A Wish on a Neon Star

In its heyday, Mickey’s on 3^rd and East 21^st was a happening place.  Both young and old would stop in for a drink; maybe have some conversation about politics or the war.  But as the streets outside the old bar got rougher, the crowd of customers disappeared.  Now, the bar was a hideout for the local boys.  Boys who were toughened by the years, by the war, or by heartache soothed with whiskey.

                The owner and bartender was Mickey’s nephew, Joe, who took over the place shortly after Mickey passed away.  Mickey was an Irish tough guy with a heart to match, but everyone respected him.  He lived long enough to see his boy come home from Hanoi, and then the cancer got the better of him.  Mickey was only in the grave about a month when his soldier boy joined him; he couldn’t handle what he had done, the lives he took.  Everyone told him that was his job, as a soldier, but the guilt ate at him like an ulcer.  He hung himself in his hospital room, leaving a simple note that said, “I’m sorry.”

                Now, Joe stood behind the pitted and stained counter, wiping glasses and thinking about things.  Tonight was Christmas Eve.  There were no decorations in the bar, no Christmas tree, or fake snowflakes.  The only thing that suggested a holiday was an old neon star in the bar window.  Someone had put it up there a few years back, and Joe never got around to taking it down. But that was it, just the star and the haze from the cigarettes being smoked by the patrons.  Patrons, Joe thought to himself.  He gazed around the room, looking at each lonely face, etched with guilt, pain, and regret.  Sitting at the bar was old Ronnie, who had been a hard worker all of his life.  He loved his wife, gave her anything she could ever ask for, treated her like gold.  But then one night, he came home from work and found her and one of his coworkers together.  At that point, his heart seemed to shatter and freeze at the same time.  For the last fifteen years, Ronnie has been alone, never being able to forget nor forgive. 

                The two boys in the corner booth, Fred and Gary, came out of Sing Sing on the same day, after serving a dime apiece for larceny.  They’ve been straight ever since coming out five years ago, but the times being what they are, they may be seeing the inside of a cell once again.  Some boys never learn.

                Tony G. sat at a table by himself, nursing his fourth double bourbon, dealing himself a solitaire hand.  None of the regulars know what the “G” stands for, but that’s how they always address him.  Tony G. is somewhat of a mystery to the locals.  Some say he was a soldier for the Gambino family, others say that he escaped from prison out west, somewhere in California.  Most likely, he is just another lonely soul, looking for a place to hide.  And tonight, that place seems to be at the bottom of the bourbon bottle.

                Joe, himself, was one of these lonely souls.  He had been married, all those years ago.  He had been hurt also, like Ronnie.  Except instead of cheating on him, his wife, his beautiful Alice, had the nerve to die giving birth to their son.  The boy only lived three hours longer than his mother, and then joined her, leaving him alone and broken.   His heart was truly broken, for after his tragedy, he seemed incapable to love or show sympathy towards others.  He held onto his pain and wallowed in the agony for the last twenty two years. 

                After finishing his assessment of the room, Joe finished wiping the glasses, and refilled Ronnie’s beer.  He picked up Ronnie’s crumpled ten dollar bill, and stashed it in the ancient register with the bum drawer.  He had to hit the bottom corner of the drawer just right for it to open.  I should really invest in a new register, he thought to himself. 

                The old Budweiser neon clock on the wall above the bar read ten o’clock, and a couple of more stragglers came in and sat down.  Seeing more of the local boys, Joe poured the drinks without taking the order.  Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.  These guys were creatures of habit, same drink, same time.  Joe looked down at the newspaper, and heard the door open again.  Expecting to see another regular, he was shocked to see that the visitor was actually a small boy, no more than ten or eleven.  Joe thought, what the hell are you doing here, kid?  This isn’t exactly the safest place at night.  The boy looked around the bar; everyone was silent, just staring at him.  No one had seen him before, and he wasn’t one of the local kids from the neighborhood.  The boy walked towards the counter where Joe was standing. 

                “Did you know that someone is outside in the snow, all alone?  She’s lost, and she doesn’t know how to get home,” the kid said, in a confident voice.  “She’s scared and sad, and she’s starting to freeze.”

                Joe looked out of the grimy window without moving out from behind the bar.  Across the street, through the falling snow flakes, he could see the silhouette of a young girl, standing under one of the street lights.  The payphone that she was standing next to hadn’t worked in two years.  Joe, looked down at the boy and said, “That’s not my problem, kid.  How would you know that anyway?  Are you two working some sort of scam?”

                The boy looked into Joe’s eyes, almost searching for something.  He stared at him for a moment, and then said, “If she could get home, on this night of all nights, she would already be there.” 

                At that moment, Joe felt as if something had unfrozen inside his chest.  He looked at the boy, and then looked at the girl across the street.  She was sitting on a low step, with her head in her hands.  Quietly, Joe came out from behind the bar.  The guys stared silently at him, and they watched him open the cash register drawer.  He took what was in the till, about three hundred bucks, folded the bills in half, and walked over to the door.  Joe opened the door and stepped out into the cold night air, followed by the boy.  He walked across the street and stood next to the girl, who was crying silently into her threadbare coat.  Shakily, Joe put out his hand and touched the girl’s shoulder.  She looked up at him with tear-stained cheeks, unable to say anything. 

                The boys watched from inside the bar, they saw Joe talking to the girl, and the boy was standing a few feet behind them.  The snow had let up a little, so they could see them pretty clearly.  They saw Joe put out his hand, and saw the girl lay her small hand in Joe’s rough, calloused one. 

