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In years past, I’ve kind of dreaded my birthday. Not because I hate the thought of getting older but because it’s a forced happy day and those seem so forced. Family and friends ask, “How are you celebrating?” Well, the birthday mom does the mom thing all day and sometimes that includes baking her own cake. 

The last few years, however, have been different. I’ve had lovely birthdays and not because they’ve changed but because I have. Four years ago at this time, I went to a friend’s funeral. She was smart, kind, funny, deeply spiritual and deeply missed. Last year, Rhonda got breast cancer and went through more surgeries than seem possible. Another friend’s husband has a brain tumor. My cousin just buried his wife. One of my husband’s former students is stationed in Afghanistan. There are so many people I know who are struggling that when I close my eyes I don’t know who to pray for first.

I am very aware of how fast things can change and how fragile normal is. I’m happy, healthy and here to celebrate.  Lucky, lucky me.

It’s Friday and that’s always a day for risky behavior. I will seriously regret posting this but I’m gonna hit publish anyhow.

We needed some ink cartridges for our computer and so the boy-child and I went to Target. He was walking ahead of me and as I rounded the corner into the aisle, I farted. Let me emphasize that with italics because I like using them. I farted in Tarjay. The Neiman Marcus for those of us born without a trust fund. No. Warning. Whatsoever. Say all you want about the 50s being the new 40s, but back then I knew when a fart was coming and could do something about it.

I said, “Excuse me,” because with the exception of a rogue fart, I have impeccable manners. The boy-child turned around and said, “Did you just fart?” That’s when we both lost it. Like on the floor lost it. Crying, shaking, can’t talk lost it. Almost peed in my pants lost it. When he could talk he said, “I can’t believe you just farted in Target.”

Neither could I and maybe it’s our DNA that gives us the mental maturity of an eight year old boy who loves a good fart. I would have loved it more if it was him instead of me but bonding has a way of sneaking up on you.

Whenever the two of us are out and about he never fails to say, “Hey, Mom, remember that time you farted in Target” (like I could forget that)? Then we laugh like the immature, little dorks that we are.

When Hillary Clinton was running for president, there was all kinds of discussion about whether or not the country was ready for a female president. Then she got choked up at a meet and greet and all bets were off. The criticism was unrelenting because she dared get emotional when she was explaining that she cared about the country and the direction it was going which was why she was running. It never mattered that she composed herself quickly and finished speaking in a thoughtful and intelligent way. She cried. End of Story.

This year we’ve got a new Speaker of the House and the first thing the guy does is cry. Not choked up, not overcome with emotion but face contorting all-out bawling. Is he up for the job? Probably, but why is it that when a woman in the public eye shows the least amount of emotion she is psychoanalyzed like she’s one step from the sanitarium and this guy gets a pass over and over?

If you’ve ever spent much time with a toddler, you know they can easily go off the deep end and the fact that they don’t have a command of language makes trying to figure out the problem a crapshoot. “Tell me what’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself? Show me where it hurts. Did your sister hit you? YOU BETTER NOT HAVE HIT HIM AGAIN! Are you hungry? Hungry? Should we change you? Huh, Mama change you?”

On and on it goes until you figure out he broke a crayon and then you’re thinking, “Oh for chrissakes. That’s what you’ve been crying about?” Toddler gets Pissed Off Mom until nap time because you’ve just invested all the energy you had for the day and it’s only 8:30.

When this guy started crying that’s how I felt. I came running to the t.v. for this? I can’t even understand what you’re saying. Oh, you worked in the family bar from the time you were in high school? I worked at the Dairy Queen. Good family? Oh, me too, except for the dad who made us pick up sticks before he mowed the lawn. Every. Stinkin’. Stick. Every. Stinkin’. Saturday. Ya want something to cry about? Imagine your future as a professional stick picker upper . That was what my childhood was like.

This dude’s in for some very nasty weather so if he’s gonna swing a big gavel, he better learn to Nancy Up.

There is no saying that makes me crazier than when someone remarks, “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” I find it so lacking in spiritual empathy and warmth that it seems more like a pat on the head. I understand that people are trying to be helpful while saying it, but it seems to me that it puts a burden on the grieving to snap out of it because God just wouldn’t dish you a crappy hand unless he was sure you could take it. Are tragic events and devastating health crises doled out based on your perceived backbone and fortitude? I’d like to think not.

