Stopped Up

I have a clogged drain.

No, that is not a metaphor for some sort of female anatomy distress, I am serious. I have a clogged drain. In our master bath shower.

I am mechanically inclined and if I had really thought about it out of high school, I probably should have pursued a career that had me using my hands to fix stuff.

Just not clogged drains.

Because while being adept with a screw driver has a certain sexy appeal, having a well developed visual gag reflex is a bit of a problem when it comes to pulling chunks of hair, soap and goopy, sticky, brown ick out of a 2" pipe.

I had on a yellow rubber glove and tried to reach in and grasp the clog but it was lodged too far down.

"I need tongs"

Dallas looked at me, raised his eyebrows and said, "Tongs?"

"Yes. Tongs."

He is quite careful not to mess with me when I'm hormonally imbalanced and I could see him sniffing the air to see if he could pick up the scent of crazy so instead of sending him into the kitchen to forage for a utensil that we would never be able to use again (and risk hearing him mutter under his breath which could have sent me over the edge), I asked him to pass me the cuticle scissors.

While not nearly as effective as tongs would have been, I was able to use the very tip of the scissors to catch the tail end of the clog. I pulled. I dragged and like the clown who tugs foot after foot of handkerchief out of his mouth, this clot went on forever. Out came a giant chunk of something that resembled a rotting oyster. I gagged and then dry heaved.

Dallas thought it was a beauty, like I had been out on the ocean and hooked a big one on my line. "That ought to fix it," he said.

Except it didn't. I took my shower and still found water pooling at my ankles. Since I had just caught a glimpse of what lurked in the drain, I gagged again at the thought of standing in that goop.

Home ownership is dirty business.

Michael Jackson

The news of Michael Jackson's death late Thursday afternoon was shocking. At first, my feelings were confused. Like many, I watched Michael morph from a confident, beautiful black man to a frail, disfigured white man who purportedly had a taste for young boys. He disgusted me. I didn't pity him. I judged him to be loathsome. And really, it was astonishingly easy to do. The surgeries, the excesses, the chimp, the alleged pedophilia, the Diana Ross obsession, the Beatles song catalogue...In my opinion, the guy was a nutter and worthy of my scorn.

But nobody can deny his gift for entertaining. His music is the soundtrack for an entire decade of my life. And after reading the comments of Elizabeth Taylor, Lisa Marie Presley, Quincy Jones and Deepak Chopra, I'm not sure what to think anymore. Even though I've always held that where there is smoke, there is fire, I'd like to believe that Michael Jackson wasn't a monster. Instead, I'd like to believe that he was a troubled and naive man who never understood the trappings of his celebrity. It's easier to mourn him that way.

I read a blog post by Andrew Sullivan which resonated with me. You can find it here.

Before the extreme surgeries, the prescription drugs, the lurid rumours and the evident withdrawal from reality, there was this Michael.

He seemed happier then.

This is how I choose to remember him.





(Picture courtesy of Time Magazine. On news stands today.)

Good Bye, Farrah.

I wasn't planning on posting today but just now, I read the news that Farrah Fawcett has passed away after her much publicized battle with cancer.

God, that makes me sad.

She was the first television star that registered on my radar. I thought she was the prettiest, most glamourous woman that I had ever seen and like millions of other girls, I sat in the beauty shop begging for the stylist to feather my hair just like Farrah's. I wanted to grow up and marry the Six Million Dollar Man, too. To me, she was the perfect combination of feminine, sporty, strong and smart. And she seemed genuinely nice. I yearned to be her.

Perhaps the news of her death has hit me like this because cancer is such a painful way to go. More likely, it is because remembering her takes me back to the happiest years in my childhood. Frozen Koolaid popsicles on a hot summer day, the feel of Brûlé beach between my toes and arguing with my cousins about who got to be Jill Munroe in our game of Charlie's Angels are all hallmarks of my fondest memories.

I am going to choose to remember her like this when she was the picture of health and the world was her oyster.

Rest in Peace, Farrah.

Treasure of a Different Sort

Saturday, Olivia was loitering in my room while I was getting ready to go out to a business dinner with Dallas.