                Even though it was late, and the traffic had slowed on 21^st, Joe whistled for a cab.  The cab pulled up along the curb.  Joe put the girl in the cab and told the driver, “JFK.”  He handed the girl the wad of money that he had gotten from the cash register, looked into her confused face, and said, “Go home.”  The girl looked down at the money, and glanced back at Joe, who smiled at her and patted her hand.  She whispered a thank you, and the cab pulled away from the curb.  He watched the cab turn onto 3^rd, and disappear down the street. 

                He stood there for a moment or two, unknowing that the boys in the bar watched him in awe.  They knew him, they knew his pain, and they knew what a tough bastard he was.  No one noticed, however, that the young boy had disappeared.

                Joe came to his senses, and looked down to where the boy had been standing, but he wasn’t there.  He turned, looking behind him, but there was no trace, not even footprints in the snow.  Befuddled by what had just happened, Joe slowly made his way back inside the bar.  The boys watched him return to his usual position behind the counter, but he seemed different.  Inside himself, Joe felt a lightness that he hadn’t felt in some time.  Whatever had a hold on his heart had released its grip, and he felt warm.  Warm.  He hadn’t felt warmth since the last time he held Alice in his arms. 

                The rest of the night, in the smoky haziness of the bar, the loneliness that infected so many of the boys seemed to relax its hold on them.  They talked to each other, and some even laughed.  Joe sat and drank with Ronnie, played cards with Tony G., and laughed at Fred and Gary’s jokes.  No one paid for their drinks, and Joe kept their glasses full.  None of them went home that night.  They sat there into the morning hours.  They were already at home.

(This story is an adaptation of the song “Old City Bar”, written by Paul O’Neill.)

               

               

My Twelve Days of Christmas

Okay.  We all know the song.  But who really knows what it means?  Yeah, the tradition says that it symbolizes beliefs in Christianity.  For example, “ten lords a leaping” symbolizes the Ten Commandments.  I, however, believe that this song was written most likely by someone who might have had too much rum in their eggnog.  Let‘s work backwards from the end of the song.

Twelve Drummers Drumming:  The drummers represent overexcited children on Christmas morning waking their parents up at four o’clock in the morning by pouncing on their beds, and maybe inadvertently kneeing their father in the crotch in all the exhilaration.

Eleven Pipers Piping:  Pipers?  Is there anyone that actually plays the pipe anymore?  I would like this to represent the eleven piping hot cinnamon rolls I would like to eat on Christmas morning.  Thankfully I’m usually too busy and only have time for a cold muffin.

Ten Lords a Leaping:  The leaping of children on Christmas morning into the piles of presents left by a certain someone…Or the leaping of Mommy’s wallet as it hiccups and spews pages of gift receipts. 

Nine Ladies Dancing:  This represents the hundreds of CEOs dancing in the streets as they get fatter on Christmas dollars.  Capitalism at its best.

Eight Maids a Milking:  Why is it always the maids that are milking?  Why can’t some of those lords stop dancing and help out a little with the chores? 

Seven Swans a Swimming:  I want to see these swans that can swim in ice.  There is ice on the lakes and ponds here, so I’m not sure where they are going to be swimming.  Don’t swans migrate during the winter?  May have to Google that one, just to see…

Six Geese a Laying:  The geese turn into beached whales, laying on the living room floor after the festivities and the feasting.  There is so much food that everyone overeats, then falls asleep…maybe it’s the tryptophan in the turkey, or the rum in the eggnog.  Or maybe it’s the toxic mushrooms that somehow found their way into the stuffing.

Five Golden Rings:  I want to meet this husband who is buying not one, but five gold rings for his wife.  And why does one woman need five rings?  Does she really need one for each finger?  This is extremely overindulgent and I think that husband is either trying to buy off his wife for his yearly indiscretions, or is just trying to shut her up after a year of nagging.

Four Calling Birds:  What the hell is a calling bird? 

Three French Hens:  I’ve heard them are good eatin’.  Just don’t shoot ‘em with buck shot, or you may lose a couple of teeth during dinner.

Two Turtle Doves:  All I can think of when I picture a turtle dove is a koopa troopa from Super Mario Brothers.  Those damn flying turtles always get me when I’m right at the end of a world.

A Partridge in a Pear Tree:  Are there partridges where there are pear trees?  And can a big, fat partridge actually sit in a pear tree without damaging it?  That poor pear tree, the branches are screaming…don’t you hear the agony? 

Put on Your Listening Ears

Dear son and daughter,

Your lives would be so much simpler if you would just listen to your mother from time to time.  When Mommy tells you that you can’t have a cookie until you eat two more bites of dinner…just eat the two bites.  Seriously, you’ve eaten twenty bites of the same dinner for the last hour, what is two more bites? 

When Mom tells you that it is cold outside, and that you should really wear a hat and gloves, take that as an order, not a recommendation.   And if you so choose to ignore sound advice from your mother, please do not whine when your hands get cold.  These ears have had filters installed, I no longer hear whining, no matter what the volume or pitch is.

When Mom tells you to clean up your room and put things away in the proper places, please heed this advice.  If you clean up your room by shoving things into niches and corners, throwing things in the closet or under the bed, certain items may go missing.  If you prefer this way of cleaning over the way your mother asked you to, then don’t ask me where your paint chips are, or where your Borders gift card is.  If you put it in the proper place, you wouldn’t have to ask me.

When Mommy tells you not to stand up in your high chair, I tell you this not to take the fun out of your day, but to safeguard you against head injury.  So if you refuse to listen to the countless “sit down’s” and “you are going to fall’s”, then please don’t cry when you do fall.  I may have no sympathy for you, since with my infinite wisdom, I saw the event take place in my mind before it actually happened.

