Blink and You'll Miss Me

SO. My mom is selling her house. Our house. The home we six grew up in, the one we eight lived in for the better of thirty some odd years, those two for a full thirty seven. To the hoarders picking at our junk parked by the curb its a frame with flat tires, to me I see a shiny red ten-speed, the double upper case RR's intertwined at the base of the curly handle bars, my first wheels, a Rolls Ross. I remember when my dad agreed to buy it for me at a bike shop in South Hampton. That sounds very daddy's little rich girl, we weren't rich and it wasn't like that. That's why I remember it. I'm not sure who's face looked more shocked as he paid, me or my mothers. My brothers and sisters weren't even jealous. If this could happen to me, what could happen to them? Don't mess with a miracle. Bite the insides of your cheeks and act like your heart isn't beating out of your chest or it might disappear. But it didn't. My first bike. I rode it to Jen DeSimones house around the corner, she had the same one in blue. We hugged, O.P. shirt to O.P. shirt.

A few days ago my sister brought me an envelope full of pictures, a picture of me on my bike amongst the pile. My face, you'd think I had scored a Gold Medal, I look as proud as if I had done something, actually trained and prepared for years for the gold medal moment and in retrospect I guess I did. Getting Johny G. to part with a hundred bucks was as sure a feat as any 100 yard dash, a triple lundy off the high dive, no splash.

I miss him.

Then today a friend from the beach sent me pictures via Kodak Gallery thereby connecting me to a whole world I knew and forgot about since I no longer remember to even download my pictures.  I found an album on there I uploaded in 2009. I can't believe how much has changed in two years. I especially can't believe how much my Julian has changed, that I actually started questioning why we called him Butterball. I remember being confused when anyone including (especially) strangers would come up to me and tell me he was huge.  I have long suffered from a reverse anorexia, where in my mind's eye I'm as hot as humanly possible and then I see pictures and I'm like, who's the fat chick? oh, sh*t never mind, move on, its me. Anyway, I guess I see my children the same way. I remember making a video called Baby Fat in answer, everyone seemed so jazzed at how fat my baby was I thought "Well, you can have one too! Fat suits for babies!" it was to poke fun and say who cares but now I see the pictures and think I may have taken those comments a tad too personally. And more distressing see the pictures from when I was 23-28 and wonder why those people weren't around then to tell me I was shorty 140. Could have helped things. A lot. 

I have downloaded the slide show yes, that's what this blog has been reduced to. Come watch my slides:) It's set to music. Unfortunately, the photo's my sister gave me aren't digital, big darn there, SO bummed I can't show you how fat I was. But please enjoy these. As if there weren't enough ways life is showing me how fast it all goes this year...My dad was here and now he's not, there were two and now there's three and he's teething and first grade starts next week, and my younger sister became a mother yesterday and it will be the tenth anniversary this September 11th, and, and. All the ands.  

I hope it will help me and you to slow down and enjoy the ride and maybe make your own album (it was only $4 dollars:). Although I feel like I am constantly pulling myself to stay "in the moment", after finding this album and having no recollection of any of those days (did I really make cupcakes with buttercream frosting and a variety of toppings?) these days I'm going to try not to blink. I don't want to miss a thing.

Good Week all!! xx!

puff puff give

SO. Us here on the south shore of Long Island may have noticed that we are in the midst of a thunderstorm or as weather reporters would say, t-storm. The real feel averages 78 degrees. Did you get that? Real feel? LOVE weather reporter lingo. Anyway. Who was out in it? Yours truly. Why? Digging smokes out of the garbage of course. WHY ELSE?

Come back with me. My arms around your shoulder, we're strolling back to Mexico in December, we're at the airport. We bought three cartons of cigarettes at the Duty Free because although I was pregnant and only smoking like four butts a day ( hah! gottcha. I didn't smoke four butts a day! I smoked four packs a day! gottcha again.) Okay, so we bought cartons of cigs for those in my hubs family who smoke because we didn't want Jen Anistons perfume or a Longchamp bag and can't pass up free duty. But when we tried to give the cartons of cigs to Danny's family they said they quit again and preferred to buy by the pack as a deterent to smoking. Okay. Pay ten bucks for a pack when we bought you a carton for free. Guess we should have brought back silver or something lame like that. Whatever.

