Who You Calling Fugly?

I miss my girls now that we don’t live together. Well...I miss certain things about them. What I don’t miss: the empty bank account, the dishes left in the sink, the clothes strewn in places I didn’t know existed, not knowing where they are in the middle of the night if they forget to call, that ‘time of the month’ when I wasn't sure exactly which personality I was dealing with…theirs or Satan. You get my drift. So wait…then why do I miss them? Oh yeah…

I miss seeing their faces every day and knowing what's going on in their lives on a minute by minute basis; which I’m sure they just loved anyway. I miss knowing how they feel at all times. I miss being their mommy. I’m still their mom...but I’m not their mommy anymore. They don't 'need' me to fix a boo-boo or feed them, or all those other things mommies do. I never in a million years thought I would want that role. I had sworn I was never having kids. I hate kids. Maybe hate is too strong a word. I really don't hate anything. Except lima beans. I hate lima beans. I could throw up every time I see a lima bean. You may as well give me a spoonful of vomit. But I digress. I extremely dislike other people's kids. I love my own kids, but not others. Unless they just kind of ignore me. Then I’m ok with them and can tolerate them. But don't let those little rug rats whine, or scream, or talk to me. Ick. I wonder how I’ll feel when I have grandchildren. I sure hope I feel differently about them than I do about those non-blood related kids.

When I was little I never said or thought, 'Oh...when I grow up I want to be a mommy.' Never. I was going to be a singer or dancer...although I could do neither. I just assumed I would be great at both when I became an adult. I’m not sure why I thought that…the innocence of youth I guess; but boy was I wrong. I mean...I have rhythm and can carry a tune...but that doesn't qualify me to star in my own one-woman show. [Although……maybe....] Oops…off track again. But wanting to be a mom? No way. Even when I was little, I didn't like littler kids. They were annoying. I don't think I was annoying as a little kid although my family may feel otherwise. Nah...I doubt it. I was pretty frickin' adorable. [click on video below]

             

I did figure I would get married when I grew up, but that was never a must either. So I decided to try it twice to be sure it wasn't for me. It wasn't.

However, when I met my first husband and saw him around other children, I thought he would make a great dad. He told me he wanted kids, and I loved him, so I wanted to give him a child or two. And since I loved him, I thought maybe I would want to be a mother to his children. And if I didn't like it...at least I knew they would have one parent who loved them and enjoyed being their parent, and he could do all the work. [Ha!] There was a lot of rationalizing before becoming pregnant. But maternal instinct? Cinderella’s stepmother was more suited than I was.

After 2 years of marriage we decided to try to get pregnant. I don't know if I should even use the word 'try' because when I decided I wanted to, I did on the first attempt. Both times. I knew my body so well that as soon as I knew I was ovulating it was like, "Ok...bedroom...NOW!" (I think I said that way more times during the month other than when I was ovulating...but he's a man...so naturally he happily went along with the obvious charade.) When we 'did it' on the actual ovulating day, I laid [lay?] on my back afterwards, for about 10 more minutes, with my legs up on the wall, so all his active, little spermies would swim on down to meet my eagerly awaiting eggs and boom! A production was in the making, and I was pregnant.

I was an emotional mess during the pregnancy, worrying that I wasn't going to love my baby. It was the easiest pregnancy, too...except for the 28 f**king hours of labor I endured...but the nine months leading up to those 28 f**king hours of labor were a breeze as far as pregnancies go. I was a little nauseated during the first trimester, but never threw up or had any problems. [Good thing no one put lima beans in front of me.] Of course, saltines were my best friend and I only gained 21 pounds, so I should have been thrilled about the whole journey. But what if I hated my child? I mean I hated kids. Oops...I mean I extremely disliked kids. What if I didn't love my child? It would make sense that since I didn't like kids I wouldn't like my own. How horrible would that be? So for nine months I was in panic mode that I was going to be the worst example of a mother ever. I was going to be written up in some magazine as number one on the top 10 list of not famous, worst moms. [Unless I ended up having that one-woman show…then I would be on the top 10 list of famous, worst moms.] 

But when that peanut of a child erupted from my body to make her grand entrance into the world [after 28 f**king hours]...that was it. I was in love. There was no doubt in my mind that this girl had me in her clutches. That should have been my first indication as to what the rest of my life would be with her. She manipulated me from the minute she was born. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Well...maybe a little bit other way. But she was the best baby…never cried, happy, and absolutely beautiful. 

My second pregnancy was totally the opposite. Thank god I didn't go through that one first or I never would have had a second. But I knew I wanted this child having known how much in love I was with my first. The pregnancy was the worst....I threw up for the entire nine months every single day. It was awful. And not at any particular time of day...it wasn't morning sickness with her, it was 24 hour sickness without one god damn day of reprieve. The only decent thing was I gained very little weight with her, too. Probably because I was too sick to eat much. No cravings with this one like my Italian craving during the first. I had a calzone every day for lunch and some other Italian dish for dinner. You would have thought my baby would come out singing the score to La Traviata. 

