February, I quit thee.

I have long said that the primary attraction of February is in its' brevity. I find it easier to get through a month that is only 28 days in length (29 in leap years, I know), particularly when that month is one thing that stands between me and springlike weather. A 28-day month in the middle of the summer just wouldn't have the cachet that February does. And it would likely piss me off.

But I can DO February. I can do it even though we have to contend with Valentines Day and Presidents Day and Ash Wednesday, those quasi-holidays that muck around with our schedules. And even though March weather around here is iffy at best, I know that I've got a better shot at warm weather during that month if I can just suffer February for four weeks.

So to February I say, on this last day of its' existence this year: don't let the door hit you on the way out.




-- Mox

I take it back.

Fly-shopping is a lot like fly-fishing, except without the fly and without the fishing.

Let me explain:

You whip into a store, see something you like, and because you don't have a lot of time to fiddle around with making a definitive decision, you buy it without trying it on, knowing that if you get it home and it doesn't fit or is the wrong color, you can take it back. So you take it home and try it on and it's wrong so you take it back.

I do this. It's a wonder the bank can keep up with me.

In my family, we call one another Myril whenever one of us does this. Myril was a friend of my grandmother's who had perfected the art of fly-shopping, and it seemed that at any point in time she had a sizable quantity of merchandise in flux between her home and the mall. When I was in college I shook my head about it, because in college I had all the time in the world to linger at the mall and try on stuff. But as always, the thing that I disdain becomes the thing that I do, and I've found myself over the years doing a fair amount of fly-shopping, mostly because my life seems to have sped up. I don't have a lot of time to spend on myself.

Last night on my way home from a late meeting, I had a few minutes to kill so I stopped in at the Super Walmart (which I despise but that's another post entirely) to pick up a couple of necessities. Before I was finished I had not only bought those necessities but also a couple of CDs and a new bed-in-a-bag set for Spawn's room... with the thought in the back of my mind that if the colors weren't right I would take it back. Here I am trying to make good on my pledge to pay off my one remaining credit card balance and then assuring that it will take longer than I anticipated. It's a perfect example of why I should not be given any free time to mill about in a shopping venue. I am my own worst enemy.

Have I mentioned that one year for Lent, I gave up shopping? It was harder to do than giving up chocolate.

The irony here is that the bed set is still in the back of my car because I got home so late I haven't had the time to even bring it into the house. We are in the midst of making redecorating plans for Spawn's room, because at Six my child no longer has need of the baby decor that I have been too lazy to change. I still have the color chips taped to the wall, and I'm trying to make a decision.

Will I take it back? Remains to be seen.




-- Mox

Time marches on, and a lot of times the route it takes is all over your face.

I just fired off my first official "happy 40th birthday" e-card to one of my friends.

It's happening. I can't stop it.

I have a feeling that my own impending 40th birthday this year is going to come accompanied by a big dose of freak-out. I say this because I'm having a bit of a freak-out just thinking that my friends are all turning 40, before me, and soon enough it will be my trip down the slide. It will be just like when I hit 30, that assessment of the past ten years and the realization that I have done exactly jack shit during that time.

It's six months away and already I'm investing the angst. What fun.

Intellectually I know that 40 isn't all that old, per se, and that I could reasonably have another 40 years of life left in me. So I'm trying to take care of myself, because in another 40 years who knows how things will be. I certainly don't want to be an old-thinker and in order to keep my brain thinking young, vibrant thoughts, I'm trying to take care of the body it's in. A wise 74-year-old man told me once to take care of my body while it's young and it will take care of me when I'm old and I'm inclined to take heed because this man bicycles 10 miles a day.

Still, I'm finding myself using points of reference like "that was 30 years ago" and the dreaded "when I was your age" and oh my god my inner child rolls her eyes because I sound just like my mother. Apparently there is no cure for this.