My dad’s brother, Paul, married Sheila after a long courtship and shortly after, she became pregnant with twins. While driving home from a movie one night, they were hit head-on by a drunk driver who crossed the center line and slammed into them. Sheila was seven months along at the time and went into labor. Their twin girls were born but did not live more than a few hours and all the anticipation of welcoming those babies was over and done in a single night. Instead of soon-to-be parents picking out cribs and bedding, they were picking out caskets and burial plots. A year and a half later, Kerri was born followed by her brothers, Matt and Jason. On Thanksgiving day of 1983, their family came to my parents’ house to celebrate and the following day Kerri went into cardiac arrest. She could not be stabilized and was moved to intensive care at Children’s Memorial Hospital in Chicago. She would never leave the hospital and died in February at the age of 14.

What caused her to have such critical heart issues at such a young age could never be determined while she was alive, but an autopsy revealed that she had Freidrichs Itaxia – a rare congenital defect that attacks the muscles surrounding the heart. With that knowledge in hand, her brothers were tested for the disease and Jason was found to have it as well. He was given a heart transplant but the very drugs he took to prevent rejection of his new heart caused cancer. He died at the age of 19 and for the third time they were in a funeral home picking out a casket for a child.

The marriage between my uncle and Sheila did not survive after Kerri’s death and both of them dealt with crippling depression. Sheila’s would result in hospitalization, alcoholism and shock treatments. The years dulled the anger between the two of them and though they couldn’t be married to each other, they remained friends. Through it all, Sheila was the family photographer and all of us have countless photos from her with the date, event and subjects clearly marked on the back.

Now the unofficial memory keeper for our family is losing her own memory to Alzheimers. She still seems to know who my mom is (or maybe she’s been well-coached) but the name of her only living child who has become her caretaker sometimes escapes her and surely these latest circumstances must make even God weep.

I was on Craigslist yesterday looking for a paying (key word) job when the computer screen went blankety blank. After fooling around with it for awhile and calling Big Daddy, I got back on to continue the search.

That’s when I found this:

ENERGETIC WAVERS WANTED

I know all about that job. I see those poor souls out there in all kinds of weather dressed in a goofy costume looking for the IRS challenged. Job description: Someone who likes to be outside (even when the tornado sirens are going off), can start ASAP (cuz employee # 47 walked off yesterday) and a salary of $7.50 per hour (because we value your talents).

Don’t you think it’s odd that in the middle of my job search the computer went dark? Kawinky dink or a sign from above?

I’m gonna pass on the energetic waving position because I believe God was trying to send me a message to hold still for the time being. I also know that I would chase down anyone who made fun of me dressed like Lady Liberty and seriously beat them with my foam torch.

I heard a clip of Charlie Sheen calling into a radio show (again). Charlie with the drug and alcohol problem. Charlie with the hooker problem. Charlie with the parties that the cops show up at.

He was doing in-home rehab (wink) and you sure don’t have to do much to earn phone privleges when you’re in your own casa. Now, however, he says he’s on the straight and narrow and brought in a hooker and a model to celebrate. Gee, girls, I’m sure that’s making mom and dad real proud.

This rant went a little too far as he bit the hand that’s paid for his addiction all these years. His show, along with the lighting, sound, camera, costume and make-up people who work on it, is now canceled for the season. I’m sure those employees have a money situation much more precarious than he does which confirms that all those times his mama said to him, “Honey, it’s not about you” he didn’t hear a thing. The best move he can make after these last few days is to sit down and shut up.

Whaddya bet that’s not going to happen?

Why does doing the taxes have to be such a production? Why don’t we keep track of this stuff on a monthly basis so it won’t be so overwhelming in the new year?

Oh yeah, because it sucks, that’s why. Who wants to sit down halfway thru the year with a bunch of receipts when you could be doing something fun like eating burgers on the patio, gossiping about the neighbor’s new car (Did one of their grandmothers just die?) and swatting skeeters?

The dining room table is filled with piles of paper. W-2s, oh baby, that’s the easy part. Just paper clip those together and you’re off to a good start. Hmmmm….charitable contributions? What did I dump in that bag and leave on the porch for pickup? What was all that crap? The value of a sweater that I only valued for a couple of wears is valued at how much? One shoe with a clear intent to find the other to add to the bag would be worth what in the resale market? Can taking your family out to dinner count as charity? Why not?

