can’t spend all her time in Oklahoma…. I have a sister in Dallas and a brother in Louisiana, who must be doing God-Only-Knows-What down there to their kids, homes and cars. I wonder if I should call them and tell the to lock their doors?

An actual artist “Fixing” my work

A friend of mine threw herself a milestone birthday party at one of those paint-a-picture places recently.

My initial reaction which lasted about 5 seconds was – ohhhh not interested in that…

But I do adore this particular friend. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from celebrating with her; And I would dig ditches on the side of the road with this entire group of  ladies, so I was going.

We kicked off the party with a popular new cocktail, The St. Germaine’s Martini. I was the bartender, as usual.

I don’t mind. ( Life Tip: I try to contract my abs when I shake a martini and am pretty sure it works to flatten the tummy.)

After the martinis got us all limber and loosened up, our instructors introduced themselves and got the ball rolling. One of the instructors looked at me and said,

“Hi! Don’t I know you?”

“Hi! I don’t think so,” I responded.

“Haven’t you been here before?” 

“Nooooo…I’ve never been here before!  I’ve always wanted to, but never have!” I added, practically cooing.  The last part was a complete falsehood.  I’ve never had a desire to go there, but couldn’t resist an opportunity at Teacher’s Pet.  
About that time, one of my friends chimed in with, “Leslie has probably been coming here every afternoon since she found out about this party, taking private lessons, so she could “win” the night!”
Another friend asked,  “Uh-Oh, is this a contest?”
“If Leslie’s involved, then it’s a contest!” another added.

A rumor is loosely circulating that I’m Uber-Competitive because, when our tennis team caravanned to St.Louis in August, for Sectionals, I took a wrong turn that took the group in my car off-course for about an hour.

These girls are still bitter because I wouldn’t stop to let anyone eat or pee until we caught-up with, passed and beat the other vehicles to our hotel. In my defense, it was the perfect kick-off for an extremely competitive weekend. It got our competitive juices flowing.

Besides….we won.

Nonetheless, they just know me too well. It could well be time to consult my wait list. (Another life tip: Keep a wait list of prospective friends. I find that life is too short and time too limited to be friends with all the fabulous people one meets, so keeping a wait-list of prospects lined up is a quick way to replace friends one may alienate along the way…)

We started our project by putting on an apron. I am naturally wary about anything that begins by tying on an apron, but I cooperated. The extremely patient instructor walked us step-by-step on how to paint the peacock that our hostess selected .

We painted for what seemed like several weeks.

It was fun to watch everyone so intent on their painting. I was more intent on watching everyone else’s intentness, to listen to the instructions. In this way, not much has changed since my high school days. I had to keep asking the others, “which brush?” and “which color?”

I feel everyone should try to express themselves in this world. We should all make an effort to find our “medium.” After an hour or so of painting, the instructor walked over to mine and said, “Here, let me fix yours…go visit with your friends!”

So I guess painting isn’t my MEDIUM.  But, in all fairness, I’ve known this since the first grade.

Obviously, this man was concerned I would tell people I painted it at his studio and they might lose business.

After everyone finished painting, we posed for a group picture.   I continued to add paint to canvas after the instructor “fixed” mine, so mine was definitely the worst in our group and possibly the worst ever done by a grown adult in the history of this particular business model.

After the picture, I hugged everyone goodbye, tucked my martini shaker and painting under my arm and headed home. When I arrived home, I promptly hung my painting on the wall for Jimmy to admire.

And then I sent everyone a text proclaiming my victory.  I was the first one to get mine on the wall.  Of course it was a contest…

Oh, and Jimmy’s response to my evening’s effort?  “Woman, it’s a damn good thing you excel at other things, because you sure as hell can’t paint!” 

There’s been some predictable backlash from the blog. Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t see this coming. Apparently, my kids tolerated the speeding ticket blog, a “tell-all” about my skirmishes with local law enforcement, but they simply can not tolerate, and will not abide, what will henceforth always be referred to as, the “hickey” post. Just a few hours after I tapped on the “publish” button, the frantic reactions started pouring in.

“Delete immediately”.