The only craving I had with my second was to feel good. That’s all I wanted, but I think I had a better relationship with the Ty-D-Bol man than I did with my husband. In spite of that, I knew once she came out I would feel better and be totally in love for a second time.

My labor was only 6 hours, so although the first nine months were a nightmare, she was making labor much easier this time around. Don’t get me wrong...6 hours is like an eternity in labor hours...but compared to the 28 f**king hours with the first...six hours was a walk in the park. Well...not really. I still wanted to tear the f**king head off my husband, rip out his heart, and shove this baby up his ass. But all in all, it was much easier than my first one. I couldn't wait to see her.

And then..........holy shit. I almost passed out. Was that MY baby? No way...she was frickin' ugly. I had an ugly baby. I was devastated. How can I have an ugly baby? Impossible. 

They must have switched it while I wasn't looking. [Obviously she took after her dad’s side.] I can't bond with a freakishly ugly baby. I thought all parents were blinded by their love and thought their baby was cute even though they could have a Shrek baby. Why wasn't I one of those parents who was in denial about how ugly their baby was?

How could this happen? I thought she would grow on me but she screamed her head off from the minute she was born for the next two years; mostly at night when I wanted to sleep, but still...for two straight years she got me up 3 times a night for two hours at a time. And I was a single mom because we divorced when she was nine months old. I probably should have rethought that one and waited until she stopped having screaming fits before filing for divorce.

For the first 6 months I had a hard time bonding with her. Probably from her crying and being sorta ugly. She was getting less ugly month by month but not less enough to make up for the temper that only a crotchety old man should have. She was the female version of a baby Walter Matthau. 

But then she hit that 6 month mark when her adorable personality kicked in and she charmed me with her dimpled smile, and I was smitten. I fell in love for the 2nd time with a child. Who knew?

So aside from giving birth to Rosemary’s baby, motherhood is everything I never knew it could be. Do I miss those glory days of their youth? Absolutely. Would I want to go back and relive their childhood years? You have got to be f**king kidding me. I’m happy just the way we are. Except for that part about missing them...that will never change. Although, on second thought...I could just move in with them......... 

How Many Sisters Does It Take To........

How do you make your birthday special and memorable? Make it a family event. Never a dull moment. At least not with my sisters. They were generous enough to take me away for one of my major milestones. We hadn't been away together since our 20's, so believe me; it was a long, overdue trip. The last time we were away together we went on a Club Med vacation at a time when we all were pretty wild. It was the era of drugs, sex and rock and roll, and we took full advantage of that. It was before we knew as much as we do now about STD's. Need I say more? This time was just a tad different though, but the fun factor was still there. It usually is when we're all together.

Let me just give you a quick glimpse into who we are. Both of my sisters are extremely successful business owners, and I have a successful career in advertising. But we are each on different levels of the economic ladder...and let's just say...I'm on the bottom rung of theirs. They need to extend their arms WAY down to reach me. But the positive side of that is I'm afraid of heights, so it’s a good thing I'm not up at the top near where they are. [Yeah...sure it is.] They are quite used to a lifestyle I will most likely never know as normal in my lifetime. [Although…at what age are you too old for a sugar daddy? Maybe there’s time!] When it comes to blue collar/middle class anything...it's a foreign language to them, whereas I'm just your average white collar, middle class person who can afford the necessities in life, with enough to enjoy the journey, but in a whole other stratosphere than they are. I've also lived in middle class, blue collar areas over the course of my adult life. They have not. I'm comfortable there as well as being comfortable in an upper middle class area. They would not be. It would be like living in a third world country to them where no English was spoken. See where I'm going with this?

They had asked me where I wanted to go for my birthday. 'Anywhere in the world...just pick a place.' How many times are you offered an incredible opportunity like that? So let’s see…Italy? France? Greece? Nope…San Diego. A place I have been to way too many times to even count and I lived there for a year. Why did I choose that, you ask? Because of my dog. My dog is on a restricted diet, takes quite a few meds and needs to be monitored, and I just couldn't leave her or entrust anyone with her. So I needed to go to a place that took dogs and was close enough where I wouldn't need to hop on a plane. The resort in San Diego allowed dogs and my sisters both have been there and liked the place, so off we went. (Am I crazy or just the best dog mom in the world? I'd like to think the latter.)

The first day we arrived, we checked in, had a late lunch, and went for massages. I've written about my massage experiences before so I won't get into details, but it was great. I could hardly move after...so I measured that as successful. The worse you feel, the better the masseuse. We showered and decided we would skip dinner and go to the movies.

