the pieces of my life

My family clearly hates me. Because if they didn’t hate me, they wouldn’t have left me alone in the house with all this sugar! SUGAR! It’s yelling at me! Taunting me! Provoking me! The only way to get it to shut up is to eat it. And so I have.

Have I mentioned that my tummy doesn’t feel so good right now?

Anyway, I believe we have officially entered the “tween” years for my son, that glorious on-the-cusp-of-puberty boyness, which makes him swing violently from scared boy who crawls into our bed after a nightmare to too cool for you lackadaisical teen. I can’t keep up.

The other night I insisted that he put on clean underwear. “Keep your freakin’ junk clean!” I yelled at him. “Clean underwear is not optional!”

He protested that his junk is just fine dirty.

“Clean underwear. NOW!”

Finally he relented. “But you have to leave for me to change?”

Indignant I said, “You’re my little boy! What do you mean I have to get out?”

And he told, “Mom, even little boys need privacy sometimes.”

Fine. But this morning, when he woke up in my bed. Get that? In my room. Not his. I woke him up gently. Well, as gently as I could. I jumped on him and whispered in his ear, “Spell spiny,” which is one of the words on his test.

Eyes still closed, he whispered, “S-p-i-n-y.”

And that’s when I yelled, “Get up get up get up!” (This is all making you wish you lived in my house, isn’t it?). I started to get dressed myself. “Get up! Get up! Get up!”

The boy peeks open an eye. “No!” he said, closing his eyes and burying his head. “I don’t want to see that! I’m not getting up till you have your bra on!”

Twerp.

He’s also obsessed with Mad magazine, and he is constantly trying to read their jokes to me, not realizing that I read Mad as a child myself, and he’s not going to read me anything I haven’t heard. I’m pretty sure their Justin Bieber jokes are all just recycled David Cassidy jokes from my childhood. But he insists. I finally told him, “I’m cooking. I cannot understand your mumbling while I’m doing other things.”

“But I really want to read it to you, Mom!” he said.

“I can’t listen now!” I told him.

“You don’t have to listen,” he said. “Just pretend like you’re listening.” And then I suddenly realized that when I tell him to do something twenty times, and he seems to be paying attention… The gears are clicking into place. That twerp.

That boy. Did I mention my tummy? I think that candy bar on the counter might fix it. I need to get all of my sugar fixes in now, as I told Pie I’d give up sugar in the new year. But that’s a story for another day.

Don’t you just love that post-holiday feeling? The presents have been given. The food has been made and consumed. The decorations put away. Just that post-holiday glow as you prepare to head on your winter vacation? I know! It’s probably my favorite time of year, too!

Wait, what? Your holiday hasn’t happened yet? You’re still in the throes of shopping, cooking, stressing? Suckas! We are so done! “It’s the most wonderful time of year…”

And I received an awesome present to boot from my hubby, who when he goes rogue off my Amazon wishlist, always manages to get it right!

That baby is going to be framed and hung in my office!

By the way, those of you who are here reading my blog. Take a break and go read this new blog on the block: An Awesome Person’s Blogs. It’s okay, I’ll wait. Did you see that? Did you see who has a blog now? Yep, my boy, Doodles, has started his own blog, and I’m embarrassed to admit, he’s updating more than I am. So go on. Subscribe to it. Read it. Comment on it. You won’t be sorry.

Okay, now back to me, because that’s what really counts around here. I’ve been working, working, working on my novel, and I sent it in to my agent. Whoo hoo! And she turned it right back around to me to work on some more. Just what every writer wants to hear.

Which means I need to go get myself another Old Fashioned. Because I need to write drunk. The editing will come later.

School food laws have changed in our state. The boy bought school lunch once this year, declared it disgusting, and said he wouldn’t buy again. But that’s not enough. No, that’s never enough! So he’s making his opinions be heard! (The Globe did an article on it, but I don’t know if you can access it for free: “More Vegetables, Fewer Calories“.)

Welcome to the Midlife, say good-bye to fun and games
You had everything you want, honey, but now old age’s to blame
Bad back, no sleep, What does this body need?
If you got the ache, oy vey, what’s this disease?

In the midlife, welcome to the midlife
Watch out, you’ll hurt you’re knnn knne knees, knees
You’re gonna need glasses to read!

(Apologies to Guns N Roses)

Guess who turns 40 today!

From this:

To this:

To this:

Happy birthday, Adam! You done grow up good. May your days be filled with bacon and bourbon and your nights with children who sleep. Well, at least the former. The latter is something we’ll strive for at 50!

We used to have a really cool alternative music station. It went away. Now we have a “we play anything” station that really plays nothing. I can’t stand it. But I was so tired while running errands this morning, that I found myself on the station and I didn’t even realize it until I discovered that, yes, I do remember every word to Foreigner’s “Urgent.” And then I wanted to gauge my ears out with the windshield wipers.