When Mommy tells you to only use the foot switch once to turn on the Christmas lights, please subscribe to this warning.   If I have to do those lights again because you blew all of the fuses by turning them on and off (Mommy, look at the blinking lights…they’re pretty!), I will make life around this house extremely miserable.  For when Mommy is miserable, the entire house will suffer. 

Just remember, the both of you, that I love you to the extreme, but that you are driving your mother to the brink of insanity.  So unless you want to see me in a jacket with buckles in a padded room only on Sundays, I suggest you start LISTENING.  God gave you two ears and only one mouth for a reason. 

Incompetent to Stand Trial

I am beginning to think that I am the insane one and everyone else is normal.  There can’t be this many lunatics in the world, so I must be seeing it in reverse.  “Huh?” you say, but if you ever visit New York City during the holiday season, then you will understand what I’m talking about.

My sister, my daughter and I journeyed to the Big Apple yesterday to take in some sights, see some stores and have a nice dinner.  First I would like to point out that Connecticut does not put much stock into their rail system, and seems pretty much to have washed its hands of the whole situation.  I’m not sure where all of the casino money and tax dollars go, but they are certainly not funding the railways here.  After a jolting, loud, overheated two hour ride, we arrived at Grand Central.  From there we visited the Museum of Natural History, and ventured to Columbus Circle to walk down Central Park South to Fifth Avenue.  Asides from the pushing, shoving and almost getting run down by a couple of cabs, we found FAO Schwartz.  We proceeded to stand in a line that was an entire block long in order to just step foot in the store.  Once inside, it seemed most people were in some type of feeding frenzy, and my sister was actually physically moved aside by an old woman.  After having heart palpitations at some of the overinflated, ridiculous prices, we moved out of the warm store and into the forty mile-an-hour winds of the city.  We made our way down Fifth and visited Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, and headed towards Rockefeller Center.  A suggestion?  Look at the tree and the skaters in the comfort of your own home on your TV.  It is totally not worth the anguish.  First of all, I thought that the tree was decorated…all it had on it was lights.  Totally not impressive.  There were so many people in Rockefeller Center that you couldn’t even see the skaters.  We moved onto Times Square, which was also so packed that it was shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalks.  Again, we waited in an exceptionally long line to enter the M&M’s store. 

We had an excellent dinner at Vice Versa on West 51^st (pumpkin ravioli…yum!) and headed back into the mayhem of Times Square.  Thankfully there were no lines to get into the Disney Store and Toys R Us.  We walked back downtown to the Empire State Building, went up to the observatory, viewed the city lights from the 86^th floor in sixty mile-an-hour winds, and made our way back to Grand Central Station.  By this time, the three of us are utterly exhausted and freezing; we make a quick pit stop and board the crowded train home.  This is where the real fun began.  We had the absolute sheer luck of sitting with a rather large extended family that took up most of the car.  There was about ten kids and what looked to be four adults, or should I say three adults and one really big child.  The really big child, approximately forty two years old, proceeded to throw M&M’s around the car, hitting his brother in the head, as well as some other unrelated passengers.  In addition, he had a really large and obnoxious mouth, and I know I heard the “F” word said several times in front of his eight-year-old children.  After he tired of throwing candy, he began to roughhouse with his son, who kept jostling into the passengers (unrelated) in the seat across the aisle.  I sat in utter shock, appalled at the behavior of this grown man, on a public train, no less.   

We returned to Union Station in New Haven after two grueling hours of pandemonium, and made our way home.  What a day, what a day.  Overall I think we had a good time, but I don’t think that I would ever venture out to the City during the holidays again.  We were too worried about losing each other in the crowd and getting lost to really take in all of the offerings of the city…the architecture, the cultures, the decorations.  We may do a couple of things differently next time, such as investing in either noise cancelling headphones or large doses of horse tranquilizer for the train ride.  Or maybe large amounts of cash for bail, since I may be charged with manslaughter.  I will just tell the judge that I plead not guilty for reason of mental defect…the defect being I decided to visit the city during Christmas.  You can come see me at Bellevue.

A Mother's Sacrifice

               And so we began our journey out of Galilee in Nazareth into Judea so that Joseph could register with the census.  All of our worldly possessions packed in several bags upon our mule, and I, heavy with our child, upon its back.  My memory flashes back to the night when His Angel came to me, not in a dream but in my waking hours.  He blessed me and said I would conceive and bear a Son, the Son of God.  I was scared and confused, because I had never known a man.  The Angel comforted me and told me not to be afraid, that I was still innocent and I would conceive by the Holy Spirit.  At that moment, my heart was filled with warmth and joy, as the Holy Spirit blessed me with this child.  Thus I became His disciple and my faith ever deepened in the Lord God.

                Now, upon this mule, my child grew ever bigger, comfortable and warm.  My husband told me that this journey would take about two or three days to accomplish, ever aware of my discomfort from being heavy with child.  I looked upon him, leading our mule to his birth city, knowing he still struggled with the knowledge that the child within my womb was not his.  It seemed however something had comforted him, otherwise he may have put me away, or publically shamed me.  He did neither and we married quietly.

                We approached the city of Judea when the sun was high on the third day.  Joseph found shade for me under a date palm, and went to stand in line to register with the census.  The sun was beginning to sink when he returned to me.  We gathered our belongings, and he helped me to my feet.  It was then I felt the warmth of the birth water run down my legs under my robes.  I stayed silent, for Joseph had the trouble of finding us a place to board for the night.

                The city was crowded because of the census, and because of the late hour of our arrival, many of the inns and boarding houses were full to capacity.  We travelled to several different locations, and were turned away.  I could see the lines of worry on Joseph’s face, fearing we would have to sleep out of doors in the cold.  Finally, we came upon a small inn with a tiny stable behind.  The innkeeper told Joseph that he had no more room, but we could stay in the stable with the stock.  It would be warm and as the air cooled, the stable was a welcomed site.