Going to the movies with my one sister is an experience unto itself. Having gone with her quite often, I knew better than to sit next to her, so I let my other sister have the pleasure of sitting in the middle. When you do sit next to her she constantly whispers in your ear asking questions as if you’re not seeing the movie for the first time also. I wish I was as smart and intuitive as she thinks I am while watching a film I've never seen. Half the time I have no clue what's going on and wing it, hoping it will come together at the end. What I don’t do is constantly bug the shit out of the person next to me, so that they can’t enjoy the film because they are missing out on most of the dialogue because someone’s voice and breath are permeating their ear canal.

The closest theater we found was a Cinepolis...which none of us had ever been to and didn't know it was a different kind of theater. But when the admission ticket alone is $20, it had better be more than just a regular theater. If you've never been to one, you have to try it at least once. It's definitely the way to go if you can afford it. It's like watching in your living room, sitting in a luxurious Barcalounger [is that an oxymoron?] and being waited on. Except, of course, your dollar output is quite extraordinary. You have your own personal waiter and can order from a full menu and bar. The sequence of seats is two together, then an end table and another two seats, etc. My sisters sat together and I sat on the other side of the end table; which I came to find out made no difference. The movie started and I could hardly hear the dialogue on screen because of the outbursts coming from the peanut gallery next to me. My sister has to be the most animated viewer and the greatest audience member ever. Her reactions are as if the scene on screen is happening in real life and real time and she is witnessing a murder from across the street. Her gasps, her exclamations, her "OH NOOOOO's" are like listening to a child who doesn't know reality from make believe. She is truly a great audience. But for those of us sitting next to her? All I can say is my brother-in-law must be a saint. [But she is a crack up.]

The following evening was a whole new experience. Not for me as much as for my sisters. I think the reactions from them were the highlight of my trip. One of my sisters was driving and the other was navigating by WAZE. My driving sister has a great sense of direction. My navigating sister is exactly like I am...we can't find our way out of a bathroom without directions, so she won't deviate from WAZE's directions, nor would I. The driving sister had looked up the directions to the restaurant before we left and knew how to go by her internal compass and by memorizing them. That, in itself, is a feat I can no longer accomplish. My navigating sister wanted to follow WAZE. It was two against one so my sister relented and went with WAZE directions. We were searching for a recommended 5-star restaurant on the beach. I can't tell you how many U-turns we made trying to get to the street WAZE told us we were looking for. Once on it...it led us down a narrow road towards the beach. We knew we were headed in the right direction because we were parallel to the ocean, only a few feet away, although the fact that it was more a dirt path than road was a little suspicious. Then, when we started seeing old RV's and campsites on either side of us, we were thinking that may not be exactly where we wanted to be. But WAZE insisted we were on the right path. 

Long-haired, toothless, tatted up guys; a beer in each hand or hands down their pants, were walking along the side of the road. My sisters were dying and I was cracking up. It was a picture out of Deliverance. They didn't know what to make of it and the further down the road we got, the better the sights and quite entertaining [for me.] It should have been titled, 'WalMart shoppers go camping.'

People were sitting around picnic tables, barbequing, laughing and having a good ol' time. Lights strung up at their campsites created a lovely ambience for dining under the stars at their aluminum picnic tables. Tatted up women who were wearing halters and shorts that should have never been squeezed into; their butt cracks showing and back boobs hanging over the halter; were walking around with babies attached to their hips. I think it's something my sisters have only seen in movies. I'm not sure they've ever seen an RV up close either...only on TV. One of my sisters said, “Let’s ask them if they know where it is.” OMG...seriously?? I was like, “You’re kidding, right? We are looking for a 5-star restaurant. What are the odds?” At the end of the road, no restaurant in sight. The WAZE woman then announced, "You have arrived at your destination." I was looking for the RV where Billy Bob and Mary Sue were standing outside with the welcome sign and a can of Spam. We U-turned again, stopped to call for directions, and eventually got there. Fortunately, dinner was worth the detour.

My birthday arrived the next day and I was doing something to make it as special and as memorable as possible. And again, we ended up on a road to nowhere. [I'm starting to question the validity of WAZE.] This time we were on a road comprised of junkyards containing smooshed up, compacted cars and automobile parts. You would think my sister had lived in an opaque bubble the last 30 years by her reaction to the automobile cemeteries. She was in awe. I swear…it’s like taking a little kid to the circus for the very first time. She was in shock that these places existed. I thought she was going to get out and see if she could purchase a large pile to use as art on her front lawn.

