There once was a girl who got older.

There once was a girl who got older,
(She certainly couldn't get bolder.)
You might think all your shine,
Fades past twenty-nine,
Not true - but you couldn't have told her.

There once was a girl with a great shoe passion,
She says “Goodwill” wouldn’t accept my foot fashion.
No, I didn’t invite my sister,
But s’pose I would’ve missed her.
She fixed that with some party crashin’.

“Are we There Yet?” led this conspir’cy,
Watch out – she’s clever, gorgeous and (ha!) shifty,
I send thanks my dear Friend,
We must do this (in Vegas?) again,
No rest ‘til we’re flirty and fifty!

There once was a girl wanting no fuss.

Traded her red sports car for a nice micro bus.

But - Oh my! What do ya know - a !

She dances fine with a pink feather boa!

Society will never forgive us.

Thanks for the boa Indy - watch out when you finally turn 40!!!

Dear Mom,

Your birthday was last month. I called you.

Mothers’ Day flew by – I called you briefly during our infamous ride.

That was all.

You haven’t mentioned it. That isn’t your style.

Living under your wing, I learned that expressing love and gratitude does not happen by checking the standard box on the Internet. It doesn’t happen on a certain day.

Hallmark helps us through the rough spots; the difficult terrain of arms-length relationships. Hallmark never met our family.

Your side of the family rarely sends written expression. I still have the blank sheet of paper you enclosed around the generous check you sent me after Gladys was born. In the memo of the check, you implored me to use it for myself.

I called you.

“Mom, you have a way with words.”

We both laughed. In my mind, I saw you after you had my older brother (your second child, as Gladys was my second) promising yourself that you would just send your daughter a check. You wouldn’t fill her mailbox with sentiments or demand her attention – just what she needs, nothing to distract.

Holidays have never been attached to a particular day for you either. You’ll remind us (again) that your family never celebrated Thanksgiving on Thursday.

“My parents owned a nursing home. On Thursday we served the residents. We got around to Thanksgiving on Friday.”

You’d have beef roast in October and call it Thanksgiving.

“We’re all here. I’m thankful. That’s all you need really. Why fuss?”

There was the Christmas that you didn’t cook the Christmas roast. We were having too much fun and forgot. Christmas isn’t about food.

“We’ll have it tomorrow. It won’t go bad.”

I recall being caught in customs in Japan in February, having accidentally attracted attention to myself by declaring “Christmas presents” in my bleary-eyed honesty.

I was going home to celebrate Christmas, in February. Customs had never met our family either.
And so, every year is different from the year before. While my girlfriends write cards, send flowers, and attend brunches, I think of you and search for inspiration. I conspire with my siblings and compete for the best idea. I thumb through catalogues and realize that those marketing people have never met MY mother: my family.

So what about you, Dear Mother? You’re sophisticated, hip, travel a lot and already have, well, one of those, whatever it is. You are not impressed by Hallmark, at least not from your children. You want something that I thought about, something that is from me – not what the catalogue picked out. It doesn’t have to be today, just sometime. Sometime when the right thing jumps up and bites me.

So, Mom, this year I’m sending you the gift in that box. It is stylish, very practical, and well-designed - just what you would expect from your former-world-traveler-engineer daughter. Don’t get your hopes up too high, of course, I have next year to think about too.

I love it. I hope you love it too.

I would buy one for myself in a different color (and travel the world, sigh), but I’m too busy with my children.

I have lots of untraditions to pass on to the next generation.

Dance fabulously

The number 40 has become associated with this notion of “being over the hill.” Perhaps that is true for some. I believe the concept is more short-sighted than a woman over forty.

On Saturday, I celebrated the fortieth birthday of a very dear friend, Mrs. Debutante. Her friends flew in from all corners of her life. They surrounded her with so much love that I felt it pelting my shoulders. It could have been my own birthday. You might think that having so many women surrounding one would feel claustrophobic, even smothering, but in so many ways the event was just the opposite. We drew in tighter and as the group grew in mass, the increase in gravity only pulled in more.

Excellent karma allowed me to arrive at the party with two of my other girlfriends. The lights were low, the heels were high, the jeans a little too tight, and the hips a little too loose.

Girlfriends ready to rock.

My role in “the girlfriends” had become the master-of-all-trades. I could give each friend an easy nickname – the blonde, the instigator, the beautiful doll. I’ll leave that to Mrs. Debutante. But, somehow, I became a Renaissance woman. The truth is that I spent all week fussing over preparations for my friend. She knows all my usual tricks. I wanted to show her how much she means to me. The other women just simply aren’t used to my shenanigans. So, okay, for 24 hours I allowed myself to be ‘good at everything.’ I took the role with the honor it was given.