“You have crossed the line”

Perhaps we should’ve sat the children (ages 28, 25, 19, 16 and 14) down a few weeks ago and conducted a family meeting. It could have gone something like this:

“Kids, sometimes in the Grown Up World, a Mommy wants something more. As much as she loves running things up to the school that you forgot, ramming pads into your football pants, matching up lonely socks and all the other wonderfully fulfilling things she gets to do… She wants more out of life….More than running to the store for dog food and running an iron over your khakis. Mommy wants to be creative! After all, she really hasn’t created anything in 14 years, since she created the last one of you. She begins to remember a time (yes – a time before you) when she used to write about things. She begins to want a Voice in the world. There comes a day, when the sound of her own voice droning over and over to you about personal hygiene, manners and character, isn’t enough; she begins to want a louder Voice, maybe even a funny voice, a voice she can share with the world – YOUR WORLD, actually…

(They exchange wary looks of disbelief and bewilderment with one another. Sure, they’ve heard of things like this happening in other families, to other kids’ moms…. They think they understand what you are saying…but what does this really mean? More specifically, how will this affect us?)

“Kids, – you may start to hear things about Mommy. Things from your friends, their parents or Facebook. And there might be some uncomfortable things about Daddy too. Things that will make you queasy. Things that may even be true. There may be some things about Grandma… Possibly, even mean things will be said about our dogs. Mommy is writing a blog now!!!.”

“This doesn’t mean we don’t still love you all and that you aren’t still the most important things in our lives. That’s never, ever going to change. It just means that YOUR WORLD , as you have always known it, is going to change a little bit. You may not feel as safe in your home anymore. You may find the need to hide your phones and delete your texts…Things will feel shaky and different. You might even, God forbid, clam up a bit, saying less, thinking before you speak, in an attempt to draw less attention to yourself. You may experience moments of self-censorship, born out of distrust; distrust for the very foundation upon which you’ve place your entire existence – YOUR VERY MOM.”

“But, we’ve done a lot of soul-searching about this and we think it’s the right thing for Us. We want you kids to hold your heads high through this. We believe that we will emerge a better, stronger family. If we support each other and believe in each other, we can persevere!!! And if, for some reason we can’t….well, you will surely be able to read all about it in your Mom’s blog.”

Editor’s Note: Re-posting in honor of a friend of a friend who returned to work this morning from the July 4th holiday with a hickey on her neck.  God Bless America!

When people say, “You’ll laugh at this one day!” they’re usually right…

There are many things I viewed as utter tragedies at the time of occurrence, that I eventually came to find  humorous down the road.

Way down the road.

But, it’s hard to laugh when you are still cringing.  Last Sunday morning, while my husband and I were sipping our coffee, he looked at me quizzically –

“What’s that on your neck?”

“What?”  I replied, mildly concerned.

 “Turn your head to the side”

 “What??”  (growing increasingly concerned.)

“Whoa…My bad”

“What???”  (now full-on frantic.)

I got up, looked in the mirror, tilted my head to the right and there sat a mark on my neck, front and center, roughly the size and shape of Wisconsin.

I began to freak out, in exactly the way that ALL 52 YEAR OLD WOMEN DO WHEN THEY FIND A SATURDAY-NIGHT HICKEY ON THEIR SUNDAY-MORNING NECK.

“Oh my GOD!!’ I screamed.
“I can’t go to church or anywhere else today!!

OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GGGGODDDD”

Now, over the course of this 34+ year relationship, suffice it to say this isn’t the first crisis my Hunk-of-Burning-Love and I have faced together. (In fact, we started dating at 18, so it’s actually not even the first hickey we’ve faced-down together) Through the years, this man has come to pride himself on always knowing just what to say to calm me down in any given situation:

“Relax,” quips The Wife-Whisperer, “At your age, no one will know its a hickey, they’ll just think it’s a liver spot!!”

Frightened by my reaction to that remark, he tried a different tack… “You need to get up and start your day.  Moving around will get the blood flowing and it’ll fade.”

(You’ve got to hand it to the guy, he’s quick on his feet.  He obviously made that up on the spot, because it’s absolutely not true…)

“I’m soooo embarrassed,” I wailed, totally tapping into my inner Drama Queen

“Why are you making such a big deal ? Anyone who notices it will just know we are still in love…” said The-Man-Whose-Love-Life-Is-On-The-Line.

“You literally suck!” I replied

Aware that, in addition to being what my mother would refer to as a “Hussy,” I had also taken the Lord’s name in vain 4 times and it wasn’t even 8 am.

Thus, I resigned myself to the fact that church attendance was now even more mandatory to my unlikely salvation situation. When it was time to get ready, I swept all of my hair into a massively thick curly/frizzy side-ponytail that more or less obscured the mark.

“Hey- I love your hair that way!” exclaimed Lover Boy, quite a bit overzealously.