Again, after numerous U-turns, we called the place and got directions that actually took us to our destination. And there it was...heaven's gate. I dug out the email with the code they gave me to punch in to open the gate, and I did, and shockingly enough, it didn't open. Duh. You would think with 3 relatively intelligent women attempting to figure out how to open a gate, it wouldn't have taken us 15 minutes, but it did. My sister, who was reading the numbers to me, didn't realize that the pound sign was part of the code. In fact, she didn't know what a pound sign was. She just thought the number sign was telling you that they were numbers to punch in. [Because we wouldn't know that 1-2-3 were numbers without the # sign before them.] We're like the female version of Moe, Larry and Curly. Or Abbott and Costello plus one. Lucy and Ethyl with Mrs. McGillicuddy? Whoever we were...we couldn't get anything done on the first attempt. The majority of our vacation was spent figuring things out. Maybe we're not as smart as we thought we were.

I was so excited to be there I didn't care. We were there...and there was the plane. It was teenier than the one I jumped out of 40 years ago, but it would do the trick. My heart was pounding with anticipation and excitement all the while my sisters were trying to talk me out of it. After I signed all the waivers and disclaimers, (because you love thinking about that right before jumping out of a plane), I met my skydiving partner, Luke, who was a big, muscular hunk and then I knew I was in good hands. I was so glad I was going tandem and didn't need to think about anything but enjoying the jump. All I had to do was make sure HE knew the directions and could reach our target destination. And Luke knew the way. He was my hero for the day. He did give me the roller coaster version of parachuting, but I loved every minute of it. Especially when he got the directions right the first time out. [Whew!]

Could you imagine if my sisters and I were jumping together? We’d probably be somewhere in North Dakota dangling from some rock formation, still trying to get directions.

My Road to Perdition?

Have you ever had a stomach ache and hunger pains at the same time? (Or is it hunger pangs? Tomato, tomaaato.) I can never decide which to take care of first; however, the stomach ache usually wins out. After ingesting a few antacids, then a dozen more, I realize my efforts are futile, so it’s time to satisfy the hunger pains and hopefully the stomach ache will succumb. But here’s the problem that compounds it…almost everything I eat upsets my tummy. So satisfying the hunger only prolongs the pain. See where I’m in conflict?

But that’s not really what this is about. It’s about what I did the other day in an effort to resolve the problem, only to exacerbate it. I decided to let my daughter drive us to the restaurant. And I’m using ‘drive’ in the loosest of terms. ‘Drive’ shouldn’t even be in the same sentence. I decided to let her demolition derby us to our destination. Not only does she drive fast, she maneuvers the car like we’re in a high speed chase with sirens raging behind us, and she’s on the lam. She snakes her way in and out of lanes whether we are on the freeway or side streets, without a care in the world about who’s in her way. I’m not sure what her hurry is, but she always seems to be in one when she’s in the driver’s seat. [Sure wish she'd apply that to all other aspects of her life instead, if you catch my drift.]

I don’t know if you remember teaching your kids how to drive, but to this day, when they drive, I cover my eyes and avoid ever looking straight ahead at the road in front of me. I used to have to let their dad teach them to drive. When I would get in the car with them, I immediately lost patience. I’m not sure why, but we had barely left the driveway and I was already getting pissed off for something they hadn’t even done yet. I think my nerves were getting the better of me before they should’ve gotten the better of me. The anticipation of what they could do with a 3500 pound machine was too much for me to handle. We would be driving maybe 50 feet from home and I was yelling at them to slow down (from the 5 mph they were going) and telling them there was a stop sign ahead. As we approached the stop sign, I was yelling to ease their foot off the accelerator and we were still 25 feet away. I admit…I was the worst teacher ever, but was smart enough to bow out of teaching them. I probably should never be anyone’s passenger, either.

I have yet to mention my state of mind prior to the start of our long journey to hell. Upon approaching the car, I didn't even realize it was hers because the color was unrecognizable with the amount of dirt and dust covering it. It was a sort of grayish brown hue masking the maroon it actually was. The view out of the windshield was...well, there really wasn't a view. It was as if we were looking through glass blocks. You could see shapes, but nothing too clearly. Fortunately, headlights would shine through. At least I think that's what was shining through. Although…maybe it was heaven opening up to guide me through that very difficult time.

The interior? It was in there somewhere. I would get glimpses of it at times....like when she would swerve or make those sharp turns and stuff would fall over or go flying. Then I could kind of see the seat or the floor, but that was really the only way, once I was able to peel away the clothes that flew in my face. I don't believe she has any clothes left in her closet or drawers because the inside of her car looked like she had just had a rummage sale for every article of clothing she owned. She really doesn't need to pay rent at her house since pretty much everything she has is inside her car. Do you think if she went to city hall, they would issue her an address for that thing she refers to as her car? I would say it's more of a hoarder's apartment on wheels.