Lately, she has become far more interested in make up and jewelry and I just don't have the heart to inform her that I was not gifted with the girlie girl genes. Why should I stress her out by telling her that she is likely to struggle accessorizing or finding the will to do her hair every morning? Why burst that bubble?

Anyway, Liv was clearly looking for some mother/daughter bonding time which under normal circumstances, I'm happy to indulge. Saturday was a different matter entirely. I had cleaned like a maniac for most of the day and left late in the afternoon to finish shopping for Father's Day. I got home minutes before five in the afternoon, with both kids in tow and less than an hour to get showered, dressed and primped. If hair is part of the equation, an hour is not enough time. If excessive humidity is part of the picture, an hour is not enough time. If the dry cleaners is closed before you pick up your clothes, an hour IS NOT ENOUGH TIME!

So, I was the tiniest bit stressed out and Olivia was needy. Trying to do my best to avoid the "Worst Parent of The Year" award, I asked if she would help me pick out my jewelry. This thrilled her to no end and just as I was about to give myself a congratulatory pat on the back, Olivia gasped, walked into the bathroom, pointed her finger at me and said, "YOU are the tooth fairy!"

You know those moments as a parent when you are at a complete loss as to how to handle a situation? Yeah, that was me.

She looked at me, wide-eyed and incredulous. In her hand was the small treasure box that I had given her six times previously, into which she had put a newly extracted tooth. She would slide it under her pillow and in the morning, it was magically replaced with a dollar bill. She found the damn thing in my jewelry box, full of all six of her baby teeth.

As her expectant face stared into my own, I had several fantastical lies run through my head:

1. The tooth fairy left it behind because I was so sad when she took your teeth away.

Or

2. I bought the teeth back from the tooth fairy so I could keep them for your baby book.

Or

3. The tooth fairy has a nasty coke habit and needed to sell the teeth to feed her addiction.

As it turned out, I just couldn't lie to her. She knew. I could tell by her face that anything other than the truth would have been a breach of trust between us.

"You're right," I conceded, "I'm the tooth fairy."

She smiled and said, I KNEW it!"

As I witnessed her processing the information, as evidenced by her furrowed brow and faraway look, I held my breath waiting for the last few bits of little girl innocence to fly away as she connected the dots to Santa and the Easter Bunny. But instead, she surprised me by asking that I leave Junie B books rather than dollar bills the next time she lost a tooth.

Clever, enterprising girl.

And then she walked back to my jewelry box and picked out the perfect earrings to go with my outfit.

Thirty Two Days and Counting

I think I mentioned briefly in May that I was back on the diet bandwagon again. Well like most diets, it didn't work because it wasn't a lifestyle. Whatever. It didn't work because I cheated. LOTS. Have you ever tasted the ultimate nachos at Buffalo Wild Wings? They are cheat-worthy. As are their wings. And their delightful selection of beer. My God, I love beer. For nearly twenty years, I didn't have so much as a sniff of a bottle cap. I drank wine instead. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. I'm Canadian.

Anyway, I managed to stick to things for a week that time and dumped a pant size, which was okay but not top ten or anything because they were my freaking fat pants. You know, the ones where you deliberately remove the inside size tag so that you don't jump in front of moving vehicles when you have to employ a hanger to get the bastards done up. Fat pants, by virtue of containing both polyester and spandex, should never leave pressure marks on one's flesh. Mine became uncomfortably snug. So I dieted. AGAIN.

But I don't think I had enough motivation because back then, the trip to Mexico was still better than ten weeks away and once you've shed 30 pounds in 43 days on the HCG diet, losing two pounds a week with a healthy lifestyle change is like swimming in a pool of molasses. Two pounds a week? Not for a gal who has the attention span of a gnat. From my point of view, I had a few more weeks before having to get serious about the diet.

Well like all good things, the days of carbohydrates had to come to an end. A week ago today, Dallas and I went back on the HCG diet. I have been deadly serious this time because the Mexican vacation with our friends and my dimpled ass is a mere thirty two days away today. I have shed 12 pounds in 8 days. I have 18 more to go.