We arrived for church late and left early, which didn’t help my salvation cause, but spared me a little humiliation “fellowshipping” with the non-hickey crowd.

Afterwards, before we headed home, we decided to run a couple of errands. We were walking into the grocery store, when, predictably, we ran into one of my close friends. We hugged one another in greeting and, as she hugged me, she whispered discreetly in my ear,

“I don’t know if you know this or not, but you have a huge hickey on your neck”.

“I am more than aware,” I assure her.

Its been 4 days now, and I’ve spent a ton of time and money caking pounds of makeup on my neck, in a desperate and futile effort to preserve my tarnished reputation – which is rather pointless, because what’s left of my reputation, will be ruined the minute I publish this post.

My rap sheet

I’m reading a really good book right now by an author who was formerly a drug addict, an alcoholic and had an extensive rap sheet. I’m realizing how beneficial a life of crime and dependency could be to spicing up one’s writing.

Alas, this realization isn’t going to benefit me much. I’m pretty sure I could never be an alcoholic, because, to really drink efficiently and problematically, one has to stop speaking and imbibe the alcohol; I’ve always been far more interested in what I’m talking about than in what I’m drinking! I never took drugs because I was afraid of my father, an Army Officer, and after he passed away, I was 38 with 5 kids; much too late for recreational drug use (although I’m not opposed to the occasional Ambien, every now and then.) Unfortunately, I’ve also never been arrested, but, I have had several stimulating brushes with the law that I can certainly write about…

I recently had “contact” with the Edmond Police Department. Or rather they had “contact” with me. What the police department is now referring to as a “contact report” is what the rest of us refer to as a “warning”. That’s the second time in the past month I’ve skated away with a warning. Just last week, when I was driving Tommy to basketball practice, I saw those familiar flashing lights in my rear view mirror.

I always get super rattled when I get pulled over. You would certainly think, with all the speeding tickets I’ve gotten, that I would’ve worked through this by now, but apparently not. I never know quite where they expect you to pull over. If they teach this at driving school, I wasn’t paying attention. (I’m paranoid because I was once chewed out by a cop who didn’t like where I pulled over.) It would be more efficient if they would get your attention and then pull in front of you, and pick the spot where they’d prefer to conduct their business. This time, I chose an Arby’s parking lot. I was thinking Arby’s. I start fishing around for my driver’s license and proof of insurance, as the Officer struts up to the car. The main thing I am thinking is, I wasn’t even REALLY speeding. But I know it’s his word/technology against mine. (I remember last year, when I got a ticket for running a red light and decided to contest the ticket. This was based on years of hearing people say, “90% of the time the officer doesn’t show up in court and you get out of the ticket!” Not in my case. I walked into the courtroom and there was my 10%er, Officer Friendly. When my “case” came up on the “docket” he proceeds to display a dashboard-camera video on a large screen, of me, bigger than Dixie, in my bright red suburban, undeniably rocketing through a red light!! It was indisputable, even for me; I pled no contest and paid the fine.)

By far the most memorable experience I ever had, with local law enforcement, was my “CHRISTMAS SPECIAL RUN-IN WITH THE LAW”, when I was returning home from Midnight Mass and I was literally pulled over by a CONVOY of cop cars. For reasons known to all large families, we had split up into two cars for Mass, so this particular evening, it was just me and the two small boys. Jimmy was in a separate car with the girls. Both of the police cars had their sirens on and lights flashing. They were quickly joined by a third police vehicle, with his siren blaring and lights flashing. (They must’ve wisely radioed for back-up when they saw it was a mother and two small boys in a red Suburban.) 5 of the officers started to walk around my car with flashlights scrutinizing every inch, while the lead officer approached us shouting, “Do not under any circumstances attempt to exit your vehicle!!!” It was all very SWAT-style. I like to tell people he had his gun drawn but the boys say that isn’t true, that’s just how I remember it. The officer asks me where we have been over the past hour. When I tell him we have been at Christmas Eve Mass, I actually feel like I’m lying or covering up a crime and I’m not exactly sure why. At that point, 10 year old James, exclaims joyously from the back seat, “Here is the song sheet!!” He proudly produces the sheet of Christmas Carols that our church specifically requested we leave in the pews, after the service, for other worshipers. After a quick review of the evidence, the officers seem appeased and inform me that my vehicle matched the description of a recent hit-and-run. Without even so much as an apology or a stinkin’ “Seasons Greetings,” they release us. James later tells me that he thought they pulled us over because he stole the song sheet. It wasn’t long after, that Jimmy and I decided perhaps the big red burb was too ostentatious and it might be best if I raced around town in a smaller, more discreet, vehicle.