Why was I so tired that I inadvertently listened to adult whatever-it-is radio? Because my daughter isn’t sleeping through the night. Which is funny, because I’m pretty sure I wrote the same thing seven years ago. She’s in second grade, for freak’s sake! But last night she was up at 2:40 a.m. Yep, that’s right. And she read. And she tossed. And she turned. And she complained. Until 5:20 a.m.. She went down–or rather was up–like a flaming arrow and she brought me along for the ride. Shoot. Me. Now.

It’s the monsters. The monsters are getting to her. They are under her bed and in the closet and nothing she does is making them go away. She refuses to sleep with her light off or her shades down. So of course she wakes up. And then she sits, completely upright, on the edge of her bed, reading, complaining that it’s not helping her fall asleep. Well, duh.

Today was a very sleepy day. I ran errands in a haze. I yelled at my children when they got home because a Crumbs has come to our local mall and no one warned me. I was not sufficiently prepped to see that cupcake sign beckoning to me. My children were just at the mall on Saturday. They could have told me! Useless children!

As the boy was doing homework and the girl was complaining about doing hers, I made hot chocolate and we chatted. The boy started getting mouthy.

Me: Just do your homework.

The boy: Give me more marshmallows.

Me: Be nice! You’re the child I’m keeping!

The girl: Hey!

The boy: Ha ha! [to the girl] When you and Daddy move out, I’m going to take all your stuff.

Me: No, we’re going to move out.

The boy: What?? To where?

Me: Dunno. New York. Miami. Paris. Somewhere good.

The boy: No, not New York. The city is too big.

Me: What?? Who are you? Fine, I’m not keeping you, either!

The boy: I get dibs on all your stuff!

Me: I’m taking all my stuff with me!

The boy: The stuff you don’t take, I get dibs on!

The girl: I want dibs, too! I’ll take the cooking stuff.

The boy: Do you not understand how dibs works? I called dibs on everything!

The girl: No way! I want her stuff too!

The boy: Fine, you can have her stuff. I’ll take her money.

The girl: Hmmmm….

This is one of those times I wished we celebrated Christmas. Because instead of buying them gifts, I could just get them mammoth lumps of coal. Hey, maybe I’ll start a new Hanukkah tradition here….

Yesterday was gray and snowy. I was sitting warm and cozy at my computer, getting some writing done when the phone rang.

Me: Hello?
Voice: Hi. My socks got really wet at recess. I need you to bring me new socks.
Me: First things first. Which child of mine is this?
Voice: Doodles.
Me: Okay, Doodles. Now, what?
The boy: At recess my socks got soaking wet. I need you to bring me new socks.
Me: Um, no.
The boy: My feet are really wet! I can’t wear these socks!
Me: It’s one o’clock. School gets out in an hour and fifteen minutes. You’ll be fine.
The boy: They are really wet.
Me: I’m not walking over to school an hour before it’s over to bring you socks. It’s snowing out!
The boy, clearly exasperated: I know! That’s why how my socks got wet!
Me: Take off your socks and go sockless for the next hour.
The boy: My feet will be cold!
Me: I’m a mean mommy. I’ll come by before the bell rings to bring you socks so you don’t have to go home with cold wet socks.
The boy: Fine!

I get to school shortly before the bell and I go to the boy’s 4th grade classroom.

Teacher: Ah, Doodles, here are some socks for you!
Me: Did you really let him call me to bring him socks an hour before school gets out?
Teacher, laughing: I did! You know, he never complains, so when he did, I figured I’d let him call.
Me: You’re crazy! Boy, tell your teacher what the family motto is!
The boy: Suck it up.
Teacher laughs.
Me: Next time the boy has an issue like this, remind him of the family motto!

Freakin’ fragile child. Where do these kids come from?

I save my son from a lifetime of humiliation and does he thank me for it? Noooo.

Boy: I want to go the Jingle Ball [which is advertised nonstop on the radio station he has on at all times.]

Me: No.

Boy: Why not?

Me: First of all, it’s sold out.

Boy: You can still get tickets.

Me: Second of all, the bands playing suck.

Boy: No, they don’t!

Me: Name who’s playing.

Boy: Uh, I don’t remember.

We go online and look it up.

Me: Oh, fer Christ’s sake. Justin Bieber is headlining. You like Justin Bieber?

Boy: No. But I like the other bands.

Me: Which one? You like The Wanted? Train? Karmin? Bridget Mendler? Isn’t she the one from Disney Channel? Alex Care?

Boy: Yeah, him. I like him.

Me: Name one song he sings.

Boy: I don’t know the name! I just know I like it.

Me: No.

Boy: Look up how much tickets are.

We got to StubHub. Tickets are in the $39 to $5,000+ range.

Boy: They’re not that much.

Me: No! The money is not the point! The point is that someday you will go to college, and people will say to you, “What was the first concert you went to,” and you’ll have to say, “Justin Bieber,” and then you will cry yourself to sleep at night from the shame.