Surprisingly, it had no odor. With all the shit that she had in there, why it didn't reek was beyond me. It's not like there weren’t hundreds of old In-n-Out Burger wrappers or anything. There were plenty of those and every other fast food chain represented within the confines of her vehicle. Skepticism about entering her car was only a small percentage of the thoughts and feelings permeating through my body. I was hoping she had a hazmat suit buried in there somewhere. 

I will never understand why people tear ass from a stop, speeding up to 60 mph, knowing there is another stop sign coming up in 300 feet, but there she went, flooring it, only to have to brake 5 seconds later. My heart? I believe it still resides in my chest, although it may have relocated to the other side. I had no idea it was able to pump that fast as it pushed its way up into my throat forcing me to spew out more swear words than I even knew I knew.

My knuckles were white holding on for dear life and all I heard going into my left ear was, “Mom, it’s fine. I know what I’m doing.” Yeah…sure you do, Destructo Woman. My right foot was cramping from pressing on the imaginary brake as she sped full force ahead and my hand was in a permanent clutching position, as if rigor mortis set in. I should have invested in a driver’s ed car so I could have master control from the passenger’s seat.

The sign would say:

And this is what she would see:

As we would drive by people she knew, she thought nothing of sticking her head out the window to yell to them, removing her eyeballs from watching the road in front of her. Helllloooooo....whole other world to focus on in the view out your windshield...which is directly at a zero degree angle. Turn your head back. I felt like going on Google maps and clicking the 'show traffic' link to point out just what was ahead of her. That would've given her a better idea than she was getting in person.

Since my eyes were constantly diverted to the right so as not to see what she was almost running into, I hadn't noticed that she was looking down at her iPod to look for another song to play. Can't you just turn on the radio like a normal human being? If I don't have permanent heart damage, I'll be shocked. [Not to mention ruptured eardrums and vocal chord nodules from yelling over the extraordinarily loud music.]

You would never know we were in the car by the way she was window shopping. "Look mom...will you buy me that dress?" Seriously? You're shopping while driving. First of all...how can you even see that far and…WHAT?? You’re SHOPPING WHILE DRIVING?? Who the hell is at the helm then? Apparently, she thought we were in one of those concept cars that drives itself. I certainly would've felt safer. I'll tell you what I WILL buy you...a bus pass.

I’m always happy when there’s traffic while she's at the wheel. That way I know she can’t exceed the speed limit [too much]. However, with traffic comes tailgating, and with tailgating comes heart failure. We should have just had the car in front of us hook us up to the back of their car. We all would have been safer that way. Why she’s never encountered road rage is beyond my understanding.

I was going to refrain from mentioning the 4 tickets she received within 6 weeks of each other but it’s just too unbelievable to omit, along with the fact that every time I see our car insurance bill, I go into cardiac arrest…but here are the facts:

Ticket #1: November 2013 – 56 mph in a 40 zone

Ticket #2: November 2013 [one week later] – 94 mph in a 65 zone…on the freeway to Vegas…what were the odds?

Ticket #3: December 2013 – again…56 mph in a 40 zone

Ticket #4: January 2014 – talking on her cell

There are now signs posted on those streets in her honor:

Well, we did finally arrive at our destination, and as she sped into a parking space, barely missing the cars on either side, the cramping in my stomach, legs, biceps, triceps, quads, and any other body part that stiffened during the ride, finally subsided as she came to an abrupt halt. I arrived in one piece without flat lining. Hallelujah! But I have to say...that was the longest four blocks I've ever experienced.

I Yam What I Yam

So there I was, in the kitchen, standing over a mixing bowl of God only knows what. It’s an odd sighting when I’m in the kitchen doing something other than looking for food in the fridge. I usually just stand there waiting for something to magically appear, while the cold escapes from the open door, but the shelves still remain empty. I figure if I stand there long enough, something will materialize that I’m not seeing. Sometimes I shut the door and open it again, giving the hidden food time to make its way to the front of the fridge. That rarely happens. Grocery shopping would probably rectify that problem. Short term, anyway.

Strangely enough I volunteered to make a dish for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m not quite sure I know what possessed me to volunteer…considering I don’t cook, let alone cook for 11 people. I guess since most of the guests were my family, I figured I should probably contribute. I couldn’t just say I would bring dessert…no…I had to offer to do something I had rarely done my entire life…follow a recipe. And when I say follow a recipe…I mean I had to Google half the ingredients to see exactly what they were in order to understand what the hell the recipe was asking for. And I was cooking something I would never eat if it was the last edible item on earth…sweet potato pudding. As a kid, I just picked off the half-burnt marshmallows when no one was looking, and shoved them in my mouth. I would wipe off the icky orange stuff first, though, before popping the fluff in my mouth. For some reason, the adults never questioned why my cheeks were so puffy after dinner. They probably knew I was storing the missing marshmallows for later, yet I thought I was being ever so sly.