                By this time, the pains of labor were getting worse, and it was difficult for me to dismount the mule.  Silently Joseph led me to a soft spot in the rear of the stable, where fresh hay was piled.  I reclined on the sweet smelling hay while Joseph brought our things from the mule.  I took out some swaddling clothes I had packed and laid them out on the hay next to me.  Seeing this and the sweat on my brow, Joseph quietly assisted me in the preparation of the birth.  The child came into the world without a sound, small and beautiful, with large brown eyes that studied my face.  I cleaned Him gently and wrapped Him snuggly in the swaddling clothes.  I nuzzled Him close, awed by His beauty.  The animals housed with us seemed to sense the wonderment of this child, and came to rest near us to give us more warmth.  They were silent; all that could be heard was their peaceful, rhythmic breathing.

                We rested for a time, Joseph standing guard over us.  Then we heard a slight commotion outside the stable.  Joseph went out to see, and returned with several men clad in the robes of distant lands.  They stood in the entrance for several moments, and then each came forward and knelt before me and the Babe.  They said they had followed a star to the birth place of the King of the Jews, and were present to pay homage to Him and give Him gifts.

                “What is the name you have given Him?” one of them asked me gently.  I looked at Joseph, who nodded, and I replied, “His name is Jesus.” 

                They each presented their gifts.  “Gold,” one man said, “to symbolize His virtue.  The second man offered frankincense, “to symbolize prayer.”  The third man brought forth myrrh, and quietly said, “To symbolize suffering.”  I looked into his eyes, and seeing the fear in mine, he replied, “This child who you hold at your breast, will be a great man.  Many will behold Him and love Him just like you do now.  Centuries from now, people will continue to revere Him, kneel in awe before Him, and many will die in His name.  He will be the Savior for humankind, but He will suffer to save them.”

                For the rest of the night, as the venerable ones kept watch over us, many people, mostly shepherds and stable hands came to kneel before my Son.  He beheld each visitor, and they beheld Him, and so was the beginning of His Kingdom.

               

For those who believe in Christ, this is the true meaning of Christmas.  Remember the reason why we celebrate, and kneel before Him in reverence and love.

Bumps and Bruises

It seems nowadays that you have two types of extreme parenting.  On one side you have the parents that couldn’t care less where their kids are, what they are doing, and if they are playing in traffic.  Then you have the other side, the parents that don’t let their kids do anything.  Mowing the grass is too hard; helping carry groceries is too strenuous, playing outside is too dangerous.  I try to strive to be in the middle ground.  I care about what my kids are doing, I have rules about helmets being worn, and no one is allowed near or on the road.  Both kids help carry in groceries, and no one is old enough to mow the grass yet.  My point is you have to let kids be kids.  Kids get bumps and bruises.  Some may even fall and require stitches and casts.  Hopefully the latter doesn’t happen all of the time, but it’s not the end of the world if it does.   Pick them up, dust them off, and give them a gentle shove back into the world.  If they can’t handle the bumps and bruises as children, how are they going to handle the hurdles of adulthood?

When my daughter was a baby, she loved to chew on a big pink rubber safety pin when she was teething.  And being my first child, I would go through the necessary freak out when said pin would hit the floor or the ground.  I would take it away until I could thoroughly wash and disinfect it.  We went to see our pediatrician for a monthly checkup and naturally she was chewing on her pin.  Of course, as with anything that goes in the mouth, it fell to the floor.  I picked it up and put it aside, thinking I would probably have to roast it over an open fire to rid it of the nastiness that may inhabit a doctor’s office floor.  Our pediatrician shook his head, reached over me, wiped the pin on his pants and gave it back to my daughter.  Meanwhile, the look of horror on my face must have been overwhelming, because the doctor just smiled and said “good for the immune system.”  He told me that someday I would learn.  First child, you boil and sterilize everything, second child you may rinse it off, third child, you dust it off and give it back.  I didn’t make it to three children, but two was enough to convince me.  Especially with some of the horrors I’ve seen my kids do, and they are still living to tell the tale.  I have witnessed my daughter giving her princess dolls a bath in the toilet, and I have observed my son eat a grape off the floor at Kohl’s.  Both are still going strong, and both have had very few illnesses in their lives. 

Both of my kids have also been very lucky in the injury department.  No broken bones to report, and no stitches as of yet.  They are outside all year round, playing in the sandbox, on their bikes, on the tire swing, and on the playscape.  We’ve had some minor medical situations, like bee stings, and some poison ivy.  Both my kids are blessed with the gracefulness of raging alcoholics, a trait most likely inherited from me.  They fall constantly are their legs are covered in bruises.  My son has fallen off of his high chair, out of bed, and off of the couch.  My daughter has fallen from the monkey bars, off of her bike, out of bed, off of chairs, and has tripped over shadows.  Even the dog will trip over herself, and then look back to see what she tripped on.  There is no hope in this household of an injury free day and on most days we look like the walking wounded. 

What is the funniest out of all though, is when you think about what you did when you were a kid, and you say “I would never let my kids do that.”  Every parent says this to themselves, and it can be traced back through generations.  My mother remembers when she was a kid, she used to collect the mercury from my grandmother’s broken thermometers.  She kept it in a little box and would play with it on occasion.  She also remembers playing out in the yard with her siblings and drinking out of the run-off pond when they were thirsty.  When I was a kid, I remember falling off my bike and out of trees, and I even fell off of a deck once.  I remember standing up in the middle of my mother’s car while she was driving.  No one wore seat belts back then.  Now, we don’t move the car unless all seat belts are fastened.  But we are both still alive and kicking, amazed at how so much has changed and wondering how we made it through childhood without major illness or injury. 