And I think of myself as young because I have a child in kindergarten, though if I think about it further most of my friends have kids in high school and believe me we are far too young to have teenagers. What gives? Of course it's all a matter of timing, a lot of my friends got married right after high school and/or during their first two years of college and had their first kids right about the time I was tapping the last keg of my college years. I was in no hurry to get married, and in no hurry to have a child, and so far I'm pretty pleased with the timeline of my life in that regard. I don't think I would change a thing. Still, I am what you might call an "old mom." I don't think about it too much until I get around the other mothers of Spawn's classmates and it's pretty obvious that I am the oldest one in the room. And Spawn is my only; some of these other mothers have two or three older children, meaning they started on the baby train a lot earlier than I did. Where some might look to me for wisdom just by virtue of my age, I just can't hold a candle to these young moms who've been there, done that before.

I'm trapped in a weird place.

What have I done with myself in the past ten years? I guess that could be defined by what I haven't done, too. Since my 30th birthday I've managed to collect a mortgage and a kid, and keep the same husband and more or less the same job. All noble and above-board endeavors, to be sure. I've also not written the Great American Novel or even a mediocre essay for publication.

My life feels like a holding pattern, and I get the sense that my generation's time in the spotlight is nearly over. The seeds for my midlife crisis are effectively sewn.




-- Mox

Photo Friday: drop off

Well, folks, it finally happened.

Spawn has joined the ranks of the drop-off kids.

I'd been talking it up for a few weeks, waiting for the kid to make the decision instead of me pushing it, because who am I to push a kid who isn't ready to let go of mommy's hand? Well, the mommy, that's who I am.

But I knew the time was coming, since so many of Spawn's classmates were drop-off kids, bounding out of their mothers' minivans without so much as a look back, and frankly, I'm just like any other parent who wants her kid to be on par, developmentally, with the other kids. I also was getting pretty tired of the park-walk in-walk back-drive away dance that I was subjected to every morning. When Spawn started requesting a kiss on the cheek and no further public demonstration of affection, I knew that my baby was taking a few more independent steps away from me. And because I want my kid to be independent, I was glad to see it.

The first couple of days of drop-off were uneventful, even a relief; to be able to pull into the circle drive and have my kid hop out of the car with a quick peck on the cheek signaled to me that by not pushing the issue I had avoided making a bigger deal out of it than it had to be. And I got to work on time -- no speeding required (and thus no tickets). Glory hallelujah!

The third day of drop-off, I took a different route to go to the gym. Instead of turning left out onto the street, I turned right, which took me past the front entrance of the school. I looked as I went by and saw Spawn standing in the lobby of the school, looking around as if unsure of which way to go.

The sight of my baby standing there with a backpack, looking left to right, deciding... well, my friends, it clutched up my heart. For a fleeting moment the urge hit me to go into the school and point the way, to make sure that Spawn got to the right place.

But my baby doesn't need to be walked into school anymore. It's one more thing that ol' mom has outlived her usefulness for.

All of Spawn's milestones have been met with rejoicing around here. The first words, the first steps, self-feeding, potty training, self-dressing, shoe tying, no training wheels... I've celebrated everything that Spawn has learned to do alone. Because I know it's necessary to do these things for yourself. Some of these things have been great milestones to move past -- if I never change another poopy diaper in my life that is fine with me. Others have been a bit bittersweet -- to have my child rub lotion on my winter-dry-and-itchy back was a sweet reward for all of those times I spent rubbing lotion all over a tiny baby body. Sometimes Spawn gives back when I least expect it.

It's hard to realize that every day that goes by my kid is learning the things that every kid should learn in order to become an independent person. I try so hard to not hold the kid back. And what's hard about that is when I'm not ready and Spawn is, and I have to have that internal fight with myself to let the kid go and do and be.

A mother's heart is a strange place sometimes.




-- Mox

Turkey, cold.

Here I am, folks. I haven't forsaken you.

Yesterday was one of those days where my feet hit the floor at 6am and did not cease to make contact with the pavement until ten that night. I got a lot done, and I also made myself completely exhausted in the process. When will I learn to take a day off when I have a day off?

Giving up the chocolate and the booze and the cokes all at one time yesterday gave me a whopping headache, too. Sort of a reverse hangover. I am trying so hard to be good, y'all, but I do enjoy my vices, probably a little too much.

It's going to be a loooooong 40 days.




-- Mox

One last day.

I'm fixing to show my age here.