And then something funny happened. Because, you see, I’m not really that good at dancing. A stranger told me that I am a fabulous dancer.

“I’m good at everything,” I shamelessly replied. I’m sure it was taken the wrong way, which only deepened the humor in my eyes: delightfully sophomoric silliness.

I learned to dance watching my parents. They are love on the dance floor, even more than usual. Daddy’s little girl had her chance occasionally, but like so many girls before me, I stood in line.

In high school, I wore black and thought dancing meant posing and looking at the floor.

I learned far more than engineering and calculus at MIT. Beyond America’s shores, the art of dancing thrives. I celebrated diversity and my heart still dances from that chapter of my life.

In Japan, I leapt to my toes once more. A few sips of Scotch and the most reserved of Japanese managers will glide gracefully across the floor. I am sure they bought our products due to their efficiency rates, but good design engineering deserves celebration.

In America, we have learned to leave our dancing shoes on the closet floor. We pride ourselves on being sassy, smart, sexy & sophisticated and yet the most social (and even sensual) of arts receives scoffs and shrugs: a shame of colossal proportion.

I am not a good dancer. I am an unapologetic, deliciously happy dancer. Every once in awhile my dancing heart sneaks out of the bottom of the closet to twirl shamelessly across the floor. But, truly fabulous dancing requires two people in love. The day my husband pulls me out to the dance floor, I’ll show you how to dance.

Mrs. Debutante was a fabulous dancer Saturday night.

At 40, she is not “over the hill.” She stands on top of it, inhaling the fresh air and enjoying the beautiful view. She is not staring at her toes – I saw her twirling her sexy, three-inch heels in her hands, celebrating her youth with symbols we all understand.

“Don’t look down,” her eyes implored. She raised her shoes and our eyes and hearts followed. “My arms are sexy. My shoes are scrumptious. I can see to the horizon, and I am in love. I am in love with all of it.”

Are you cresting your mountain? Inhale the fresh air. Enjoy the beautiful view.

Dance fabulously.

Small print: If you happen to get stepped on and your toenail falls off during dancing, throwing a shot of Vodka on it so you can continue dancing should not be considered proper medical care.

Happy MY Birthday to YOU !!!

I know, at a young 39, I'm probably supposed to stop celebrating. Standing in the rain at the bus stop this morning, we were all so down - lost jobs, sickness, sloppy snow. So, I did it. I announced my birthday at the bus stop. (Everyone left happy - including me.) Remind me why people don't ever tell me its their birthday??

Oh, yes, I'm the type to walk around with a birthday hat on . . . it's MY BIRTHDAY.

C.E.L.E.B.R.A.T.E. with me. Darn it. And, why not?

So, besides throwing a big party for myself on Friday. In which, by the way, none of my friends are allowed to do anything besides grab a bag of chips and a bottle of wine as they run out the door in whatever they are wearing - no PTA agenda, no HOA agenda, no service project, no product to buy, nope. They have been asked to bring a gift ($10).

A GIFT??!! How RUDE!!!

No, no, sillies. We are having a gift exchange. Not gifts for me, please. I demand that you don't. Why? Because I want everyone who comes to this party to think about doing it themselves. Have a party. You see, if you bring a gift for me, then someone might think that THAT is the point. What kind of person would WANT to have a party and have people bring gifts for them? That would be awkward at best, and probably downright rude too.

My party on Friday is everyone's birthday. Get it? We are all celebrating. We will all leave with a thoughtful little something after having done nearly nothing and sitting around with friends all evening. Ha.

That is what I want for my birthday. (Oh, and a big sloppy cake from my kids -- and the sloppy kisses from my whole family to go along with it, and my brother and sister HAVE to sing to me, otherwise I just can't get older, but thats a post in itself.) Okay, I'm a little high maintenance. I'm a big girl now, I can take the truth.

And, since I cannot be with ALL of my friends on my birthday, I thought I would mention a few of them here too.

So a very Happy MY Birthday!!!!! to a couple of my "oldest" bloggy friends . . .

I want to wish Badass Geek a "Happy MY Birthday." Because, without him I might not be blogging anymore. Serious. Not only is he a fabulous writer, but he brings just enough smiles and my occasional fix of modest blushes. (tee hee).