Now before all of you out there who are shaking your head decide to shoot off that email lecturing me about the nutritional ills of yo-yo dieting and all of that stuff, please know that I know. I have researched the topic. For THIRTY YEARS! I promise that I will completely revamp my lifestyle once we are back from Mexico. I swear that I will exercise regularly and pay attention to portion control. I understand. I've read, Younger Next Year and I believe every word of it. My mother is a living testament. I get it.

But until then, I'm going to eat my cucumbers, filet and Melba toast and go to bed each night with visions of fresh guacamole, Dos Equis and a dimple free ass in my head.

¡Olé! Baby.

Preparing for THE MOVE

This weekend, I took a couple of baby steps towards tackling the loathsome chore of packing up our house in preparation for THE MOVE.

I actually allowed myself to think about it for more than thirty seconds AND I did not end up in a fetal curl on the floor of my closet calling my shoes by their pet names. No siree. I was on a mission. As I cleaned the house on Saturday, I made mental notes about what needed to be done to our home to make it rent ready.

-Paint. Jesus, I hate to paint but the peeling baseboards in the bathrooms are the only thing I see these days. They mock me. And our front door is a mess. And the trim on the back door needs some work. But I can do this. I am the Google queen and I will learn how to fix these small issues. (insert dramatic music score here for effect) Really, how hard could it be? Right? I know. I'm slightly concerned.

-Carpet. What I would really like to do is rip the bloody carpet up, set it on fire and rejoice over its synthetic ashes. But that isn't really practical or environmentally friendly so I'll have to settle for getting it steam cleaned. The question is when. The obvious answer is to wait until the furniture has been moved out of the house but that would mean that we would have to stay behind a day or so and COORDINATE. Where will I store the children? The cats? See the dilemma?

And speaking of cats, how exactly does one move them across the country? It's not like you can put a leash on them and let them out at the rest stops along the interstate. I just know that transporting them will involve some sort of portable litter box and rubber gloves. I shudder.

I guess the final hurdle to overcome is finding a nice family to rent our house. I'm guessing that this will be the hardest thing for me. This is the first home that I owned all by myself. My name is the only one on the deed. This brick and mortar once represented freedom and independence to me and it was an affirmation that I could stand quite nicely on my own two feet which was something I had questioned most of my adult life. My soul healed in this house.

The feelings that I had the day that I closed escrow have since faded and been tucked away into that recovery cubbyhole in my brain. Our house, now filled with the love and security of a great marriage, is no longer my singular place for respite. It has shuffled down my totem pole of priorities to become merely an asset. I'm sure though, that when I see it framed in the rear view mirror as we pull out of the driveway for the last time, I will catch a glimpse of that broken and lonely single parent who moved in there four years ago.

And she will be waving good bye.

In the Blink of an Eye...

Yesterday, I received an email from a company I did business with several years ago. They were trying to update their files and asked that we reply with current contact information. I didn't recognize the name of the sender and since I no longer have any projects with them, I ignored the email.

But it tickled the back of my mind for most of the day.

Before Olivia was born, I was a buyer for a well known retailer. I first met the X family when they called on me trying to sell their products. Mrs. X had started the company with her two sons, Sam and Junior. Tragically, Junior died of cancer the year after we met. Sam took over most operational duties and as the company grew, he settled into the role of CEO. He was a dynamic, smart and prescient leader. The company flourished as did my relationship with the family.

After I left the retailer, I kept in touch with Sam and his mum. In my new job, we had the opportunity to once again collaborate on a deal. Then, the unthinkable happened.

While waiting in an airport lounge to head overseas on business, Sam collapsed. An undetected brain aneurysm had ruptured. He nearly died. For weeks, he lay in a hospital bed in a strange city. His parents and siblings flew in to be by his side. At some point after the initial rupture, Sam suffered a stroke. Although he survived, he never fully recovered.

Obviously, the implications for the business were profound. Both Mrs. X and her husband stepped back into the day to day operations and assumed leadership roles. It was a very difficult time. We spoke once in a while and each time I hung up, my heart ached for the family. It was bad enough to lose one son to cancer. To find yourself in your late seventies as caretakers for your other, newly incapacitated son was awful.

