Michelle & Me

I am not one to usually remember my dreams vividly, but this one………..oh geez, this one.

Michelle Obama and I were becoming budding new besties.  She liked me.  Really, really liked me.  She thought I was hilarious.  Mallory and Sasha were school friends, and Mal was always very polite to the Obamas whenever she was invited to the White House for after-school hanging out.  I’d chat with her when I would pick Mal up, and during one of those conversations Michelle invited me to accompany her and Barack to the upcoming school play.  The night of the event, we met at the school and Michelle and I both needed to use the bathroom before things got underway.  The bathroom had a long line and as we stood in it chatting I felt the beginnings of The Nervous Poop.  This was due to the realization that I was with the POTUS and the FLOTUS.

I did not want the FLOTUS to hear me doing that, and so I made the excuse that we’d miss the start of the play if we both waited and that I would find another bathroom.  I went on the hunt.  Down a maze of hallways, peering into doorways, looking through windows.  Finally I found a tiny door under the stairs and there was a bathroom, gnome-sized but functional.  I bent down and crawled through the opening, hurried up and did my business and then went back to the auditorium.

By then the play had already started.  I quickly and quietly walked down to the first row and there were no more empty seats.  No seat saved for Polite Mallory’s Funny Mother and New Best Friend Of Michelle’s.  In fact, her and Barack never even made eye contact with me and as the Secret Service was politely escorting me out of there I woke from my dream.

Whenever The Queen Mum references somebody she thinks is a primo bullshitter, she says, “That guy could fall in a pile of crap and come out smelling like a rose.”

I have no such luck.  I end up just smelling like crap.

Baltimore

When we lived on the east coast, I told The Big Daddy that I wanted to go to Baltimore for my birthday, so we loaded up wee Maggie and drove there for the day.

The Inner Harbor is the main draw with all kinds of boats surrounded by an aquarium, shops and restaurants.  We had some lunch and did some walking, and then I suggested we check out the farmer’s market which was several blocks away.

There were two problems with this idea…………….

#1.  We had no idea where we were going.

#2.  It was early March which isn’t exactly farmer’s market season.

We’ve never been the kind of people to let facts get in the way of a really dumb idea.

We left the Inner Harbor and forged onward in search of the farmer’s market.  After a few blocks I started getting nervous.  The neighborhood was looking a little sketch.

I don’t know about this, Mark.  I think we should turn back.

“Nah.  It’s fine.”

A block later, a drunk leaning in a doorway saw us and yelled, “SO…………..YOU THINK YOU’RE COMMON SONS-OF BITCHES???”

The Big Daddy nodded and smiled.

Oh geez, this isn’t good.  No it isn’t.

The Big Daddy kept pushing that baby of ours with confidence.  “I was in these kinds of neighborhoods all the time when I was a roofer.  We’re fine.”

Always the roofing references.  You’d have thought he roofed half of Chicago with a gun to his head.  Well, maybe once or twice but it was a coworker with the gun which doesn’t count as a real crime.

After a long trek we made it to a closed farmer’s market which is when it dawned on us that this selling of fruits and vegetables is a seasonal thing.

We turned around and were making our way back to the Inner Harbor………….the shiny beacon of materialism and the tourist safety zone was within our sight.

Out of the corner of our eye at precisely the same time we saw three very large woman crossing the street.  Unusually large.  Very endowed.  Hot pants.  Purses.  Make-up.  Big hair.  Long fingernails.  Tight, tight, tight with the clothes.  I did a double take and one of them said…………

“Ewwwww wheeeeee…………………look at that white boy pushing that baby carriage!

Oh my God, Mark, are they talking about you?

And The Big Scared Daddy said……………….

Do you see any other white boy pushing a baby carriage?????

These common sons-of-bitches did the skedaddle before The Baltimore Trannies took Baby Daddy for a walk on the wild side.

Aging Gracefully

I started working retail when the kids were little.  The hours were flexible so I could work nights and weekends while Mark was home.  I enjoyed getting out of the house, making some money and getting clothes at a great discount.  It is easy for me to talk to strangers.  I can merchandise the crap out of any store.  I’m accurate on the register and know the inventory.  The big thing……..the selling of the goods?  Not so much.