Splodge, yes dear, you too. I still smile to think that you practically yelled at me over e-mail because I had my blog permissions set wrong and you couldn't post a comment. What a wonderful compliment, especially from such an awesome blogger.

Flea, yes, you too. There just aren't that many of us who love fabric as much as we do, and you have opened my door to new bloggy friends.

Indy & OhMommy - It was the glass of cabernet at Indy's home and Ohmommy's "oh, you SHOULD blog" comment that got me started. I can't believe how much I just didn't get it.

And, finally, Brigette - who writes from the heart on topics I just don't have time to research right now, but really should. You get my feathers in a ruffle, and I LOVE that.

To the rest of my very new friends, thanks for joining in!!! I certainly can't mention everybody here (although I am certainly looking like I might, huh?)

Also, it does seem that I have a few lurkers out there. I would love to meet you too, so if you would kindly leave a comment, I would appreciate it!!!

Thanks . . . . Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me . . . .

The Birthday Contraption

Yes, my friends, it worked. This is the wreckage. I will have to do some forensic work here as the chaos of the moment did not allow pictures. Daddy came home early. Heads spun. String tangled. Children clamored to pull the trigger . . . . Daddy was definitely surprised.

Exhibit A - Wreckage

Exhibit A (above) shows the sequins fabric, D-ring with painters tape and one of the dowel rods. I happened to have the sequins fabric left over from an Elvis party. (A prepared mother should always keeps some on hand).

Exhibit B - Trigger rings

I cut twelve lengths of blue ribbon (12 inches each). I made a loop at one end and attached that end to a ring. Each open end of ribbon was tacked to the floor in front of a opening between the spindles in my loft's railing. (Shh! Don't tell Mom. Oh, I am the mom). The ring end of the ribbon could then dangle down towards the family room.

Exibit B - Coiled sequins fabric.

I measured the fabric strips very carefully on the floor by running my scissors up them in three inch increments, plus or minus a few inches. Meanwhile, Gladys helped by jumping up and down on the fabric cheerfully screaming "Mommy, why are you cutting my dance floor? Why are you cutting my dance floor?!"

I then very carefully rolled each strip into a coil (toilet paper style). The end of the strip was attached to the floor with a tack on top of each blue ribbon.

Then the ribbon was pulled back around the coiled fabric, suspending the fabric above the family room below. I slid each of the rings onto the dowel rod.

I taped string to the end of each dowel rod. The strings were then laced to the opposite walls of the loft (attached a D-ring to the wall). The extra string was left to hang downstairs as the triggers for the children to pull.

While Andrew and Gladys created "Happy Birthday" posters for their father downstairs, I attached two additional D-rings to the ceiling above the loft.

Exhibit C - Banner Attachments (D-rings near ceiling)

The posters were taped one on top of the other as a verticle banner. Then the corners of the top poster were attached to strings laced through the D-ring as show above. The other end of those same strings were attached to a larger ring, which was then laced through the dowel rods. The left side was attached to the left rod and the right to the right rod so the banner would fall down in the center. Since the rod was on the floor of the loft, the distance from the larger ring on the end of the string to the D-ring on the ceiling was the perfect length needed for the banner to drop down into the family room. The large rings would get caught at the D-rings and stop the banner from falling any further. (It worked perfectly).

Exhibit D: Sequins strips

Exhibit E - More Sequins strips

So, the banner fell first in the center. Then, one by one, the strips of sequins were released as the kids pulled the dowel rod. It gave the presentation a nice delay-action that brought Vegas right here to the midwest.

Truly, it should be on Youtube. Maybe next time.

Not everyone gets that kind of action on a Monday evening. Yeah, that's right, you're jealous I can tell . . . do try to control your excitement.

My Mother's 39th Birthday

Why is it that even as adults, there is a subconscious (or is that conscious?) need to impress our parents?

My mother visited for the weekend. I cannot admit to being nervous about the visit. I wasn’t, well, except for those last 20 minutes of trying to clean the kitchen, grill hamburgers, and chat calmly on the phone with my sister, explaining that it just isn’t THAT big of a deal. In the meantime, Andrew, Gladys, and George had been making posters in honor of Grandma’s arrival and had scattered arts and crafts all over the kitchen. You might as well have given my three children a double chocolate espresso. They were running around like lunatics.

I NEVER look like that.

Grandma received a rock star welcome. We had to pull the kids from the car in order to let her out. That was Thursday evening.

Since she actually called me Thursday afternoon to tell me she was coming in a few hours, I did not clear my calendar for Friday. She saw me in my full glory.

