How the other half LIVES

July is my birth month. I have always liked being a summer baby. This July I will be a summer baby for the 50th time...

OH MY GOD!

I have never really dreaded a birthday because I strongly feel growing older is much better than the alternative.

I have always been okay with whatever age came before this one. However, my upcoming birthday, I admit, bugs me a little. I think it is that half-CENTURY mark that is tripping me up. I still feel like I just got out of high school, and as long as I don't pass a mirror or go to a reunion my mind can almost pull it off.

Lately, I've spent a great deal of time taking a look at life and everyone in the ages above and below me. A few years back my college dance teacher, a famous and fabulous person was retiring and a big hoopla get-together was planned at my Alma mater. My college roommate, Patti and I were planning to rendezvous there and relive some good times. Before she left home her husband teasingly asked her if she was planning to have a fling with any of the guys at the reunion. She aptly replied, "If I didn't want them when they were young, handsome and virile, what makes you think I want them now that their old, fat and bald.

Makes you think, doesn't it?

The point I am getting to is one that has been repeated ever since people started hitting landmark birthdays - you are as young as you feel. Or as your spirit feels.

I was blessed to have my paternal grandmother in my life well into her eighties. She had many wrinkles on her round little face, and everyone of them old me a story of how she lived her life; came to America; married, raised her 5 children; watched the men in her family go off to 3 different wars; welcomed her daughters-in-law; adored her many grandchildren; buried her husband and her daughter before her and then went off to heaven to meet up with those she missed. Her face was absolutely beautiful. Her hands, though lined and spotted were softer than anything I have ever touched. And, best of all - her laugh was that of a giggly little girl. And she laughed a lot.

So, please do me a favor. As a birthday present to me, be good to yourself, whatever birthday you are at. Put down the Botox; cancel the plastic surgeon and please have a piece of birthday cake. Let people know that you are alive and show the wonderful years of joy and sadness that created who you are.

Strife in the "Fast Lane"

It was only a few items for a picnic. The rest of the check out lanes were backed up like I94 out of Chicago on rush hour. I spotted the FAST lanes. An innocent looking row of self-check out lanes where you do all the scanning and bagging yourself. Brilliant. I'd be out in no time. I even had my trusty 12 year old son there to assist me.

Alex and I began scanning items and it was only then that I realized I was checking out on HAL, the computer from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

My first item went through benignly. Then I made the mistake of trying to enter the PLU on the produce. You know, the little sticker that is supposed to be keyed to the price. Well, as soon as I entered it the whole machine lit up like a jackpot at a casino and a gnarly looking attendant came to fix it. He punched in a bunch of codes, gave us a nasty look and left without a word. We tried the peaches next. BIG mistake. Same response, same ugly attendant. I wondered why he didn't just stay there and check out my last few items - but that would mean it wasn't... the FAST lane.

We tried scanning and bagging faster to make the machine happy but it kept droning on at us in that non-human voice saying that there was "a foreign object in the bagging area". What foreign object? Was it peas? This was a grocery store for Pete's Sake how could peas be foreign. I began to look around for the zebra that passed in front of the scanner, or possibly a UFO - something I could accept as foreign.

Then the diabolical machine began a new type of torture. With each item I tried to scan it asked me to punch in "skip bagging" before I could move on. I'll bet you can guess what I really wanted to punch.

In a mere half an hour (!) we got through the last item and paid. As we turned with our one measley bag to walk away, a sadistic, mechanical voice behind us said,

"Thank you for using the Fast lane".

Spit please!

The boys and I finally made it to the dentist today. It's been long overdue. Our six-month appointments were scheduled for last December but, in our family, neurosurgery trumps gum scraping. (See Feb. '08 blog for explanation).

I am no rookie when it come to dentists. I spent some grueling Junior High and High School years with the dreaded orthodontic braces. Forget that I had to have eight teeth pulled so the rest would fit into my petite little mouth. (I can hear you laughing out there - stop it!). You have never felt mouth pain until you have had metal braces pounded up into your gums and then removed so the Ortho could look at them and then pounded up there again. It was a scene straight out of Marathon Man. That lovely part of the whole proceedure comes only after choking on the over-filled mouth tray of impression cement and just before wincing from the ever tightening rubber bands of horror forcing your canines into places they do not want to go. Ah yes, good times, good times...