On the old sitcom Laverne & Shirley, the girls entered into a contest where they did a "supermarket sweep" type of race, where they had a limited time to race through a grocery store and load up their carts, winning whatever it was they could get across the finish line. Both raced through and loaded up their carts, and also stuffed things down their shirts in an attempt to get the most food across the finish line. But the load they were carrying was too heavy, and as they crawled toward the finish line all they managed to get across was a box of Mallomars. Which is all they were allowed to take home.

If you are scratching your head and wondering, "....Laverne & Shirley...?" then you probably need to watch some late-night cable.

I bring up this long-ago sitcom episode today because that's sort of what it feels like to have arrived at Fat Tuesday. Both of us have decided to give up some of life's little edible/drinkable pleasures for Lent -- not so much because of the spiritual aspect but because we both recognize the need to get a grip on our waistlines -- and to that end have been living it up. But here's the thing about living it up on a deadline: once you are standing on the precipice of that deadline, you're pretty much done with the living it up.

I'm serious, y'all. I'm kinda sick of all of it.

There is only so much boozing it up you can do before it gets to feeling like old hat, only so much chocolate you can consume before it ceases to be a treat, only so many cokes you can drink before you start to crave something without carbonation. You need to make a switch.

Which I guess is a good thing, seeing as how for the next 40 days I'm going to be grazing at the salad bar and realigning my chakras or some such nonsense. That first rum and coke after Easter is going to go down mighty good, I'm sure.

Now if you'll excuse me I need to waddle off towards lunchtime.




-- Mox

Bee in my bonnet.

I am the sort of person that, when I get an idea stuck in my head, I cannot let it go until I have processed it and acted upon it. I have inherited this trait from my father, who will start a project and work slavishly at that project until it is done, like he is on a deadline. Call it a one-track mind, I guess. Unfortunately, it is also something I have passed down to Spawn, whose current idea is that we should get a dog.

While I would certainly entertain the idea of a dog in our family -- after all, I had dogs as a kid -- the fact of the matter remains that we do not have the lifestyle for a dog. We are simply not home enough to form that wolf-pack bond that dogs seem to crave. And because Spawn wants a little wimpy dog, a poodle, I am afraid that our two cats would gang up on it and beat it up like the little nerd that it most assuredly would be.

I am not a poodle fan. I am 100% there with the notion that a poodle has hair instead of fur and therefore not the shedding machine that furry creatures tend to be, plus a bit easier on people with allergies. But a poodle to me isn't a dog. Sure, it's cute and soft and it barks but so do chinchillas and last I checked, they are not dogs. (For the record, Spawn would also like a chinchilla. I would rather have a coat.)

I have put some thought into this, long ago before we adopted the second cat, because at the time my husband was not budging on the subject of a cat and Spawn was not budging on wanting a pet. So I gave some thought to a dog, did some research, and narrowed it down to a select few smallish breeds that would be good family dogs. I presented my husband with the idea, and he quickly squelched it because "dogs shit in the yard." So back to square one and eventually he caved in and we got the cat and what do you know, he LOVES that cat. Loves. that. cat.

But we are not dog people. Not really. We're cat people because cats do their business in a litter box and don't require a lot of human interaction to keep them from destroying the house. Cats are also not as blind to your faults as dogs are and they do hold a grudge, but that's the price you pay for having a self-cleaning pet. Which is SO worth it to me.

Still, I can see the day coming when we add a dog to the mix, because I think a kid needs a dog. Something to care for that responds with undying devotion, and because both cats and other human beings don't give you that sort of return on investment, a dog is a good choice for a kid to learn about responsibility and reward. I am taking up the cause.





-- Mox

Photo Friday: Man, I got nothin' today.

So how's about I just toss this out there and go on my merry way.






Enjoy.



-- Mox

Is it Friday yet?

Ever have one of those weeks where you had no idea what day it was for the majority of the week? That's been my week this week. I've been thinking it's Thursday for the past two days. Imagine my great disappointment when I figured out there was only one Thursday in a week and the past two days haven't been it.

I guess the good news is that today is Thursday, which means that tomorrow is Friday and that means date night with my husband and also the consumption of adult beverages. Possibly many adult beverages. Hey, I might as well have one last hurrah before Ash Wednesday.