In all, there is only so much that you can protect your kids from.  Bumps and bruises, coughs and sneezes, blisters and cuts, these are part of a normal childhood.  No child is blessed with the gracefulness of a swan, or the immune system of a sewer rat.  Just keep your medicine cabinet well stocked with Neosporin, Band-Aids, and Robitussin and all will be right with the world.

Happy Hermit

As I get older and most of the general public becomes dumber, I find myself doing more things online rather than going to a store.  This is especially true during the holiday shopping season.  My husband’s mother and sister always want me to participate in Black Friday, but every year I turn them down.  I can’t deal with the crowds, the rudeness, and the personal injuries.  The fact is I just don’t like people.  There, I said it.  I just don’t like them.  In general, people are rude, uncaring, unknowing, and blissful in their stupidity.  If you don’t believe me, go to Best Buy on Black Friday around five in the morning, and sit back and watch the events unfold.  You’ll be agreeing with me before too long.

Also as I get older, I find myself having absolutely no patience for waiting in lines.  When I was a teenager, I had no problem waiting in line.  My friends and I waited two and a half hours in line at Splash Mountain in Disney World.  We’ve waited in line for concert tickets, and even just to eat.  An hour wait at Olive Garden?  Piece of cake!  Now, if I have to wait twenty minutes for anything, it’s just too long.  Maybe it’s because now that I’m in my [cough] thirties, I can’t waste precious life minutes waiting.  Or maybe it’s because I have too much crap to do; I don’t have time to stand in line!  Those dishes aren’t going to wash themselves!  Yikes, can’t believe that one came out of my mouth.

So in my attempt to avoid people, I tend to buy many things online.  I buy movie tickets, Christmas presents, wrapping paper.  I buy birthday presents, reserve library books, do all of my banking.   I have direct deposit, direct payment…this way I don’t have to buy stamps.  However, I’m not as bad as my mother, who will buy deodorant and shampoo online so she can avoid Wal-Mart.  I’m sure it’s coming though.  If I wanted to, I could buy my groceries online and have them delivered.  Come to think of it, I really don’t have to go outside at all.  I can see my friends and family on Skype.  Now all we need is some sort of teleportation device so I wouldn’t have to drive anymore.  Beam me up, Big Y.

Alas, even though I think I would be happy as a hermit, I would miss Starbucks.  I also wouldn’t be able to get material for the blog.  Drat, I guess I will have to remain a part of society.  At least for the lattes…

Responsibilities

It wasn’t that long ago that I was a teenager.  I’m only 31, so we’re not talking eons here.  But things have changed dramatically since then.  Drugs, especially prescription drugs, are so easily attainable.  Alcohol is also easy to get when you know who to ask or which store to go to.  We blame lawmakers, we blame store owners, and we blame parents.  But we overlook the fact that teens today are smarter than we realize, and that some of the responsibility must lie with them.  It scares the hell out of me when I think of how close my daughter is to her teenage years.  I can only hope that I’ve instilled what values I’ve held on to since my teenage years, and hope that if I give her a big enough boost, she’ll try to reach the stars. 

I was the product of a single parent home.  My mother was our rock, our constant, and the only one that we could always rely on for anything and everything.  We didn’t have much, and my mother struggled for every penny she earned, no thanks to my deadbeat father.  However, I can say that neither I nor my sister ever participated in underage drinking, underage smoking, or drugs on the whole.  I am proud to say that I’ve never picked up a cigarette, and never took any type of drug recreationally.  I’ve never been drunk in my life; I’ve never lost control of myself or my actions.  I’ve always been the designated driver, because to me, it’s just not worth it.  In addition, I can also say that my friends never did the whole peer pressure routine.  And if they did, I was smart enough to know it and to avoid it.

Why do teenagers, especially teenage girls, think it’s cool to binge drink and then pass out on a bathroom floor?  Do they think that it’s attractive when they are vomiting all over themselves?  It is a dangerous world for a young girl to drink to the point of intoxication, and many have been the victims of sexual assault.  I just don’t understand.  All I want to keep asking is “WHY, WHY, WHY?”  Is it because of the media and how they seem to glamorize underage drinking?  Is it because alcohol is so readily available, and so socially accepted?  Do these kids not understand that one night of partying can change their lives forever?  Drunk driving, blood alcohol poisoning, sexual assault, violence—does this sound like a good time to you?  It doesn’t to me.  Consumption of as little as four shots for a teenage girl is enough to cause blood alcohol poisoning. 

Most parents rely on their child’s school to teach them about drugs and alcohol.  There are DARE programs and health classes.  But for some reason, the teachings are not making their mark, not hitting the target.  Yes, the statistics show that the use of illicit drugs among teens has declined, but use of alcohol, tobacco, and prescription drugs has not budged.  Not to mention the use of ecstasy, methamphetamine, overdosing on cough syrup, and skittling.  That one might be the most disturbing of all.  Kids take their parents prescription medications, dump them into a big bowl at a party, and take a handful.  What are they thinking?  Do they realize that they are dipping their hands into a big bowl of death?  Again, I just don’t understand.

I guess that all I can really do is keep talking to my daughter; talk to her about these new fads in drug abuse and talk to her about underage drinking.  I need to know who she is with and where she is at all times.  That’s my responsibility as a parent.  I need to love her and support her, and tell her that she can be anything and do anything with her life.  I will always be proud of her, and tell her I love her.  I will be her rock.  Mom, thank you for being you.  Thank you for saying no and setting rules and curfews.  Thank you for showing me the way, and I hope that I can be the mom that you are to me.  I love you.