And that is about all I knew of the situation. So, when I received the email from a sender whose name I didn't recognize, I googled the company. Sure enough, there was a news items describing the sale of the X family business to a group of investors. I had been expecting news of that sort since Sam's illness. What I didn't anticipate was the other information that popped up. It seems the family was embroiled in a legal battle over the guardianship of Sam.

With Sam's partner of twenty five years.

Sam was gay. I never knew.

And why should I, right? Why am I so blown away by this information? It's not like he ever questioned me about who I was shagging. I cringe now at some of the conversations that we had had where I encouraged him to try to balance his life by finding a nice girl and settling down. After all, he wasn't getting any younger and was working too much, I felt. I was such a tool, especially when in retrospect, I see that he handled those conversations with such grace. "Haven't yet found the right woman," he's say.

But reading about the legal battle was very upsetting. Mrs. X was deeply religious and believed Sam's "lifestyle" to be an abomination. She felt Sam's partner, Jack, had ruined their lives and told him so. After the aneurysm, Jack flew to the hospital and was denied visitation with the man with whom he had spent the last quarter century. Mrs. X told him that she would rather that Sam not recover than to see him get well and return to "sin".

Wow.

The trouble was that Sam and Jack had never protected their interests as a gay couple with the legal provisions that existed in their state. I'm sure they never gave it a second thought believing that in the event of a tragedy, their union would be respected. Not so.

I love Mrs. X and while I understand her commitment to her faith, I cannot reconcile her words and actions concerning Sam with the woman that I once knew. To me, the whole situation is just one horrid thing piled on the next. It's incredibly sad.

I hope the court grants Jack guardianship so that he and Sam can continue with the life that they had carved out together, albeit differently than they had anticipated.

I hope that Mrs. X finds peace.

Today

There is very little to report about the weekend except that it passed in the blink of an eye. Dallas and I do not sleep well on Sunday nights and I suppose it is because our professional lives have been so strenuous lately. I tend to dream about my to do list, which just screams DORK.

Today is a monumental day for us both professionally and personally. About a month ago, my husband left his job to start a new company with two partners.

Today, his first hire begins work.

Today, revenue will be generated.

Today, we can follow the path of every career decision either one of us has ever made to this specific point.

Today, we intimately understand that the picture of one's life is designed, not accidental.

Today, I must remember to say thank you.

The Friday Whine

I'm sorry.

My job is completely overwhelming these days. I regularly read other bloggers who somehow manage to juggle demanding jobs, demanding children, a demanding social life AND still post every day. I don't know how they do it.
They're preternatural.

Me?
Well, the state of my laundry room makes me cry.
I'm popping headache medicine like it was Pez candy.
I'm eating my weight in the Starburst Fruit Chews that our office manager insists on buying and I'll FIGHT YOU TO THE DEATH for the red ones.
My work phone is the enemy. Today it told me my mailbox was full which forced me to listen to the messages that I had avoided all week. I've become that despicable person who won't take calls and who uses the receptionist as the gatekeeper.
"Delete" has become my most favourite word.
My hair is falling out by the handful which is fortuitous considering I eyeballed the clippers this morning and actually contemplated shaving myself BALD because bald people don't have to worry about humidity and frizz.
My children have not seen a steamed vegetable in a month.
By 10:00 pm, I can no longer form coherent sentences and when the alarm goes off in the morning, anxiety rises in the back of my throat like acid.
My daily task list is unreasonably long and my work days feel impossibly short.
I fight the urge, every single day, not to set my ex husband on fire.
I need a wife.
And a cocktail.
And a Xanax.
And a gratitude journal, apparently.

I had lunch with my husband today and as we were finishing our meal, the weather sirens for our town began to wail.

I don't do tornadoes well. Today was no exception.

Within minutes, I was in the car, racing towards home to collect Dylan. The wall cloud was dark and menacing and stretched as far as I could see. The sky beneath it had that telltale green hue that accompanies tornadoes. I repeatedly dialed Dylan's mobile and each time, it went to voice mail. I could feel panic percolating just under the surface.

I got home to find my son in a similar state. We grabbed a cushion off the chesterfield and huddled in the closet under the stairs. The storm passed. We were safe.

As I drove back to work, I did a little mental recalibration and decided that I needed change my attitude.