So. As a foreward thinker I presumed, "Well I do like to smoke every now and then and whence this baby is out, that'd probably be a good time."

But when I had my baby nothing felt grosser. But then my father passed and the baby wouldn't sleep and the kids want to beat the hell out of each other anxety kicked in and those smokes started calling me. I tell ya! I could just feel them in their plastic duty free bag, up there all sexy on the top shelf of Danny's closet, "Come on Suze, light my fire."' Jim Morrison sang.

Oh fine. What's one? And since then, I've gone through packs. About one every two weeks.I even put them in a shopping bag to donate to a real smoker. Cause for me, it's not a daily grind, I'm not hanging outside under awnings, yet. Well, I wasn't. Until tonight.

But let's go back. Walk with me, talk with me. Now it's Tuesday night, we're reaching for the smokes, just gonna sneak one outside while everybody's asleep, brush our teeth real quick and take a bath in the sink before we get back into bed. Instead, we stop, grab the bag, the one we filled thinking we'd donate them to Good Will, and decide we should chuck 'em. Throw these dirties in the garbage, who needs donated smokes anyway? What kind of a death gift is that? Them being in the house is too much of a temptation.

I threw them out. I'm free. I'm never smoking a cigarette again. That was so easy. Yeay me!!

As I'm driving home tonight I see that Danny has gotten home before me. The garbage is already out. The shopping bag with the goods is in the garbage. By the curb. It's thundering, it's lightening. The infant needs a bath. The kids need baths and story and bedtime. S%$#!!. How am I going to rescue my garbage before the storm hits the curb. By rushing. By acting peculiar and overly stressed and even more bizarre, sweet.

It all gets done. The storm is looming. I don a trench coat over my nightgown and put on a straw cowboy hat made for my three year old and run to the puffs. I should have some dignity and roll the trash cans to the back of the house but then the lightening is so bad and its raining I decide who needs dignity and dig right there on our busy road, cars passing, the name Julian, written across my puny cowboy hat in glitter, the rain drizzling down my legs and find the Lord & Taylor bag, coffee grinds and mango peels scaling the once proud carry all. I dash back up to the house.

And all of the doors are locked. No joke. I felt like Meg Ryan in A Man Loves A Woman. Because that's where addiction takes us. From I'll have just one, to standing in an electrical storm holding a sloppy bag and ringing the doorbell, playing it off. Like its some kinds of normal. I imagine this conversation as I wait, biting the insides of my cheeks, holding my bag, in Julian's hat, in the rain and thunder and lightning, nightgown dry, trenchcoat soaking wet.

I imagine he answers the door.
"What's up?"
"What's up with me? What's up with you?" I say, "Who puts the garbage out the night before? A nerd? What did you do take a prep course for the SAT's? Call your mom on her birthday?"
"Um, Yeah, and you did/do too."
"Whatever, I'm cool. I was cool when I smoked and now that its not cool, I don't."
"Pretty sure you do. "
"Pretty sure, I'm only saving these hundred dollars worth of cigs to donate to those in need."

And then in real life,  Danny answers the door.
"Hey, baby."
"Hi."
"He finally went to sleep." He said. "Nice hat."