Today wasn't quite so brutal. I was comforted by my 8-year old son while I lay there, upside down. He held my hand as the hygienist worked, saying comforting things like:

"Does that hurt? What is that silver thing? You're bleeding. I don't' like blood. That looks really painful."

I didn't even get anything out of the prize basket when I was done.

Dye-ing to hit the jackpot

Who invented hair coloring? I don't know, but I can tell you this, whoever it was had to be a gambling person. I know every time I go to the store and pick out that little box I roll the dice as to what's going to happen next.

I've tried them all - Clairol, Loreal, Garnier

I've tried every mixture possible - highlights, lowlights, shine, touch up

I've tried every application possible.- foam, oil , nice and easy, long and arduous.

And no matter what I try, I never get the results they show on the box.

Take tonight for example. My hair seemed to be losing it's girlish lustre so I sprang for the high price box promising a lot of shine. My hair has nice auburn highlights so I went with this box with an image of a woman with auburn highlights. It promised to give your hair several color tones...and they were right. I got several tones and all of them are red. Lucille Ball and Mrs. Weasley move over, SB just died her hair again! In fact, this is the second Harry Potter character I've emulated during one of my dying adventures. A couple years ago I thought I'd pick a little darker shade that was close to the hair color of my youth. I came out looking like a middle-aged Severus Snape.

I suspect I should be grateful. A dear SB friend of mine who I talk about in my 4-part wired but not fired blog once tried to dye her eyebrows the same color as her newly dyed hair (and yes, the box does tell you never to do this). She may have pulled it off if it weren't for the phone call she got during the process - which made her miss the timer she set telling her when to wash it off. The immense burning sensation above her eyes finally alerted her. The next day she came to work with no eyebrows. Well, that's not entirely true. They were drawn in but the pencil she used certainly did not match her hair color.

I never was much of a gambler. Maybe it would be cheaper to buy a bunch of hats.

My son was framed

In the world of stories honoring great mom's that are coming out just in time for Mother's Day ---this ain't one of them.

It goes like this: We had a big family event last weekend so I did the deep clean on the apartment and found many objects I hadn't seen for a while. One such object was my steaming pile of fake dog poo. This fake poo (in college days named the 'fake shit') gave us countless hours of fun at my dorm as my roommate and I found unique hiding places for other dorm-mates to discover it.

Being the great mom I am, I share this story with my soon-to-be 12 year old son. He says, "Let's you and I hide the poo on each other for laughs." I say, "Sure son, why not." So the poo starts its second life as an object of amusement.

I find it in my panties drawer.

He pours it out into his cereal bowl.

I discover it under my pillow...you get the picture.

So one morning he says to me, "Have you hid the fake poo yet mom?" I tell him I've been a little busy lately and when I see the disappointed look on his face I promise to hide it soon. Being the great mom I am, I carefully avoid putting it in his school backpack in case he doesn't see it and it makes its way into the elementary school.

Aha, his cargo pants! What a fun hiding place. I secretly put it in his front pocket. It's a sizable pile of poo. He's bound to feel it there when he gets dressed.

Pleased that the deed is done, I go to bed.

Fast forward to the end of the next work day. I drive to my child care to pick up the boys and on our ride home Alex forlornly says he has something bad to tell me. I, being the great mom I am, put on my serious face and say in a motherly tone, "What happened?"

He responds, "I'm really sorry mom but the Vice Principal took your fake poo. I found it when I was in the cafeteria and, well, kind of chucked it at somebody." (At this point I am very quiet in the front seat of the car). "I told her it was a joke you and I play on each other. She didn't laugh but the school secretary thought it was funny. I ended up having to sweep the lunchroom but, I didn't mind, it was worth it."

Yes, being the immature mom I am, I got my own son in trouble in school. I told Al it wasn't his fault and then found the VP by the buses the next day and took the rap for it. I never did get my beloved college days fake poo back.

What have my son and I learned from this you ask? Well, we learned three things:

1. Never assume your child will find the fake poo before getting to school.

2. Never take the fake poo out of your pocket if you find it there in school.

3. From now on, hide the fake plastic ant - it's much harder for the Vice Principal to see.

Who do you read?