Such are the Dreams of the Everyday Housewife

 

Yep…I am a housewife.   I prefer the term “domestic engineer” because it sounds like I may get a salary for this type of career, and it sounds more prestigious than “homemaker.”  I cook, bake, wash dishes, do laundry, take care of the children, and chauffer.  I could add cleaning and ironing to that list, but since I try not to do either very often, I will omit them for the time being.  But being a housewife comes with certain woes.  You have to deal with illness on a regular basis, both mental (usually your own) and physical (usually the kids).  You have to budget time as well as the money.  You have to pay bills when all you want to do is buy those leather boots.  But the worst woes have to do with the little things that the other members of your family inflict on you.  Here are some of the things that I ponder every day.

1.       Why does most children’s clothing have to be ironed?  Can’t they make these items out of something that doesn’t wrinkle? 

2.       Why do children and husbands have to take off all of their clothing inside out?  Is there some sort of mental block that prevents them from taking off their clothes right-side-out?

3.       When the socks go into the dryer, do some of them go into a fourth dimension, or do they disintegrate into the lint trap?

4.       Why do ladybugs have to stink up the entire house when you suck them up in the vacuum?

5.       Why is the husband “He-Man” for most of the year, but turns into a baby when he gets sick?

6.       Why do children and the dog aim for the couch when they have to vomit?

7.       How does shaving gel get on the wall?

8.       How does toothpaste get on the mirror?

9.       Why do I use every pot and pan in the house when I cook a meal?

10.   Why do dogs like to rip apart napkins and paper towels?

11.   Why can’t children be born with the instinct that makes them put toys away when they are done playing with them?  Can we genetically engineer this trait?

12.   Can I design a dumbwaiter system in my house so that I don’t have to bring groceries up the stairs?

13.   Why does the dog walk directly in front of me when I am trying to answer the phone?

14.   Why do telemarketers call at nine o’clock at night?

15.   Why do children begin fighting and crying as soon as you pick up the phone to make a call?

16.   Why do only eggs and bottles of oil drop and shatter onto the floor?  Do they have different gravitational pulls than other items?

17.   Why do windows, televisions, appliances, and glossy wood get fingerprints?  Can’t someone invent a coating that prevents this particular affliction?

18.   Why can’t anyone hang up their coats in the closet when they come in from outside?

19.   Why do the children and the husband demand certain food items only after I come back from the supermarket?  Do they think that I am psychic?

20.   Why can’t I ever find a pen that works when I really need one?

Possessed

I should seriously have my head examined.  Why?  Because I do things that normal people would probably not do.  Maybe my sanity has finally left me for good.  I think it just got fed up and said "I'm outta here, woman."  I suspect this is what happened.  For today, I was muttering to myself, in a store, like a crazy old woman who hoards cats.  But I believe that I brought on this latest psychotic break purely because I went clothes shopping with two kids, of which one was dangerously close to nap time.

Today being “Elect a Liar” day (thanks Jeff); my daughter has the day off from school.  So I thought it would be a good day to do some fun things.  We went out to breakfast at the Shack and got some pancakes.  First mistake, giving a three-year-old sticky food to eat.  He does well with his fork, but if a bite of pancake falls off the fork before reaching his mouth, he picks it up and eats it with his fingers.  That’s okay, this is what kids do.  But as the parent, you have to be quick on your game, and have the wet wipe ready to clean the sticky mess from the fingers before said fingers grab Mommy’s freshly washed sweater.  No coffee + no sleep = slow Mommy.

After getting cleaned up after the breakfast mess, we set off to visit Borders.  My daughter loves this store, and has, at any one time, fifteen gift cards to spend.  We got to Borders without incident.  She had all of her books selected within five minutes of getting there, so I decided to look around a little.  Mistake number 2.  Three-year-old boys do not like book stores.  Yes, they like to touch everything in the store, and run through the racks playing hide and seek, but they do not appreciate book stores like girls do.  On several occasions in the fifteen minutes inside the book store, my son wriggled out of my grasp and proceeded to either run in the opposite direction, or disappear altogether.  Now I know why they have child leashes.  How much are these and where can I get one?

At this point, I was ready to throw in the towel, give up and go home.  However, my daughter reminded me that I needed to go to Kohl’s to get her an outfit for her audition on Saturday.  Therefore, I redirected my car towards Kohl’s.  After warning my son in the parking lot that he either behaves or he would be sorry, we ambled into Kohl’s.  This is where my daughter begins to regress from a rather able-bodied twelve-year-old to a whiney five-year-old, literally dragging her feet through the aisles.  She hates clothes shopping and hates trying on clothes.  I think she would be happy wearing sweatpants and pajamas throughout most of her teenage years.  So with a pouty bottom lip, she tried on several selections.  While I’m trying to help her and look at the fit, my son is on his hands and knees looking under the stall wall into the adjacent stall.  I yelled at him, and secretly doing the sign of the cross thanking God there was no one in the next stall.  How embarrassing!  We finally decide on an outfit for Saturday, and dragging my son through the check out, we made it out of Kohl’s.  By now, the children are still intact, but Mommy is a mess.  I am still afflicted by some phantom stickiness left over from breakfast, which I trace back to my keys.  I heave the younger child into the car seat, who is blubbering still about being forced to hold hands with mean Mommy while crossing the parking lot.  I take a deep breath, thinking that I can go home now, only to remember I still have to go to Big Y. CRAP!