Friday went like this: Get Andrew on bus, make coffee, crisis clean, drink coffee, host playgroup, drive to register for activities, stop at doctors for records, go out to lunch, drop off at preschool, put George down for nap, go to grocery store, pick up Andrew, pick up Gladys, go to pumpkin patch, make dinner, wash kids, put kids in bed, and clean up.

At 9pm, my mother, Jay and I were sitting on the couch.

“Well, then,” I said, “let’s go out Mom.”

“Aren’t the stores closed?”

In less than three minutes, we were in the car.

“Mom, should we make this a party?”

“Well, its nine o’clock, I don’t think anyone would be awake.”

I made a few calls. I suppose that I HAD thought that we might go out Friday night. But, it wasn’t a sure enough thing to actually invite people. I didn’t even grab my planner on the way out the door. I had two hits before I ran out of numbers I have memorized. (If you didn’t get a call, sorry, I don’t have everyone’s number memorized).

It was a little impromptu party for my 39-year-old mother. (Yes, that’s right, and I went to college when I was 11 and have a younger sister who was born before me – are you catching on?)

I should say, for accuracy, that her birthday is in May. Calling it her birthday was just a simple set-up to win the honor of paying the check (and, yes, winning is the correct verb, a fight could ensue).

My mother walked in the wine bar.

“You and your friends really do this?” she asked, her head was shaking. Not from disgust, mind you, I could see the wheels turning. I could see her thinking. This is what we should have done. We should have done this often.

She was impressed.

A few minutes after our wine arrived, my two friends joined us. We had a great night: great conversation, nice wine, and a sophisticated but casual atmosphere.

I was sipping slowly, responsible for driving my dear mother home safely. I leaned over and asked her if she would have another glass, everyone saw her politely decline.

Within minutes, the bar tender returned with another glass for my friend, and another glass for my mother.

Well done, Ohmommy.

Somewhere along the way, Ohmommy also left briefly to use the powder room. Miss Classy had snuck away to pay the check.

Trumped. Outclassed. Outdone.

We were all impressed. Thank you.

(And another thank you to Mrs. Debutante for ensuring your safe trip home: classy and responsible, of course).

His actual sixth birthday

Today was my son Andrew’s sixth birthday. As he would be quick to tell you “the party is really on Friday.” Yes, but he was still six today. It was an unusual day.

Gladys and I were sick, so my husband took off work. That alone is highly unusual. Not that he isn’t caring and helpful, but taking off work is a very big deal.

My husband took Andrew to the grocery store. That isn’t unusual, not as unusual as the fact that we had very little food in the house. Since it was his birthday, Andrew picked dinner: fresh fried calamari and penne alfredo. They had gone to the meat market and Andrew saw squid, one of his favorite foods. My husband deep fried it and whipped up two dipping sauces that were mayonnaise based. I despise the taste of mayonnaise. I loved both of his sauces. None of that was unusual.

Since the party isn’t until Friday, we didn’t have cake tonight. After dinner, my husband and I decided we would offer the kids ice cream and then give Andrew a gift. All we had in the house was “Spumoni” ice cream. It’s another story where the ice cream came from, but it had been in there for a few weeks. My husband and I had never tried it, nor had the kids. Pistachio-cherry-chocolate ice cream is now a new family favorite. Everyone loved it. They were excited to try it. Andrew said “Mom, it’s a crazy thing, you think its cherry and then, POW, its pistachio and then all of the sudden chocolate walks right in!” He really said that. I think that was unusual.

Andrew was very surprised when we handed him a gift. “Where did this come from?” he asked bewildered. He was really surprised. We gave him a gift last year. Giving a gift to a kid on their birthday probably isn’t that unusual. He seemed to think it was unusual.

“Its from us. Its just something little because today is actually your birthday.”

“Oh, cool.” He opened the card first, with a big smile. I could seem him smile bigger when he read the part that said “We love you.” He took awhile to open the gift. He didn’t tear it apart. I guess that’s the difference between five and six.

It was extra track for the Thomas the Train set.

“Wow, just what I wanted,” he smiled sincerely. He was very happy. He asked if we could work on the track right now, so we did. Gladys wanted some track too, so he gave her some to build. They didn’t have time to finish.

“Well, that’s okay, we’ll finish tomorrow.” He really said that too. Was this all really unusual, or have I just not noticed him growing up?

He had squid, spumoni ice cream, and was surprised that he got a gift. He went to bed happier than ever. Maybe that is a typical sixth birthday and I just don’t remember.