I am very fortunate to be busy enough in my job to be overwhelmed. I could be standing in an unemployment line like so many others in my town. My children are healthy in spite of their lack of broccoli and really, the situation is temporary.
We're moving to Florida where tornadoes are rare. Really, all things considered, life is good. I'm grateful.

I still want to set my ex husband on fire, though.

Getting Schooled By Your Kids

Yesterday, I got handed a couple of life lessons that leave you all misty-eyed and feeling pleased as punch that you've lived another day to see the sun rise.

No, the IRS did not realize the error of their ways, apologize, and declare our case just one big misunderstanding.

No, we did not win the $232 Bajillion Powerball Lottery because we live in Arkansas where gambling is against the law. Can't even find a decent bingo house.

No, I didn't wake up thin and fit with perky boobs because that would involve extensive plastic surgery and gobs of money, which I don't have because the IRS knows where I live and I can't buy a freaking lotto ticket in this town.

Anyway...

Man child was concerned because his job had called demanding that he hurry in for a "chat". He was nervous. Past experience had conditioned him to believe that nothing good ever came of these impromptu conversations. Consequently, he fretted and racked his brain trying to remember if he had committed some sort of transgression that would require a face to face with his owner.

I had nothing for him. Nada. I tried to think of something appropriate for the situation and the best advice I came up with was to brush his teeth before he left figuring that no matter what happened, it couldn't hurt to have fresh breath. (A shining example of one of my finer parental moments.) As it turned out, man child received a promotion and the realization hit me that it really is the right time for man child to leave the nest.
_______________________________________________

Before leaving for work yesterday morning, I'd taken a large piece of paper and penciled, "EMPTY THE DISHWASHER" in block letters because the boys will not do a lick of housework unless they are asked. It drives me MENTAL.

So, before ending our morning call, I asked man child if the dishwasher was emptied. He confirmed that it was.

"Thank you," I said.

"I didn't do it," he replied.

"Oh. Is Dylan up already?" Negative. Still sound asleep.

"Well, who unloaded the thing?" I asked, completely perplexed.

Olivia.

Really? My baby?

Apparently so. And she did a fine job. Everything was put away in its place. When questioned, she was very matter-of-fact stating that she had just followed the instructions on my note.

I read somewhere once that as parents, we should refrain from doing for our children what they can do for themselves. I've embraced that theory and often been criticized for expecting too much of my kids. And even though it was only the small act of unloading a dishwasher, I was bursting with pride at Liv's initiative. Dishwasher today, maybe med school tomorrow. Hey, I know it's a stretch but it still left me all warm and fuzzy.

Procrastination

I generally avoid tedious and/or unpleasant tasks until the last possible minute when they can be no longer ignored. Some call it procrastination. I call it stress management.

Several weeks ago, Steph the Magnificent came into my office with a bundle of paperwork that she had picked up on my behalf from the local childrens' summer program. She was busy enrolling her children and was kind enough to think of Olivia. It really is a great program. The kids swim, roller skate, go to the movies and participate in various other activities. Last year, Olivia came home at the end of every day happy, exhausted and socially satisfied.

The summer program begins today.

I waited until last Friday to submit the paperwork. The office was closed.

So Liv couldn't start today.

When I broke the news to her last night, she looked at me, knitted her brows in confusion and plainly asked me why I had waited so long. She wasn't the slightest bit snarky or accusatory. She was just curious.

*crap*

"I don't know. I should have taken care of it weeks ago," I said, deciding the truth was probably a better option than making up a story involving dragons and trolls.

"Okay," she said and kissed me good night. Clearly, I was forgiven.

As I was getting ready for bed, I passed my jewelry box upon which an IRS notification sat. We received this latest missive telling us that further revisions were needed and we had ten days to complete them.

That was a couple of weeks ago.

Something tells me that the IRS won't be nearly as understanding as Olivia.

Paring A Life

The thing about moving is that it forces you to take a look at all the crap you've accumulated over the years. I have learned several things about myself recently, none of which are particularly good.