The winter blues have really gotten to me as of late, and I've pretty much figured out that it's got less to do with the length of daylight in a day as it has to do with the amount of degrees in the air. I got through the shortest days in the year with a fairly healthy outlook, in part because it was 60 degrees a lot of the time. But the weather turned damned cold about a month ago and I've been pretty much in hibernation mode since. And for me, hibernation mode includes a general malaise and pissed-offedness.

And to add a little more drama to my life, it would seem that some of the decisions I've reached in the past couple of months are now coming back into question. Just when I thought I had things all figured out.

Really, Friday cannot get here soon enough.




-- Mox

Off the hook.

My husband is a lucky, lucky man.

Because I am not a romantic sort of person, I have given him a free pass today. He is under no obligation to send flowers, buy anything, or take me anywhere in the name of Valentines Day, and by mutual agreement, I am off the hook too.

Maybe it's a function of getting older or maybe it's because we've been together nearly 20 years, but the big ostentatious displays of affection that are de rigeur for this day leave us both nonplussed. I know how he feels about me and vice versa, and to go out and blow money on overpriced bouquets and steak dinners just because it's a certain day of the year seems to be a bit of overkill. It's a relationship litmus test that, frankly, is stupid.

Is it my imagination or has Valentines Day morphed over the years from a sweet, token-of-affection holiday to an over-the-top commercial guilt fest? It seems everyone is all wrapped up in material displays of affection -- not just the card shops and jewelry stores but now car dealers are getting into the act. What? Buy your sweetie a car for Valentine's Day and show how much your love them? Oh, and use your tax refund check as a downpayment? How does this have anything to do with genuinely loving someone? Here, honey, have a new car... and a brand new payment book. Yikes.

The only concession we have made for the day has been to get Spawn a little token of love or two, because when you're Six it's all about the holidays, no matter what holiday it is. So we got the kid a card, some stickers, and a new music CD and are calling it a day. I might -- maybe -- make a pan of brownies tonight. But that's it.

And tomorrow everything with hearts on it will be at least 50% off. Today's news, tomorrow's fishwrap.

I am such a romantic.




-- Mox

Busy signals.

In this day and age, calling someone on the phone and getting a busy signal is pretty rare. And if you don't know what a busy signal is, you're too young to be reading this blog.

But that's what's going on here today. Busy busy.




-- Mox

So this is how it's going to be this week.

I got a speeding ticket on my way to work this morning.

Ordinarily I confine my heavy-duty cussing to within my head and occasionally under my breath, but today the air inside my car was fairly blue and I'm not too sure that this week the air here won't be blue, too.

That's $159 fucking dollars that I don't have, to spend on a stupid fucking ticket.

See?




-- Mox

Photo Friday: R.I.P....?

I received word this morning that my neighbor lady passed away yesterday.

I am uncertain as to how I feel about that news.

While I am most definitely sympathetic to her husband and son, who will most likely feel quite lost without her, personally I don't know that I will miss her all that much.

You see, she was one of those neighbors.

Every neighborhood has at least one of those neighbors, the kind who are up in your business far too much, who spew vitriol on every subject, who will corner you and talk your ear off, who will talk about you behind your back. The kind you will duck behind a tree to avoid. When you have to erect a privacy fence between your two yards just to avoid feeling like an animal on display at the zoo, you start to wonder about the sanity of a neighbor who just stands in her driveway, staring and chittering away at you. Conclusion: losing it. The retaliatory cutting down of a tree so she can stand in an upstairs window and watch you over the fence will cause you to wonder how tall can you make that fence.

When we bought our house ten years ago, our neighbors were quite elderly then. We knew this day would come eventually. At a certain point we began to wonder how long "eventually" would take. Some old people seem to be too ornery to die.

But because I was raised to be a Proper Southern Woman, I will go to the funeral home and pay my respects anyway. And then maybe, finally, there will be some peace in our neighborhood.




-- Mox

I itchy, U scratchy.

Penny wise and pound foolish, that's me.

Yesterday I spent $60 on an hour-long massage just to have someone rub lotion all over me, without the expectation of a little something-something afterward. (Ladies, you know what I mean.) The cold weather we've had as of late has wreaked havoc on my skin, and because I am a Delicate Southern Flower I have been all dried out and itchy. Plus any reasonable excuse to get a massage works for me.