SB's are usually very well read. As you can probably tell by the sidebar on this blog I love to read. I love words. I love books. I love authors and if I ever get my fanny in gear, I still want to be a writer. I have some poetry that's been published. I helped write a song or two for an original musical in college. I have written many a comedy skit, two blogs, newsletter articles and some pretty fiery letters to the editor. Okay, Jane Austen I am not, but I would still like to be her.

I was the kid with the flashlight under the bed covers and the big, dark circles under my eyes in school the next day. By the time I was in Junior High I had read "Gone With the Wind" four times and I haven't really changed all that much. Just the other day I was the adult at work with the big, dark circles under my eyes after having stayed up most the night to finish "The Kite Runner."

I can thank my mother for my love of books. She belonged to those book clubs you still see in magazines. There was always tons of tomes around the house and dad had to build her a huge bookcase in our little dining room just to hold them. Mom had to keep a pretty close watch on me with her collection. In my grade school days, she was especially relieved to catch me just before reading "Valley of the Dolls" which I though was about a magical place with lots of Barbies.

During dull classes in school I would hide a good book on my lap. I remember the whole class passing around a tattered paperback of "The Godfather" and whispering to read the page with Sonny and the bridesmaid. I cried in Social Studies as I secretly read the painful accounts of the plight of Native tribes in "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee." (Mr. C. never could understand why his lecture on the Senate was so moving).

In college I tried my hand at every style of writing I could - from Twain, to Poe to Dr. Seuss. Not long ago I was very pleased to find out that a college alum of mine who teaches at a prestigious college in Illinois uses a Chekhov spoof my old roommate and I wrote to teach his student's about parodies. At least my co-authored work is being taught somewhere.

I have been told by many that to be a writer, just keep writing. This blog is one of my methods of doing just that. I appreciate everyone who stops for a while and reads what I have to say. I better get going now; a friend just gave me a new book and I can't wait to get started.

SB lesson #3

Wow it has been a long time since I wrote! I apologize but life is going about 200 miles per hour and lately I only seem capable of pulling a mere 150. I think it is high time for another SB lesson. (Check previous blogs for lessons 1 and 2 and other insights into being a real SB. Who knows, you may just be one).


I want to pause for a quick shout out to Cheryl, who I lost track of after college but recently contacted me again and read my blog only to find out she is an SB too. Welcome to the ranks.


In my original post called "I really should be in bed" I gave a quick-reference list on SB traits. I think it is time to look at one outstanding characteristics of SB-ism in depth.


I am talking about SB's as Fierce Friends. I can only illustrate the fierce friend phenomenon by giving you an example of a SB near and dear to me. I know she appreciates her privacy so I'll just call her SB #1.


I met SB #1 in 1988 and her loyalty and support have kept me going in the worst of times. The following is only one of the million things she has done during her protective watch over the boys and I.

SB #1 witnessed the entire rise and fall of my marriage and saw what I could not see long before I did. Love and blind faith in the wrong person can really make you lose your way, but love and true faith of a friend can help you find it again.

Our home, which I had worked like a slave to buy including cleaning up my then spouses horrible credit, was going into foreclosure after we separated. My husband had been out of work for over a year before we split and this was a pattern with him.

It was my dream to own a home and give our kids a yard to grow up in, play in and a neighborhood school we could walk to. We had lived for 12 years in a 1 bedroom apartment and 6 of those with children. I longed for space and freedom. The home we found wasn't big or fancy but it was ours. I could plant a garden, we could paint big flowers on the fence and watch robins nest outside the upstairs window... and after only 3 years it was all going away. My soon-to-be Ex just washed his hands of it (which was not wise as his was the name on the mortgage). I found 3 jobs and an apartment nearby so the kids could stay at their school but I couldn't find a way to save our home.

SB #1 stayed with me through the whole painful loss. She would show up every week with boxes, dinner and sometimes a beer or two and help me clean out the the entire home, garage and basement while the kids were with friends. It was heart wrenching and I had to give up, donate, sell and give away about 80% of our belongings. SB #1 hauled, cleaned and stayed by my side through it all.

To this day I have to drive by the house every day on my way to work and I still feel the loss in the pit of my stomach. My only comfort is that another family with children seems to be living there. I hope they love it as much as I did.

I don't wish our experience on anyone, but if something like it should happen to you, I do wish you a fierce SB friend to help you in that dark time. She let me cry and complain while saving me some dignity when it felt like there was nothing but shame. She is so much more than a friend and I am honored to have her in my life.