First, I am quite possibly the cheesiest person on the planet when it comes to Christmas decorations. I have TRUNKS full seasonal corniness. If the knitted and stuffed snowmen with "2003" or "2005" embroidered across their chests weren't bad enough, there is the Harley riding Santa, which belts out the well know Christmas carol, "Born to be Wild". I don't own one of those creepy, life size, animatron Santas but only because it frightened the children. However, I am turning over a new leaf. From now on, I vow to make our holidays Martha Stewart tasteful with themed Christmas trees and fresh baked shortbread. I will no longer use fake icicles, cotton batten for snow or anything that sings, bobs or gyrates. Amen.

Second, my closet seems to be a metaphor for my life. I have no less than four different sizes hanging in there, each of which represents a distinct mindset. My skinny jeans, when paired with a snug tee tell the world that I am sassy, determined to stay young forever and just the slightest bit obsessed about what goes in my mouth. My everyday jeans are a size larger. They are worn with comfortable shoes and fitted shirts. They say, "I'm balanced and at peace and yes, I'd love a glass of wine". My fat jeans have strategically placed pockets to minimize the appearance of my arse. They contain abnormal amounts of spandex and are worn with loose tops designed to hide the muffin top. They scream, "Fuck off. I'm full. Now, get me a plate of nachos. And a treadmill." Finally, in the deepest recess of my closet, is a single pair of maternity jeans that I wore long after giving birth to Olivia. They were usually paired with an ill fitting, stained mu mu of some sort and they whispered, "Save me from myself. I am miserable."

In any case, everything goes but the items that fit RIGHT NOW. I am positively giddy with the decision in spite of the fact that I will be left with exactly two pairs of jeans, two black pants, four shirts and a bra that comes with instructions for use.

Finally, I have to admit that I have ostrich-head-buried-in-the-sand syndrome. I have been forced to actually look at the contents of the junk drawers that I have stashed around the house and it ain't pretty. I have a compulsive need to save every slip of paper from every financial transaction that I have ever completed because God forbid tax time come and we haven't got A RECEIPT FOR A QUALIFIED TAX DEDUCTION. Except that I never store the papers in the same place or file them with any regularity. Hence, on several days out of the year (usually after the acquisition of a speeding ticket or some such), I can be heard bellowing about the insurance cards and where the hell are they and I could have sworn that I put them RIGHT HERE IN THIS DRAWER!

I am hard pressed to throw out things like birthday candles that have been lit a single time or extra vacuum cleaner belts for a machine that my ex got in the divorce. As a result, there are no less than five drawers in the house that are crammed full of VERY IMPORTANT SHIT. As discussed before, being within ten feet of my file cabinet causes me to hyperventilate. But I will be a prisoner no more. I vow to sort through every bit of it and I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that the mere thought of taking on this task makes my gorge rise. But it's okay because after it is all over and I have pruned and organized my life, I'm going to reward myself by getting the fat sucked out of my ass so that I can once again fit into my skinny jeans.

I'm kidding.

Maybe.

Backpack Smackdown

Somebody has kidnapped my seven year old daughter and replaced her with a creature who believes that every conversation is a debate.

This morning, we had a brief discussion about her backpack. School ends this Thursday and for the last two days, she has arrived home with her pink princess backpack jammed full of workbooks, papers, old art projects and assorted supplies. Clearly, her classroom is being emptied of any trace of the children that inhabited it for the last nine months.

Because I am terminally lazy, the prospect of making her a sack lunch completely overwhelmed me today and I decided to send her with funds to purchase her nibbles from the cafeteria.

"Here is your money. Please put it inside your backpack."

And then, apparently the sky began to fall because right there in the hallway, Olivia had a mini breakdown telling me that her teacher specifically told them that backpacks were no longer allowed at school.

"Well how will you carry your money or your book?" At this point, I was still rational.

Olivia replied that she would walk around for the next five hours with two dollar bills and forty five cents IN HER HANDS.

"Not reasonable," I declared and explained that the teacher probably meant that backpacks were optional, not forbidden. Dylan chimed in with his opinion which happened to agree with my own (at which point the heavens parted and angels began to sing).

And then, Olivia lost her shit. For real.

Stamping feet. Tears. High pitched, hysterical keening. Heaving chest. Clenched fists.