That $60 could have probably been better spent elsewhere, on items that would have been useful for the good of the entire household, but sometimes a stressed-out mom has to do what a stressed-out mom has to do. I try really hard not to martyr myself around here, because no one cares if I do. No point in being a martyr if no one cares.

If I were a wealthy woman I would get a massage at least once a week. God, I love it.

The downside is that today I am achy, because apparently I was a lot more tense than I originally thought, and having the kinks worked out yesterday served to release a lot of bad energy I have been holding on to. Evidently, I am a lot more pissed off than I knew.



-- Mox

Back in the saddle again....

Hey, y'all, a favorite blogger of mine has returned to his online chronicles. Welcome back to the land of the blogging, Chuck.

Speaking of getting back to normal, Yours Truly has got to get a grip. Against my better judgement, I got on the scales this morning and learned that I have gained four pounds. And the digital scale does not lie, not like the old-fashioned ones that our moms used that could be manipulated into thinking you're five pounds lighter than you actually are. Now, four pounds may not seem like a whole lot, and truth be told I haven't noticed a difference (yet) in the way my clothes fit, but you know how four pounds can turn into five and then ten and then you're back at Square One. And I knew it would be unhappy news when I stepped on the scale, because of the way I have been feeling lately (read: bloated, restive, cranky) and the way I have been treating myself lately (read: flannel pj's and pans of warm brownies). So yeah, no big surprise there.

Add to that the remarks made recently by Spawn and my husband that suggest to me that my backside isn't as small as I previously believed. A six-year-old has no guile. However, a forty-one-year-old does, and no matter how much he professes to like the size of my butt it still does not endear him to me.

~sigh~ I know what it is I have to do, but I just don't want to do it right now.

I have given myself a deadline, though. We are two weeks from Mardi Gras and subsequently Lent, and I intend to arrive at Fat Tuesday having enjoyed these two weeks to the fullest before donning the sackcloth and ashes. I'll start off Ash Wednesday with the hairshirt of sensible diet and (gasp!) no alcohol, and ride it through 40 days. Good for the soul, no?

This is my plan. Maybe not a good one, but a plan nonetheless.




--Mox

Colder'n a well-digger's ass.

Have I mentioned that I don't care for cold weather?

If not, I'm mentioning it now.

When I got up this morning, the temperature, figuring in the windchill factor, was -7. That's minus seven, y'all. As in, not warm enough to be zero.

When it's this cold, not only are my feet frozen but so is my brain, and I can't think of anything except how nice it would be to bag this paycheck-to-paycheck existence in favor of warmer climes. The fantasy that gets the most airplay is the one where I'm so filthy stinking rich that I get up in the morning, check the weather forecast, and wherever it's 70+ degrees is where I get on my private jet to go to. And if I don't have a home there, when I get there I buy one.

And this would be my back yard:

This would be the pool area:

And this would be me:

It's these little fantasies of mine that keep me going on days such as these.



-- Mox

Photo Friday: Good news.

In this neck of the woods.... this little bugger won't see his shadow today. Which is so utterly and completely fine with me that I can't even begin to tell you how utterly and completely fine it is.

I am so damn done with winter, folks. I've been done with winter since this past summer.

Also, today is my brother-in-law's birthday. Somehow it's fitting. He's a bit of a recluse.

Bring on the spring!




-- Mox

S.N.A.F.U.

Sorry, no wit from me today. As luck would have it, we got snow last night. Which means all of my carefully crafted plans are slightly tweaked today, if not completely tossed out the window. Like, you know, writing a post.

Ordinarily I wouldn't mind a snow day, but right now I've got so much going on that it's a great big inconvenience. When they close the schools for no damn good reason then I've got to scramble to cover Spawn-care and continue to juggle the stuff I normally do while the kid is in school. A couple of days later and it would have been a moot point, because we could have all slept in and then gone out to throw a few snowballs. But right in the middle of the workweek, when I've got a few hot potatoes on my plate, well, this is one of those times I wish I had power over the weather, so I could have held it off for a couple of days. That's all I really need -- a couple of days.

Ah, well. Business as usual, I guess.






-- Mox