Because I’ve done this off and on for awhile, I have observed many customers over the years.  It has been my habit to pay attention to women who are about ten years older than me.  What do they wear?  What do they do with their hair?  Jewelry, make-up, shoes?  I made a mental note of things I liked so that in the future I would have a guideline……..not for what was age appropriate (is that saying even mentioned when talking about men?), but rather what I might consider wearing as I got older.

This is what works every single time………………………

Confidence.

Older women who know what they like can wear anything.  They can wear a linen sack with a belt and make you believe it’s the most fashionable thing you’ve seen.  They can be overweight and in head-to-toe black, but with red patent-leather ballet flats they make a statement.  They can be wrinkled and a little stooped over, but with a stack of bracelets on their wrist they could be in a Sundance catalog.  They have no intention of trying to look like the daughter they have raised.  They know what works and they don’t waver much from the formula as it has served them well – much like the body they inhabit.  

Money can’t buy that and likely explains why I often have a hard time with the hand-holding, propping up and counseling part of retail.  I assume that if you’re in your forties and beyond you already have a life story of great sorrow and immeasurable joy.  You are the acquirer, for better or worse, of wisdom.

This clothes thing is no more than the candle on your cake.

A Party To Remember

When we lived in Maryland, The Big Daddy worked for The National Institutes of Health.  Before you think it was some cush government job, let me tell you that we moved there on a salary of $24K a year and that’s not much anywhere, but a mere pittance on the east coast with a new baby.  A year into it we qualified for rental assistance from the county, and every month a small check would come to the landlord to be used towards our rent.  47%ers, you could say and grateful for it.  We were broke for all five years we lived there, but they were some of the most memorable years of my life.

Mark worked with a technician who had a house in Annapolis……….right on the bay and she invited a bunch of her coworkers over for a summer crab party.  She hated bridges so thank God we didn’t have to cross this monster which gave me the heebie jeebies every time we went to the beach……………

She was married to an architect.  When the house next door to them became available they bought it because of the view, started their new project and sold their house when it was finished.

She wanted to be able to see the water when she was sitting in the living room, and so when the foundation was poured she brought over her lawn chair and sat down.  Nope, she said, can’t see it.  Three times they poured the foundation before she gave her stamp of approval.   I thought that was a little nutty until I sat down in the living room and saw that beautiful Chesapeake Bay.

They had a screened-in porch with tables set up and brown paper covering them.  The crabs and corn were dumped on each table and the beer was flowing as fast as the conversation.  It was a dinner party that felt like a summer vacation day and like all good vacations I didn’t want it to end.

The whole house was built so you could see the water wherever you were while inside, but the coolest thing was her garden room.  Off in the corner of the living room was a small, glass enclosed potting shed where she grew and potted her plants.  The floor was concrete and had a drain so she could hose the dirt down.  In a different house this might have seemed odd, but in this house it was perfect. 

The house with the lady who had a bridge phobia, who knew how to throw a great crabfest, and was smart enough to realize that if you surround yourself with people, the sea and a garden you’ll have everything you need.

A Different Kind Of Biggest Loser

I was driving to the bank the other day and saw a couple running.  So young and fit.  So cute in their workout wear.

Sigh.  I wish I could be like that.

And sitting at that stoplight I said to myself, “Speckled Trout, you need to get off your speckled ass and make that happen.”

So last night I put on my black boot-cut yoga pants with the paisley top that was really expensive but that I got really cheap because the place was going out of business.  I put on my turquoise and neon green Nikes that The Queen Mum got me for Christmas.  I was outfitted for a jaunt on the treadmill like I was Lululemon herself.

To complete my workout, I turned on The Biggest Loser and pretended that Jillian was yelling at me.

YOU CAN DO THIS!!!

DON’T YOU QUIT!!!!!

YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FEEL LIKE PUKING! 

YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE FAT TRUTH!!!

Jillian kept me motivated and I finished The First Sweaty Workout of The First Day Of The Rest Of My Fit Life.  I’ll be sore tomorrow I thought,  and I will tell everyone that it is because “I worked out.”

I got myself a glass of water and that’s when I noticed the toilet paper hanging from the back of the waistband of my black, boot-cut yoga pants.  The paper trail came to rest inside my underpants.

I. Am. Doomed.

;/

True Confessions

When we were growing up and trying to pull a fast one on The Queen Mum, she’d listen to the whole improbable story and say, “You know, I wasn’t born yesterday.”  This was her way of letting us know that she wasn’t in the market for bullshit and we’d better think long and hard about the tale we were weaving.