But most people love sweet potato pudding…so I decided I would attempt to surprise myself and hopefully produce a dish that was somewhat edible. I was fortunate enough to run into a friend at the market while I was shopping for the necessary items for my cooking venture, since I hadn’t seen a sign for sweet potatoes and was wandering around like a prisoner looking for an escape route. I did see yams so I was able to ask her, without feeling like a total idiot, if they were the same thing. I thought they were, but she said yams were sweeter. I must say…I was quite proud of myself for knowing they were at least in the same family.

I gathered all the ingredients that the recipe I stole off the internet required, with a little help from my friend. Why I didn’t just ask my mom for her recipe is still baffling me. Everyone always raved about my mom’s sweet potato pudding, but no…I decided to seek out my own, being the risk taker that I am. I guess I wouldn’t know if it was good or not since I think sweet potatoes are gross anyway, so tasting the finished product would do me no good. Therefore, once that dish was finished…I wouldn’t know how it was until everyone started eating it. If they turned green or started barfing, I’d have my answer.

There were a few different recipes on line that I checked out. Based on the ingredients and difficulty level, I decided which one I would tackle. One of them had 2 teaspoons of grated orange peel. Huh? How does that one work? I can’t even picture that in my head. You peel an orange and grate the skin until it’s just like pencil shavings? Is that right? That wasn’t gonna happen. Way too much work and I would end up scraping off half my knuckles and instead of orange peel…it would be 2 teaspoons of shaved skin. I decided to save my guests from eating half my fingers so I used orange juice - store bought. I certainly wasn’t about to stand there and squeeze oranges. Wow…cooking sure is exhausting. Actually, just reading the recipe was exhausting.

Another one had 3 cups of mashed potatoes. Please tell me how I was supposed to know how many potatoes I needed to mash if they were telling me 3 cups, but not telling me how many potatoes that was? That meant that I had to guess how many potatoes to boil and then if I didn’t make enough, I’d have to do it all again and cook more to find out that I still may not have had enough? Couldn’t they just say ‘boil 5 potatoes’ for so and so amount? Wouldn’t that make more sense? Who do they think I am…Giada De Laurentiis? (Impressed that I even knew who that was? I didn't...I had to Google 'female cook.')

Well…I wasn’t about to take on that guessing game…so I just kept thinking, “What would Carol Brady do?”

She would ask Alice, but I didn’t have an Alice, so I just looked for the simplest recipe with the most ingredients that I knew of.  I mean…I don’t know a spice from an herb… [And I just had to Google that to see if there was even a difference between herbs and spices as I was writing this.] The only spices I know are salt, pepper, Posh and cinnamon. I wanted to find one which had an abundant amount of sugar and the least work possible. How can you go wrong when there’s sugar…and an ungodly amount at that? If it doesn’t taste like a side dish at least it will taste like dessert. So of course I looked for a recipe where everyone looks for recipes...

I boiled the 6 yams til they were 'mash' ready. I have to say...the smell was nauseating. I don't know how anyone eats that crap. I smashed the shit out of them...added the 18 lbs of white sugar; the 16 lbs of brown sugar; the 10 lbs of butter; a cup of OJ; a teaspoon of vanilla and 4 beaten eggs, which I beat the shit out of, too. I think cooking is just not my thing, but probably quite cathartic if you have some anger issues.

I spread it in a casserole dish (had to Google that, too) and shoved it in the oven. There was no direction on putting marshmallows on top so I decided to take an educated guess. HA! Educated guess when it comes to cooking for me is hilarious. You may as well ask me how to perform open heart surgery. That guess would probably be more accurate.

Once the timer went off, I took it from the oven and let it cool until we left. It looked like it may be good. Let’s just say it looked presentable and I didn’t make it look like someone threw up in a dish. That to me was success. [As was not grabbing it right from the oven with bare hands.]

Once we arrived at our dinner destination, I popped the casserole in the oven with 2 bags of marshmallows laid out perfectly on top. I think there were enough marshmallows...

We all sat down to dinner and everything was scrumptious. And my casserole? I can't begin to tell you what a hit it was. I even tasted it after much coaxing...and it was fabulous. I was actually eating yams. Shocking...just shocking! Shortly after though...

        Do you think there may have been just a tad too much sugar? 

                                          And for their parting gifts...

Just in case! 

 

What Did You Call Me?

I have never been one who calls people by a nickname. I rarely even shorten someone’s name unless I am introduced to them using that name.  If your name is Michael, I will call you Michael. I won’t call you Mike, or Mikey, or any other form used, unless you go by that name full time. For instance, my first husband is Lawrence, but he goes by Larry, and that’s how I met him and it’s the only name I ever called him. The only time I used Lawrence was when I filed my divorce papers.