Back to last week: As I produce the required documentation, the cop dispassionately informs me, “you were going 52 in a 40 Mam”. I immediately apply what I refer to as my “Speeder’s Math”. (I always allow myself 9 miles over the posted speed limit, as conventional wisdom has it, that they usually don’t bother ticketing violators at less than 10 over.) So, I calculate that I was going roughly 3 mph too fast. I’m thinking it’s silly that he chooses to waste his time and mine for just 3 miles over. Then he asks me, “any reason you’re speeding tonight mam?” Again, silly… I don’t know why they ask this. Isn’t everyone’s answer the same? I’m in a hurry!!!! ( I don’t say that though.) Then he starts the writing process, which takes him longer than it took me to write this blog post. Not to be snippy, but I am running late here.

After what seems like an eternity, he produces a small yellow piece
of paper and tells me that I am receiving a “contact report” in lieu of a ticket!! Yay!! As I pull away, I tell Tommy that I am “the Luckiest Woman alive!”. Tommy disagrees; He informs me that he is now 4 minutes late for practice. “Where is the luck in that?” he asks. I don’t bother explaining to the boy how much hot water I would be in if I got another ticket. (Jimmy informed me, after my last ticket, that I needn’t worry about our insurance dropping me, I needed to worry about HIM dropping me!! ) This is more information than a 14 year old should have about his Mother…

…but, the truth of it is, until I sign a lucrative book deal, I’m going to have to strike a complicated and delicate balance between living the kind of exciting life that produces exhilarating writing material and getting DROPPED by my CARRIERS!!

Me and traci
Keep in’ it real

Hosted a “Sip and See” yesterday, for my dear friend, Traci, who moved away and came back for a visit. There was no newborn baby involved in this celebration, as in the traditional “Sip and See” gatherings. This was just adult women, SIPPING on wine and SEEING our cherished friend; a delightful afternoon-turned-evening of cocktails, conversation and general female merriment. Before I write another word, I must insert, this is a group of beautiful women of every size, shape, color and age. Well, we didn’t ACTUALLY have any women of color present, but a few of us are Really tan from too much time on the tennis court. My point is that we are fairly diverse…

As the beverages and conversation flowed, I found myself floundering socially, so to speak. Or, in this case, not to speak. Generally, I can enter into any conversation on just about any topic, as I’ve had 1/2 a lifetime of experiences. (optimistically defining “lifetime” as 100 years) Additionally, It’s always been my policy to “splice-in” what I don’t know, with information and opinions I make up right there on the spot.

But, this conversation last night kept turning to Cosmetic Procedures and all the things my friends were doing to stay young and gorgeous. On this particular topic, even my BS abilities failed me. The conversation bounced from discussions about injecting, sucking, tucking and lifting, to the merits of waxing, abrading, sugaring, threading and augmenting. As the ups and downs and pros and cons of each procedure were examined, I found myself less and less “in-the-know”….One of my very cutest friends has even gotten permanent false eyelashes! I realized I was woefully behind, as I didn’t even know there WAS such a thing. They were really lush, but she admitted she couldn’t afford to cry, lest she ruin them. So, that procedure is definitely off the table for me, as I like to have a good cry every day or two…

And, while I was in the minority, I wasn’t actually the ONLY ONE left behind. There were a couple of ladies, like me, that havent yet “enhanced” themselves beyond Clinique, Miss Clairol and some daily cardio. As such, there was a range of reactions among us. The majority were enthusiastic, comparing clinics and documenting results, but one of my friends, hollered out in disbelief, “Hey- that’s cheatin!” Then there was MY reaction, which was, “I’ve spent all of my kid’s college tuition savings on tennis lessons, frantically trying to keep up with y’all on the court – I don’t have any money left to keep up with y’all cosmetically!”
And that’s the God’s Honest…

So, here we are…the generation stuck in between our mothers’, who, except for the occasional bra-stuffing and girdle wearing, were natural and “native” and our daughters’ generation, who will color, wax, tattoo, and inflate anything on their bodies.

What we are wrapping our minds around now, is that nothing is taboo anymore-We really do have choices!! But for now, for me, at least until my serve improves and I get more topspin, I’m probably gonna be Keepin’ it Real!! And, as an added bonus, when things don’t go my way, I can still get my cry on!