We used to do our own taxes, then bought a tax program, then got a letter from the IRS that said we owed $9000.00 (forgot an important little piece of info). After the heart palpitations, sweating and general near death experience, we decided to pay someone to figure the whole mess out.

I don’t know how he does it. I don’t know why he does it. I just know that him doing it is the best money we spend every year and from the day he delivered the news that me and Big Daddy weren’t going to the Big House for hard time was the day I swore I would keep better records.

I crack myself up.

Last weekend we saw “The Fighter”. Great movie. Great story. Great cast. I loved the mother – a tough, cigarette smoking broad loaded with faults played by Melissa Leo.

In one scene she is arguing with her husband and daughters about the direction one of her sons is going. One of her daughters dares to side with the brother and the mom gives her a drop dead look and asks, “Are you disrespecting me in my own kitchen?”

Why didn’t I ever think of that? Disrespecting your mother in her kitchen is like spitting on a grave. Bad, bad idea. I have given life to children who twenty years later stand in my kitchen with the fridge open, grazing away and saying, “Is this all you’ve got to eat? There’s nothing in here (chomp, chomp, chomp). What’s the deal with the fruit?”

I am hereby empowered. Disrespect my dancing, disrespect my hair on high-humidity days, disrespect my need to always have lipstick on when I leave the house (so I don’t look dead) or disrespect my fondness for yoga pants when I don’t have a yoga body. But disrespect me in my kitchen? I just got me some boundaries.

A few years ago, my BF (let’s call her Rhonda) and I took our daughters to Chicago for a few days during spring break of their senior year. We had a great time with the girls and took in the city sights. While walking along Michigan Avenue, we wandered into Nordstroms and saw that they were having a Makeover Day. Every line they carried was doing free makeovers so we signed up and went back the following day.

The girls went to Laura Mercier, Rhonda and I to Bobbi Brown. We were at our most charming as we entertained the makeup artists with stories, jokes and general mischief. We spent some $$$, left feeling hip and gorgeous and walked back to the hotel.

Rhonda was in the bathroom doing a close inspection of her new look and let out a shriek. I went in to see what was wrong. On the wall was a magnifying makeup mirror with an accordian arm and she was staring intently at her face. “Oh my God, will you look at all these hairs on my chin? How could I have gone there with these?” I told her it wasn’t that noticeable (to the visually impaired) and then had a look see at my own situation and let out an equally horrified scream.

The gals at Nordstroms must have thought we were two freaks on leave from the circus because, at least in that bathroom mirror, we looked like a couple of bearded ladies with fine lines being the least of our problems. Humiliated, we hit the Hotel Happy Hour early, sloshed down a couple glasses of wine, stroked our stubbly chins, discussed where to go to dinner (dark please) and tried to put the whole hairy mess behind us.

We got busy tweezing the next day, stayed away from Nordstroms (where we’re certain they still talk about us to this very day) and enjoyed our last day in the city. We have many fond memories of that trip but rarely discuss The Makeover for obvious reasons. Now that our girls are a little older (and of legal drinking age) we’d love to do it again. But the next time, before we iron our overalls and hitch our wagon for the bright lights and big city, we’ll definitely remember to farm our face.

My mom is the calmest person I know. When my brother was in a car wreck and his elbow went through the windshield, he came home from the emergency room all stitched up and showed the family his battle scar. He took off the gauze, crooked his elbow and blood started squirting against the dining room wall. My mom told him to join her in the bathroom where she cleaned him up, put fresh gauze on his wound and then finished eating her dinner like nothing happened. The rest of us sat in stunned silence watching the blood on the wall wondering if he was going to live through the nite.

I didn’t appreciate my mom’s demeanor until I was older, had kids and faced my share of stressful situations. It was her steadiness, especially in trying situations, that kept everyone calm and that in turn made us feel like everything was going to be o.k. I have done my best to follow in her footsteps, and though I’ll never be as good as she was, I hope I’m close.

Not everyone has such a mother and I realize I have been very lucky. Behold the offspring of an OverReactor. Oh dear is right.