But that’s not what bugs me. What bugs me are all the terms of endearment that people use for their spouses, family and friends. It’s just not sincere. It wouldn’t bother me if they only used them for that one particular person…but they don’t. They will call others they hardly know by the same nickname.  So you’re going to call me ‘sweetheart’ but then call the waitress at Jerry’s Deli ‘sweetheart’, too? I don’t think so. And please don’t call me by a name you used to call your ex-wife or girlfriend. That would really make me feel so very special. Seriously?

It’s the same thing with people telling people ‘I love you’ way too easily now, to people they really don’t love. The kids say it to all their friends, and some they aren’t close to. It’s way overused and loses its meaning for the people you really do love. I remember my daughter asking me to tell one of her friends that I love her. I said, “But I don’t” and she said, “Say it anyway…everyone does.” I wouldn’t do it. Saying I love you is reserved for those who I really do love. That’s not a compromise I will ever make and I don’t understand why others do.

I remember when I met my first husband and he started calling me ‘honey’. It was so odd to me because no one in my family had ever used terms of endearment. My parents only used their respective given names when they spoke to each other and our given names when they spoke to us kids. Both my sisters’ names were one syllable, so you couldn’t even shorten theirs. Actually, in our family, syllables were added, instead of shortened. I think it was a Yiddish/Jewish thing my grandparents did. I was Jaimala, my sister Beth was Betāmela and my sister Pam was Pamela; although Pamela was actually her real name. But being young and naïve, or just plain stupid, and only knowing her as Pam, I didn’t realize her given name had an –ela at the end. She ‘changed’ it to her real full name about 15 years ago...from Pam to Pamela. I still call her Pam. After 40+ years it’s kinda hard to start calling someone by a whole new name. Well...new to me, and not gonna happen.

But back to the endearing terms…and my husband calling me ‘honey’. It took me quite a while to get used to that. And I just couldn’t find a word I wanted to call him. Well…at least not while I was in love. I would practice saying words in front of the mirror. “Hi honey.” “Hi sweetheart.” “Hi sweetie.” Nothing felt like it would just flow out of my mouth naturally. It just wasn’t for me. I felt so ridiculous saying words like that. I guess it’s all how you are raised? I’m not sure, but since I never heard it in my house growing up, it wasn’t ‘normal’ for it to pour out. I just wasn’t feeling it. I did get used to him calling me ‘honey’ and he never called anyone else ‘honey’ besides me, so it was ok.  But I don’t remember ever having a nickname for him. I believe it just remained ‘Larry’.  At least out loud.

My second husband had 80 gazillion names for me.  And every single one of those…he used for others, too. It bugged the shit out of me. You may not call me ‘honey’ if you’re going to call Mildred, the 70 year old dry cleaner lady, ‘honey’, too. You may not call me ‘dear’.  We are not in our 80’s yet. Do not call me ‘darling’. I’m not Doris Day and you’re definitely not James Garner and we are not living in 1963.  And one of my most despised names of all…’Babe’. Do not ever call me ‘babe’. You’re not a construction worker whistling at me as I walk by…”Yo, Babe.” I am not a pig from a movie, nor am I some 20 something starring in a big screen feature film or a baseball player from the roaring 20's. Everyone uses ‘babe’ and it means nothing when everyone is using it. And I find it kind of demeaning for some reason. I want to feel special when someone calls me by a name other then my given name. It should mean something. I don’t want to be mixed in with everyone else you’re calling by that name. You may as well just call me Shirley. (“And don’t call me Shirley”).   

I did start calling him ‘honey’ for some reason, and I kept saying it until it felt normal. Or as normal as it was going to feel for me, which still was more abnormal than normal; never natural. I do remember the term ‘shithead’ being used quite a bit. That felt natural. Would you consider that a term of endearment? Probably not, huh? Over the years there were a few other names, but nothing I would post here. But they did flow out just fine at the time.

I had a boyfriend for a while, who I called ‘Weenie’. Don’t ask me why, but that felt natural. He didn’t take to it too easily at first, but when I pointed out that it actually was MY term of endearment for him only, he grew accustomed to it. It had nothing to do with his little pecker…if that’s what you’re wondering. It had nothing to do with him being a pansy. It just felt right and it was indigenous to him only. How special would that make a person feel? Weenie...so cute. 

There are only two people I have nicknames for…my daughters. And it’s the same for both and I never call anyone else by those names…’Sweetie’ or ‘Sweetie-pie’. I don’t know why those feel right but they do. Maybe because most of the time they are sweeties and my love is so deep. Although there are times I’d like to call them by other names…not so endearing…but I refrain because I’m supposed to set a good example. Aren’t I and do I have to? My girls know there are a couple of names I will not answer to. I will not answer to Mama. We are not in Little House on the Prairie nor are we in Tara. Actually, I think Mama is the only one I don’t like. I still love being called ‘Mommy’ no matter how old they get. It will always make me feel warm and fuzzy and that’s exactly what terms of endearment should do.