I looked at her in all of her tantrum craziness and made the conscious decision to DISENGAGE when what I really, really wanted to do was open my mouth and scream like the victim in a horror flick.

Instead, I bent down, kissed her and told her to have a great day. "But what about my backpack, Mama?" she asked.

I shrugged and then walked into my bathroom. I heard the garage door close as the children left to walk to the bus stop.

I finished with my morning routine and grabbed the things I would need for work. As I was heading into the garage, Olivia's backpack winked at me from the hall closet.

She is definitely her mother's daughter.

Just a Hair From Madness

I don't want to be all whiny and sucky but if I get one more thing on my plate at work, I am going to lose it.

Today, I arrived at the office forgetting my lunch in the refrigerator at home. It nearly reduced me to tears because this means that I'm going to have to take a precious thirty minutes out of my day to go home and get it. AND I JUST DON'T HAVE 30 FRICKEN MINUTES TO SPARE.

Because I have important things to do...like write a post.

*cough*

Anyway, I'm trying to deal with the stress by telling myself that I am fortunate to be this busy and to have this many balls in the air. I also know that hormonally, things are wildly out of kilter and I'm not rational. This will pass.

In about four days.

So in the meantime, I just have to keep my head down, plow through the mountain of work on my desk and stay away from sharp objects.

My husband has taken to wearing a helmet and leaving small bits of chocolate in my path to soothe the crazed bitch my nerves.

*sigh*

Memorial Weekend Part Two

Okay, back to Memorial Weekend.

After man-child's graduation ceremony, we dropped him off back home, picked up the two younger kids and beat a path out of town. We didn't officially get on the road until 12:30 pm and I was worried at how late we would be arriving in Indy.

We were set to stay with clients of mine who have become friends. Nothing says crappy house guests like arriving at midnight smelling of Cheetos and Red Bull with two cranky children in tow.

Sunday morning, we got up, showered and learned that we would be leaving for the track fairly early. I looked at Dallas and raised my eyebrows. The race didn't start until 1:00pm. I couldn't imagine what in the world we would be doing for in the four hours before the green flag was dropped.

We drove to a parking lot of some sort of gravel company located in downtown Indy. There, we met several other couples. Everyone was waiting for the police escort. Yes, you read that right. It seems that several years beforehand, our hosts had hooked up with one of Indy's finest and each year, he would escort them to the track.

"High beams on. Flashing lights on. Stick close together and keep all limbs inside the vehicle at all times."

Actually, he didn't say that last part but he should have. The officer turned on his sirens and lights and wove through the streets of downtown Indianapolis at about 50 miles an hour. Cars pulled over to the side of the road and stopped as our caravan sped by. We went through red lights and stop signs. Other police officers stationed at different points in our route stopped traffic for us. The entire ride was surreal. At one point, Olivia leaned forward and said, "Mama, are we still in America?"

As we neared the track, we could see a line of vehicles waiting to get into the parking lots. We flew by them all, bypassed the line entirely, pulled in and parked directly in front of the entrance. Dallas and I looked at each other, blinked and shook our heads in disbelief. We had never experienced anything like that before. EVER.

And it was barely 10:00 in the morning.

After having a massive pre-race tailgate brunch replete with a driver pool and absolutely the best pastry I've ever tasted, we were ready to head inside to explore. We were handed tickets and told that as newbies, we had the best seats of the bunch. Gross understatement. We were planted at the start/finish line, up in the penthouse seats, directly across from the tower, with an intimate look at pit row. UNREAL.

Nothing prepares you for the sound of thirty plus cars at full speed hitting the start line. The noise is deafening, exhilarating and the excitement that bubbles up inside raises goosepimples on your arms and leaves the hair on the nape of your neck standing straight up. I held Olivia in my arms and we both giggled and then laughed uncontrollably as the cars sped by.

Then Liv made friends with the drunk lady sitting beside us. At one point, I looked over and she was braiding said female's hair. I smiled, sipped my Coors Light and thanked God for small miracles.

There were loads of other events that made the weekend special like meeting a group of visiting Kiwis and witnessing my son at the helm of a speedboat but I suppose the best part of it all was being welcomed into the homes of our friends and treated like family.