I learned a lot about parenting from that single, often-repeated statement of hers.

I have tried to follow the Man Te’O story.  The girlfriend who died on the same day as his grandma.  The grief.  The cancer that took them both.  Of course you’re playing for them.  Oh you poor thing.  Until it all cracked open and now he seems to have been the unfortunate victim of a hoax.  A hoax you say?   Even so, you probably shouldn’t be publicly and repeatedly mourning A GIRL YOU’VE NEVER MET.

Sheesh.  Who tells that kind of bullshit story???  You sure didn’t have the same kind of mother I did.  She’d have never fallen for that one.



When I was in the 8th grade I met up with a friend to hang out on a Saturday afternoon.  We then walked to KMart which my mom would have never let me do.  When I was late getting home she asked me what took me so long.

Well, we were right by the church so we decided to go to confession.

Confession?

Yeah, Mom.  I haven’t gone in awhile and we were right there so that’s why I was late getting home.

That night at dinner, The Queen Mum announced to the table, “I’d just like you all to know that Kathy went to confession today without even being told.”

And the crowd went silent.

The Queen Mum might have been suffering from a temporary case of Bullshit Radar Relapse, but it was clear by the look on my brothers and sisters’ stunned faces that they weren’t born yesterday either.


Oh Beautiful

When Maggie was but seven months old and we were living in Maryland, we decided on the spur of the moment to board a train to D.C. and watch the inaugural parade of George Bush.  We loaded up the stroller and diaper bag and went with thousands of other people to the Capitol to participate in the festivities. 

There was no great vantage point to see anything and Mark put me on his shoulders to catch a glimpse of the President walking by.  I never did see George or Barbara but that didn’t matter so much. 

It was festive.  It was fun.  It was democracy.

Since then I have only watched inaugurations on t.v. but I never miss them.  I requested Monday off weeks ago so I could park myself on the couch and watch every minute of it. 

When my brothers were in high school they had a record player and my sister and I would hang out in their room when they were playing music.  My brother, Terry, bought a new 45 and played it over and over.  I knew every word of that song and once snuck it over to my friend’s house for a sleepover so my friends could hear it.

It was “Fire and Rain” and I have been in love with James Taylor ever since.

Presidential elections are fire and rain and rancor and disagreement, then we vote and move on. 

Thankfully, we always move on.

Finding The Cure

I came home early from work on Sunday and suggested to Mallie Bee that we get that Target shopping done that we’d been talking about.  She was surprised by my early arrival as she was still in her jammies.  I hustled her along.  Let’s go.  C’mon.  You don’t need to look cute……….we’re only going to Target.

By the time we got there she was surly and just wanted to get the essentials and get out of there.

WHAT???????????????

It’s Target.  We don’t rush Target.

I’ve tried many strategies in dealing with pissed-off daughters, but the one I like best is to go all June Cleaver on them.  Push the cart, point out the cute dish towels, oh-will-you-look-at-that-baby, do you need some shampoo, let’s get some of those granola bars you like.  This throws them off their game.  Their moody anger game.

We got to the clothes and she wanted no part of it.  Finally I said, “What is wrong with you?  Why are you so mad?  We’re at Target.”

“I don’t feel good.  I have a headache.”

Oh geez.  Oh no.  Are you achy?  Do you have a fever?  Here let me feel.  Are you getting the flu?  You are, aren’t you?  What about the friends you were with the other day?  Have they had the flu?  When you went to the movie were any of them coughing?  Were their germy, plagued hands in your popcorn?  Oh we have to leave.  Let’s go.  You’re getting the flu.  Oh geez, you’re getting the flu which means in a couple of days I’ll be getting the flu.  Oh dear God.  It’s the start of the flu.  I’ll miss work for a few days which won’t be the worst thing that ever happened to me, but it’s the aches and chills that I hate.  And your dad?  Oh, you’re dad never thinks I’m really sick.  Grandma was like that, too.  If you said you couldn’t go to school because you were sick she’d make you stay in your bed the whole damn day.  Then you’d get up and be all dizzy from laying flat for eight hours.  You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up, do you?  Not that, Mal.  It can’t be that.  Cuz, you know how I am with that.  Can’t hear it, can’t know about it, can’t have it in the house.  How did the flu move so fast from Boston to Kansas?  It must have come on a plane.  Did any of your friends fly home from school?  You don’t have to name names.  Was it Beth?  It was Beth, wasn’t it? Did I tell you we saw her parents the other day?  And her mom was like, “Now Mallory is going in-state, right?”  Like they’re so much better than us with the out-of-state tuition.  And her husband just stands there with that goofy grin on his face.  You know why?  She never lets him talk.  What?  No I do not do that.  Do you need a Motrin?  You know I always carry them.  That and Immodium.  If I ever get kidnapped and leave my purse behind call 9-1-1- and then take a Motrin.  Right away.  Or Immodium.  It’s in the zippered part with my lipstck.  I should keep Immodium in my pockets because if I ever got kidnapped I’d crap my pants.   Are you feeling crampy?  That’s when you take the Immodium.  At first cramp.  Here, take one anyway. 