Stank So Good

SO. We're driving down to the beach, me and my sons, Colbert (5 1/2) and Julian (3) (baby was home with sitter).  Colbert, who sits in the third row of  the minivan typically shouts me questions like, "Did you know Aniken is Luke Skywalkers Father? Mama? Did you? Answer me, Mama." With an assertiveness I only wish I posssessed back when I was trying to land a part or a better agent or any modicum of respect. But this day he says, "Mama, I'm never going to leave you. Ever." I think, how sweet.
"I'm never getting a job, or having a wife, I'm going to rot on your couch watching t.v. for my whole life." he said.
Hmm, unexpected turn.
"Now, why would you know that's something I wouldn't want?" I asked, because at 5 we haven't addressed him rotting on the couch for the rest of his life.
"Because you hate the Wii and my shows and you only had me so I can buy you a million dollar beach house where you can watch Oprah." He said.
By George, he's daggone telepathic, I think. Should I turn around and hit Atlantic City? If he can read my mind like this, imagine how he can read cards?
"No honey, that is not why I had you," I said, "I had you so you could buy me a MULTI million dollar beach house. and so you can be Oprah."
He cracks up laughing. "told you so, Mama." And then a pause. "You love Oprah more than me." he said. "No, baby." I said.
 "Yes you do, you always want to watch her."
"Well, whenever you come into our bed you sleep on daddio and not me, but I don't think you love him more than me." I rationalize.
"Your armpits smell, Mama." Julian interjects. Sounding bored stiff from his seat directly behind mine. His eyes looking out the window, in a perpetual roll.
"Seriously?"  I asked.
"They stink." Colbert affirmed.
Now, I know my pits stink,. What I didn't know was that anyone else could smell them,. least of all my baby boys and that they talked about them. Now I have to say I've never suffered from body odor, but after I have a baby, for some reason, hormones maybe? For about six months I have this fabulous condition I like to call Stank Pits (that's the technical term). I have to say it's one of my favorite parts of the whole, for me, dredful experience of pregnancy in the fourth trimester. I love it. I probably shouldn't, but, I gotta admit I sneak a wiff now and then and practically get high off my stench. It's SO good. Comparative to leaking an SBD in an elevator and looking around at the faces as they register the smell. I know none of you have ever done that, but ask around or give it a shot. Few pleasures in life compare to the smell of your own gooze (farsi for fart). I'm not sure why and I get totally disgusted when my husband or someone else lets one loose, but my own? Gold. Pure Joy. Okay, this post has taken a detor. I hope it made you laugh. If not, lay a goose and see what happens. It's kind of like the gates of heaven open up and a sound that relates bongs throughout your being. I wish it on all of you. just not anywhere near me. 

Good Week my Larvae!! Cause even gross can be good! xx!!

FlowYO

All the talk about the Debt Ceiling had me thinking about my own financial ways. I wasn't taught to spend foolishly, preferably, not at all. Last week, end of July, I showed my mother the one tunic I bought all summer on sale at The Rack and her response was "Where are you getting all this money?"  I was tempted to look over my shoulder for a Benz with tinted windows and fifty inch chrome spinning rims, license plate, FlowYO...Well, not really, but I'm hoping that's funny.

In my mind I'm restrained when it comes to spending therefore I don't need any additional watchdogs barking at my wallet. Kinda how I feel like since I push a stroller on the sand most days I shouldn't have to go to the gym. Yet I can't seem to save any mula or firm up my "core". So, a gal turned me on to http://www.mint.com/, a budgeting application that along with a flow graph and tracking devices, divides all your spendies up into a pie chart, making everything easy to see.  I heard about the app a while back before I downloaded it. I was skeptical because the word budget, like listening to Jean Chatzky, gives me hives. However, after only two months I am gobsmacked. It shows that whether I have five dollars or five thousand, it's spent the same- in a careless, necessity last gust that leaves me thrilled but no wiser. 

I didn't even know what I was spending on. Here's a for instance for ya-we live close to a Home Goods. Now, I could sware I didn't even enter the joint in the last eight weeks, but according to my Mint pie chart, we could move to a more sizable house with a more sizable mortgage and as long as it isn't within a bird call of Home Goods we'd be in clover.  Like in everything else, awareness is the first unlocked door to success. Now, I'm thinking of more important goals, that master bath I mentioned in Souther, college funds, (a second tunic?), not to mention donating lots to the famished in the Horn of Africa for starters and I'm not going to get them met wasting good coin on picture frames and throw pillows. So, check it out.  I hope it can help, but the license plate FlowYO, is all mine.... Funny yet? Eh.

Good Week!! Savey no spendy!! And never ever lendy!! jk. xx