People have quite a few names for me that are variations of my given name. So that’s ok and kind of sweet. I will answer to Hymie (phonetically spelled for those of you who don’t speak Spanish and who obviously don’t live in L.A. then), Jai, Jaimala, Jame…and most forms thereof. I will also answer to ‘Love of my life’, ‘Woman of my dreams’, ’20 Million Dollar Winner of Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes’.  Or…Jaime, Jaime bo bamey, banana fanna fo famie, fee fy mo mamie…Jaime. 

And that’s the name of the game……Babe.

Sister Act

I am so fortunate to have someone in my life who truly and deeply cares about me. No stipulations, all give, no take, no expectations. Just true, deep down, honest love. She has been my confidante, my sounding board, my mentor, my role model. She's been my best friend for as long as I can remember. We've had our 3 minute fights and then they were over. In fact, she used to be downright mean to me when we were kids and would give me Indian burns and rat me out to my parents. But I still worshipped her.

I would annoy the shit out of her as much as possible, so she turned me into her own personal slave. She would make me do the most ridiculous tasks, like call me into her room just to get her a pencil from her desk that was 3 feet away from her, while she sat there and waited for me to give it to her. She would make me test her on her school work every night, which I absolutely hated doing (and which is why she turned out to be the brains in the family). But for some reason, whatever she told me to do, I did...without questioning.

All I wanted to do was hang out with her and her cheerleader friends, and sometimes she would let me. I hated that I got her hand-me-down clothes even though I always wanted to wear them before they became hand-me-downs. I always had crushes on her boyfriends, just because they were her boyfriends. I thought she was the coolest, smartest person ever.

We've had some great times together in our adult years. We've taken a couple of trips to Mexico, which were pretty hilarious. (Club Med...Need I say more?). We got lost in Acapulco, walking around for about an hour, looking for a restaurant. When we finally decided to hop into a cab to take us there, the cab driver picked us up and drove a half block to the restaurant, not telling us it was 10 feet in front of us. And charged us!

She's been there for every major event in my life and my daughter's lives. And she's been there for me during every devastating event, too. I've hit some real bumps in the road throughout the course of my life and made some very stupid decisions and mistakes, but she never judged or preached, just supported...letting me know how true love is supposed to be. She's my big sister and my best friend. She's the one person whose sincerity, honesty, strength, loyalty and love I will never doubt. She's the most selfless, giving human being I know.

I love you Beth...I couldn't ask for anything more than what you've given me. You've been my rock.

This video has nothing to do with this blog...but I wanted to share:

HAPPY 20th TAYLOR BAYLOR

Tail was my little girl

She was born with so many curls

20 years ago today

She popped out and lay

In my arms and cried for two frickin’ years!

Non-stop

Day in and day out

And there was nothing cute about her

Til she turned 6 months old

Then she was the cutest thing ever

Never learning how to crawl she used her enormous little butt to bounce around the house.

Her butt…a source of conversation even to this day. Would she ever grow into her butt?

That question still lingers

She was a funny little person even back then, with a smile as infectious as her laugh and her one never-ending  dimple .

While in the high chair, she would take her plate of chicken and rice and lift it high above her and turn it over right on the top of her head. Have you ever tried cleaning up an entire plate of rice from the floor, let alone from a mop of curls? And she would laugh and giggle while I cleaned it up. 

She had a determination that never gave out. She taught herself to ride a two wheeler, to tie her own shoes, to swing on a swing. Independent from day one. No one could match her…bar none.

She sucked her thumb until age…hmmm…I’m not sure what age, but I know she was too old to be sucking.  She could still be a closet sucker for all we know. But I do believe it was somewhere around 8. After her front teeth were parted like the red sea from sucking, she decided it was time to give it up. (Thank god for orthodontists!)

As she grew, she just got smarter and funnier, but never lost that innocence and naivete. To this day she still takes things literally. When she came back from the doctor’s office one day, I wanted to know what he said was wrong with her so I asked, “Tail…what did the doctor say?” Her answer was “He said ‘I’m going to push on your stomach now’.”

One day at school she was sitting in on a mock trial. I didn’t know what the trial was about so I said “Tail….what did you sit in on”…her answer, “the floor”. Gotta love this kid!

A temper like no other, but compassion and love that is never ending.  She always cares for the less fortunate and makes sure they are taken care of.

An athlete, a comedian, a student, a friend, a loving sister and daughter, and a do-gooder.

Tail…you are the light of my life. We know what each other is thinking, and laugh before the punch line.  

I love you every second of every minute of every hour of every day, with all of my heart.

HAPPY 20^TH Taylor Brynn. I adore you!