Boy: I could lie!

Me: No. I forbid it. I forbid you going to see Justin Bieber. Have some pride in yourself, boy!

He’s still pissed. But I can live with that. And one day, he’ll be in college, and I’ll show him this post, and he’ll have to buy me flowers or chocolate or cars in gracious thanks that I didn’t let him go.

Hockey season is fully underway. Tonight was the boy’s first game of the season after a few weeks of scrimmages. Full ice for him this year, and late ice times (so far he’s had practice/games at 7:40 p.m. on Sunday nights!)

The girl had her final day of soccer today. She loves the sport and watching her play is a joy: She truly gives it her all. The New York Times recently ran an article about how hideous running photos turn out. You feel like you’re a champ, giving it your all, and the race photos show a bloated middle-aged woman who looks like she’s out for a leisurely stroll. (“Runners with two feet on the ground look as if they are walking.”) Luckily, Pie has no such woes as this. You can tell that girl is flying.

Today, as the boy was putting in his many hockey pads–an event that takes him a good 20 minutes–I said, “Hey, Dad’s the only one without a sport!”

“You don’t have a sport,” the boy told me.

“I don’t?” I said, surprised.

“What?” he asked. “You mean running? That’s not a sport.”

Last weekend I ran a half. I started keeping track of my races late in the game, but it was the 14th half marathon I’ve run since I started counting. I promised myself I wouldn’t race anymore–training took the fun out of running for me and I grew to dread speed work and intervals and all the other miserable things you need to do to train–but I had a friend who wanted to run her first half. What kind of a loser would I be if I didn’t pace her?

I was pretty pathetic out there. I had gum surgery quite recently and my mouth is hyper sensitive to cold. Tap water makes the nerves in mouth scream in agony. So I was freaked at how to hydrate when the temps were just chilly enough to turn every water station into a waterfall of ice daggers to my mouth (note to self: work on metaphors). My brillant idea was about an 1/8 of a mile before each water station, I so elegantly dug out of my pants rear pocket a tube of Orajel. I gracefully opened it while running, slathered it on my finger, shoved it in my mouth, then put the tube back into my pants. It worked enough that I didn’t hurt myself on the run and had the bonus of disguising the taste of the gel, which I don’t like. My mouth was numb, but not so numb I couldn’t yell out drill-sergeant-esque insults to my running partner, my favorite one being “You can’t cry till you cross the finish line!” Her goal, she mistakenly admitted to me in mile 10, was a 2:20 half. She did it. She probably won’t ask me to run another race with her again, but I got her across in 2:18.

And I just saw the race photos. I look like I”m walking.

I’m not sporty, my ass.

I enjoy the celebrations, traditions, and rituals of Judaism. I’m happy–and proud–to be Jewish. While I have enjoyed looking upon Christmas from afar, I’ve never longed for a Christmas tree or Easter ham. I did fine without Santa. I can occasionally celebrate with my goyishe friends, but really, it’s a take it or leave it kind of thing.

Nothing has ever tempted me about the Christian faith. Until I saw this (via my old office mate, Simon):

And, oh, did a mighty sharp pang of envy slash through me. It is something to behold. Perhaps, just perhaps, a smaller set, to celebrate the eight nights of Hanukkah?

Matt Damon called me yesterday. Oh yes he did! He wanted to drive me around on Tuesday. Come pick me up in his fancy limousine, I suppose, and ply me with champagne as we cruise my suburban town. Of course, one look at my Facebook feed and it turns out–the big slut–he’d called most of my friends as well. I was most intrigued how he would get from L.A. to Boston in time to drive me and apparently most of Massachusetts around, but then I figured we’d end up with some bait and switch. It would be like someone making a movie called “The Bourne Legacy” without actually featuring Jason Bourne or even Matt Damon in any role. We’d end up with some no-name, not exactly re-cast, but just spun off. So how can you trust a guy like that? And how cocky? No, “I’m Matt Damon, star of many movies.” Just, “Hi, I’m Matt Damon, and I assume you know exactly who I am,” and f*ck all, if he wasn’t right. And there was no flattery. He went right to the ask. “Vote for Elizabeth Warren and call if you need a ride to the polls!”

But I will say that a call from Matt Damon did clear the phone lines from the two prior ones I had received. The first one was from Massachusetts Pro-Life, which wanted to make sure I voted against Initiative 2, thus guaranteeing, sight unseen that I will be voting for Initiative 2. (And as it turns out, I do support “Death with Dignity,” so thank you Pro Lifers for making me aware of something I might have just glanced over at the polls!)

And then just a few hours before Matt wanted me, the NRA came a callin’. They wanted to bring out the big guns. Literally. Apparently Scott Brown is in favor of semi-automatic weapons for hunting, target practice, and self-defense.

It feels good to be so popular.

Death, guns, and Matt on an easy Saturday afternoon. How do you like them apples?