By the time I get to Big Y, I am hoarse from yelling and in my mind I’m wondering how I am not a raging alcoholic.  I place my son in the cart because I’m not in the correct state of mind to allow him to walk.  Once inside the store, I realize I have absolutely no idea why I am there, what I’m supposed to buy, and why children just can’t live on cereal.  I begin to gather what is left of my thought process, and start to collect some items.  By this time my son has given up, thankfully, and lies down in the cart.  Once things are semi-quiet, I can begin to piece together some semblance of meals for the next couple of days.  We get back to the car, get everything in, and start the drive home.  HOME!!!  What a beautiful word, home.  I love home. 

Now I’m sitting here wondering what possesses me to do errands with two kids.  Someone always ends up crying, and most of the time it’s neither of the children.  What possesses me to think that a morning of errands would be fun?  This is why I tell my husband that the next time I get any brilliant ideas, just to shoot me.  But every week, I forget the homicidal or suicidal tendencies and I do it all again.  Maybe I am a glutton for punishment, or maybe I’m just that naïve to think that “it will be different this time.”  Either way, I’m glad I’m doing this with just two kids and not six.  No wonder my grandmother would brandish wooden spoons like tomahawks.  She was possessed too.

Peppermint Candy

I guess I missed the memo that informed the public that the Christmas season begins before the Halloween crap is even off of the shelves.  Hell, we are still in Daylight Savings Time.  If the commercialization gluttons get their way, we will be seeing holiday items in stores around the time the Independence Day items are being packed away.  It will truly be Christmas in July.

In an attempt to ward off the holiday depression that takes over my life every year, I have decided to thrust myself unwillingly into the holiday shopping epidemic that plagues my pocketbook not only for December, but for months following the joyous season.  So this year I figure that if I start early, maybe I can forego some of the financial hurt we experience in January and months after. 

We began at Toys R Us Express, a nice store filled from floor to ceiling with all of the year’s new toys.  Absent from this store is the noise, obnoxious clerks, and unnecessary bells and whistles of the Toys R Us superstore that we have in Waterford.  We were able to purchase a few items that were on Santa’s lists, and ended up saving twelve dollars in the process.  Apparently, the Toys R Us Express store has sales on some items that the parent store does not.  Keep that in mind all of you Santa’s helpers out there.

We then ventured over to the Toys R Us superstore.  We just so happened to stagger in during the “power hours” sale that was occurring between nine and one, therefore the store was overrun with other Santa’s helpers.  Being that Halloween is tomorrow, some of the shelves were bare, but overall the store was well-stocked for us early holiday shoppers.  We proceeded through the many aisles with caution, trying to get a sense of what our children would like to add to their un-played toy collections.  The “power hours” sale proved to be a little promising and we were able to purchase some items at a reduced cost.  I will not be divulging any sensitive information for that fact that one of my children is quite computer savvy and will probably be reading this blog within the next couple of days (Hello Mary). 

Having obtained several deals, we decided to push our luck at the local hobby shop.  Lee’s Toys in Groton is a great little store, often triggering nostalgic feelings when perusing the overstuffed aisles.  I saw toys there that I played with when I was little; toys that you would not see at a Toys R Us or Wal-Mart.  We were good little parents, however, and didn’t purchase anything bigger than stocking stuffers here, even though I wanted a Jacob’s Ladder and a new slinky (for myself, of course!)

I was happy with our purchases for the day; they did not break the bank but we did get some of the items on the wish lists.  And furthermore, we didn’t get buffeted and run over by the bullies who take over the stores somewhere around Thanksgiving time.   We actually had fun shopping today, I think because we weren’t under the holiday pressure yet.  Although, I must say, I did feel a little foolish wrapping Christmas presents while my jack-o-lanterns were staring at me.  Their eyes had that “what the hell are you doing, woman?” look in them.  What can I say?  Desperate times call for desperate measures.  As long as I don’t start decorating the Christmas tree in September…

Remember What Mama Said...

Do you remember some of the things that your mother told you when you were a kid?  Do you remember how you said to yourself that you would never say those things to your own kids?  Well, the time has come for you to admit that you were wrong and to woefully avow that "I should have listened to my mother, she was right."

I have two children, as most of you know.  One is three and the other is twelve.  Most days, as you've probably gathered, I'm very close to breaking that one precious thread that is holding the last of my sanity.  Every day I say the same things to my children, and every day I have to be disappointed when I realize that my words did not make an impression, and that those words didn't even pass the ear drums into the brains.  Have you ever heard your mother say, "I feel like I'm talking to a brick wall?"  Well, I remember that one among many others, so I guess I'm getting paid back.

 My daughter has the messy gene that apparently she may have inherited from me.  Messy meaning that her room looks like a J.C. Penney vomited all over her floor, her dresser and most days, her bed.  There are clothes everywhere, some are clean and some are dirty and somehow they are organized because she knows which are which.  I tell her every day to hang up one or two shirts, because by the end of the week, most of the clothes would be put away.  I say this every day, sometimes twice a day.  And yet, when I go up to say good night, the room looks exactly the same.  However, I believe that I'm getting paid back for what I used to do to my mother.  History repeats itself.  Mother, I apologize.

My son also does not understand the English language.  Every day I tell him not to antagonize the dog, and every day I have to listen to the whining when he gets nipped.  I tell him if he keeps lying on top of her like a pig pile, she is going to nip him when she's had too much piling.  I say this at least five times a day, but to no avail.  I separate the two, I put the human child on time out, I yell, and sometimes I even spray them both with the water bottle.   There’s only so much one person can take.  I can understand now what my mother had to put up with when my sister and I would start our daily brawls.  She must still cringe when she hears that whiney “Mom!” or the infamous “I’m telling!”  Again, Mother, I apologize.