“Geez, Mom.  Calm down.  It’s a sinus headache.”

Are you sure?

“Yes.”

O.k., well I have to go look at the workout stuff cuz I can’t get motivated to work out until I have cute work out clothes so I’ll meet you back here in five minutes.

When I returned she was M.I.A. and after searching for her through the Mossimo, Converse and Merona with no luck, she emerged pink and rosy from the dressing room.

Target.

The Z-pack for everything.  

Amy

I have been rocking the curls since I was born and there is a long post I’ll write someday about how my hair has driven my mom up the wall my entire life.  A woman with straight, thin hair gives birth to not one, but three daughters with varying degrees of thick curls and slowly lost her mind trying to figure out how to tame the beasts upon our heads.  Most times she’d shove a barrette in it and call it a day.  Then when I was nine Mom discovered the “pixie” and it was whacked off through high school.

I call that period The Transvestite Years.

When I was married and Mark was in graduate school, I made an appointment with somebody everybody I worked with went to and loooooooooooved and he shaved my head with an electric razor as if  I was scheduled for brain surgery the next day.

I had minimal luck with hairdressers over the years and most days resembled Rosann Rosannadanna.  Nine years ago, I was checking out at the grocery store with a cashier I’d never seen before who had great curly hair and I asked her who cut it.  She put up the Sorry This Lane Is Closed sign and started dishing.  Curly girls don’t mess around.

“Amy.  You have to go to Amy.  She is………… she is a magician.”  Her purse was at her register and she gave me Amy’s card.  “Call her.  Call her today.”

Well, with a reference like that how do you not follow up?   When I had my first appointment, my new hairdresser/new best friend asked if I preferred to go by Kathy or Kathleen.

I love Kathleen, but my whole life I’ve been called Kathy.

“I will call you Kathleen.”

Last week she texted me to remind me of Mallory’s appointment.  “Sweet Kathleen, I will be seeing Mallory at 11:00.  Maggie comes at noon.  Maybe they are coming together?  The only thing that would make it better is if you could join them.”  Sigh.

This is a picture the photographer took of her doing Maggie’s hair for the wedding.  I framed it and gave it to her for Christmas.  She lost both her parents when she was very young and her and her brothers went to live with her aunt and uncle.  I wanted her to have something to look at every day that would remind her how talented she is, how much she is adored by all of her clients, and how the parents she had for too short of a time must be so very proud of her.

Guns & Roses

I talked to my mother-in-law on New Year’s Eve to see how her holidays went.  Okay, she said.  “That shooting at that school, though.  I couldn’t stop thinking about those families  I didn’t feel much like celebrating.”

Oh, yes.  That dark, dark cloud that hangs over this nation of ours.

Today I got in a Facebook pissing match with my nephew about guns.  This gun thing I will never, ever understand, and even when the rational voice in my head is shouting DON’T GO THERE…….I do.  I always do as if his middle-aged, left leaning aunt is going to change his mind about a culture that thinks a man and an assault rifle go together like Opie and his fishing pole.

A few weeks ago, somebody I work with said after the Sandy Hook shooting, “It’s like everything is ruined now.”

It does feel like that lately.

Tonight when I got home from work, my husband was on the phone talking to his daughter and looking pretty cute in his jeans and sweater.

No spandex from the bike trip home?

“I gotta go.  My girlfriend just walked in the door and I need to take her out on a dinner date.

A Tuesday date?  Out to dinner?

Sometimes that guy knows what I need even when I don’t.