My husband says that his mother would always say, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”  Children whine.  I’m not talking about crying when they are infants, that’s different…that’s communication.  I’m talking about the incessant whining that children begin to do right around the time they learn how to talk.  This time just so happens to be the same time that they begin the “terrible twos.”  They whine when they are hungry, sad, mad, tired, jealous, too hot, and too cold.  They whine at meal times, play time, nap time, bath time and bed time.  My daughter, even at twelve, still whines about taking a shower, about cleaning her room, and about doing homework.  My son whines about everything else.  There is no point to it, and sometimes I think they are just trying to see if anyone is listening and if anything is going to be done.  I have a whine filter, which I installed right around the time of my son’s terrible two’s.  My husband, however, does not have the whine filter.  So he cannot block the penetrating whines of the children from entering his mind.  Therefore sometimes I hear “I’ll give you something to cry about!”  In spite of this, the whining ensues, because the children see their Daddy as a big playmate, and not as the disciplinarian.  That’s my job, add it to the list.

Lately, my son flat out cries when he doesn’t get his way.  And lately, I’ve been using the old adage, “Your face is going to freeze like that.”  I remember when my grandmother used to use that one on my sister and I when we would do the same thing.  And yesterday, I used “If your friends jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you?” when my daughter was telling me a story about a group project in school. Wow, I think I’m getting worse.

Postal Employee Newman

Some of you have known for some time that I have been in the process of obtaining my passport. It is a process because of the time and energy that it takes just to haul my ass into the post office, an establishment of this country that I hate whole-heartedly.  I dread going, and I will do anything at all in my power to prevent going.  I celebrated the day when my supermarket started selling postage stamps, and UPS installed drop boxes.  But I digress…

First, I had to acquire the necessary paperwork from the post office.  I stood in line for about thirty minutes while the huddled masses made their way through the unnecessary long line to the two postal employees working the counter.  So pleasant are these two that they just exude joyfulness to everyone around them.  (Note—if you’ve ever been to an American post office, you know that I am being sarcastic here.)  Once I got to the counter, I was greeted by said employee, who proceeded to shove a form at me, and telling me that I needed to gather the appropriate paperwork before I can have the passport photos taken.  I left the post office, feeling slightly confused, embarrassed and stupid, because apparently I look like an idiot, since I had just been treated like one. 

I returned to my humble abode, settled myself into a chair, and filled out the application form.  Now for anyone that has applied for a passport will understand, the paperwork is not the easiest to understand.  Especially when one is trying to comprehend exactly what is needed for proof of citizenship, what copies are needed, what originals are needed, and what the fees are.  The State Department website is absolutely no help in the matter, unless you want to know what countries NOT to travel to.  After reading and rereading the forms, I finally decipher that I need an authorized copy of my birth certificate, a copy of my driver’s license, the form and the fee.  I cannot ascertain the fee because evidently it changes every day.  One day it was $135.00, the next it was $115.00.  Luckily, I had a stamped and authorized copy of my birth certificate from when we applied for our marriage license.  I rejoice because this is one less government establishment that I would have to visit.  I put everything together that I need, and return regretfully to the post office.

Today there was one postal employee working the counter, and she was none too happy to wait on any customers.  We were inconveniencing her cigarette break time, I guess.  After 20 minutes, I finally made it to the front of the line, and handed over my paraphernalia.   She scrutinized the forms, happily informing me what I filled out wrong, and what information I was missing.  I had forgotten that in my 31 years, I did not change my last name only once, but twice.  When I was born, my last name was Ring, from my father.  When I was sixteen and trying to forget I had a father, I changed my name to my mother’s name, Di Buono.  When I got married, I changed my name again, this time adding the Russo to the Di Buono.   And apparently, if you add an “e” to your middle name, you are no longer who you thought you were.  I had put on the form that my middle name was “Anne” and on my birth certificate it was “Ann.”   I had no idea that would be such a showstopper, and I was almost foiled in my quest.  She decided since I didn’t look like a terrorist, she would use some whiteout on the aberrant “e.”  Phew, that was a close one. 

After going over my paperwork with a fine tooth comb, I was told to write a check out to the Department of State for $110.00.  I laughed to myself because the State Department website today had a current fee of $120.00.  Then I was charged $40.00 for the post office processing of the passport paperwork and the taking of the photos.  She told me to wait for her out near the post office boxes, and she would be along shortly to take my photos.  I walked out into the lobby, looking for some sort of sign of where to meet her.  I heard some rummaging near an ancient door that looked like it hadn’t been opened since 1943.  I heard her unlock it and she had to push all of her weight against it in order to open it wide enough for a human to pass through.  I guess I had been correct about the 1943 assumption.  I sat down in a chair in front of the camera.  She prepared the camera for the photo-op, and told me to smile.  Now here is the dilemma.  I am in the post office, I’ve been here for 30 minutes, I don’t want to smile.  But I squeeze one off, although not very convincing.  I have terrible flashbacks of my DMV photo that is on my license and have a momentary sense of an oncoming panic attack.  I am told by postal employee to wait for her outside.  The line now is all the way into the lobby, so I skirted around the sullen faces to wait for her to come back.  At this point, I had no idea what I was waiting for, but I was told to wait, so wait I do.  Five minutes later, she emerged from the annals of the post office, and told me that I was all set.  All set?  That’s it?  I just handed over all of my pertinent vital statistics to a complete stranger without so much as a receipt or proof that I was ever there.  Feeling a little numb and a little violated, I ran back to my car, and thanked the Lord that I made it out of there while keeping most of my sanity.

According to the State Department website, I will be receiving my passport in 8 to 10 weeks.  We’ll see how that goes.  Of course I am at their mercy, since I have no confirmation number to check the status, and actually no proof that I was ever there.  All I have to show is the PTSD—post traumatic stress disorder.  “When you control the mail, you control…information.”