dar liomsa (in my opinion)

I love a crisp, clean white t-shirt.

Not the underwear kind.

The mom-uniform kind, with a cute pair of khaki capris, preferably.

Anytime I am shopping, I can't resist buying a new one.

Sure, I have drawers filled with them but they each have their own issues.

Random coffee stains, frayed hems, shrunken length.

After all, even the most perfect white t-shirt can show its age.

Nothing makes me more happy than a brand new white t-shirt, well maybe a brand new white t-shirt on sale.

Okay, some things make me more happy, but it is still up there in my Top 10.

My favorite store, has the kind of sales that you don't even realize until checkout.

Those are the best surprises.

The irony of my love for the white t-shirt is the length of time they actually remain white.

I have a tendency to spill and stain on occasion (okay, my family may or may not have nicknamed me 'The Spiller' as a kid, whatever).

It's kind of a challenge to see how long I can keep a new shirt white.

As I sit typing this post, munching on cheese curls, in my brand new white t-shirt, I believe I have set a new record.

 

Every June, I find myself in familiar settings as end of school year activities abound.

Each year. we attend the kids' field day events, last baseball/softball games, and occasionally award ceremonies.

At each of these events, the conversations are the same, parents commiserate over how different this is from our own childhood.

How much more competitive things were, and how much better everything was.

We all believe that about our childhood, I suppose.

Everything in our memory being bigger and better.

But there is one thing that can not compare.

One thing I don't have in my memory bank as a kid.

I don't ever recall being stuck behind a rude cell phone caller at a graduation ceremony, when I was a kid.

 

Talk to any experienced writer and he or she will tell you, reading helps.

Reading and writing are friends, good friends.

In order to write, one must read and often.

One must unlock the creative door by looking at words strung together by someone worthy enough of being published, or not.

50 Shades of Grey may debunk that myth.

The popular chick-lit/soft porn self- published bestseller is all the rage.

I even spotted a gray haired woman in the doctor's office with one tucked under her arm.

In fact, it's so hip it's un-hip, I believe.

Having teenagers taught me that.

Something can only be cool for so long, then it becomes completely uncool, almost as fast.

It's hard to stay on top of these things, but I try.

Also, I'm glad I did not waste a moment of my life on 'Gray' and all of it's new un-cool-ness.

My husband asked me a question this weekend, that he will soon not ask me again.

"Why don't you put on shorts?"

Such a simple question yet such a loaded one.

He had no idea what pile of crap he had stepped in, he usually doesn't.

Who would?

Who would think a simple question about clothing could start a 10- minute rant?

But it did.

Why don't I just wear shorts?

Oh sure it's that simple isn't it?

Let's just assume I have shaved my legs today, or that my varicose veins aren't bulging, or that the measly two pairs I bought myself last summer even fit.

Let's assume all of that for one minute.

Now let's wonder and hope that my stark white legs, that have yet to see the sun this season, aren't going to blind small children.

Let's hope.

"I'm sorry I asked."

"I guess a bathing suit is out of the question?"

 

 

My friend and I have been trying to solve the world's problems.

We have been very focused on this activity.

This is how we do it. Each day after dropping off the kids at school, we lace up our sneakers and walk.

We walk for a solid 45 minutes.

These walks are not about speed, not about accuracy, they are about getting out and moving.

While we walk, we talk.

We talk about everything and anything.

At the end of each walk we declare that since we have not yet solved the world's problems we will walk again tomorrow.

As long as there are problems and people to discuss, we will walk.

If any pounds are shed in the process, well that's a bonus.

We've been reminded lately, that stupidity is not a crime.

But, I think it should be.

If you watch the news, you know what I mean.

Men throwing babies into washing machines,or  couples feuding over wedding expenses or dog custody after a break up.

Many crimes are not punishable by law. They are merely stupid people caught on tape.

Stupidity caught on tape has been the premise for many a reality show (ie: Jersey Shore)

I believe, in this country, we like stupid.

It's the core of every Springer episode, or Maury "who's the daddy" debate.

We watch, apparently.

Whether we watch in disgust or delight, we watch.

We are all getting something out of it, or we wouldn't watch.

Maybe it's the feeling we get as watch, the feeling that we are indeed smarter than someone else.

The old, let me watch you and your problems, so mine don't seem so bad.

Whatever it is, it works.

Stupid sells.

Mom Guilt

I don't remember ever inviting her, this mom-guilt. I don't appreciate how she washes over me every day.

When did I start to allow the guilt in? The acceptance of  feeling guilty for indulging myself in simple pleasures.

By that I do mean the extra five minutes in the shower to shave unwanted hair, or the occasional trip to the nail salon to be talked about in another language and bonus, get a manicure. Or the rare instance when I decide to prop up my feet and dive into a good book.

Mom guilt is always lurking.

She stands there with her hands on her apron-ed hips, wagging her finger. Isn't there something else you should be doing right now? , she says.

Who invited that bitch?

Leave me  alone.

I earned this chocolate bar and five minute break, dammit.

I've had enough of her crap.

When I talked to my kids  about my latest freelance writing gig, they didn't seem impressed.

Basically, like most kids, they needed to know that their life wouldn't be altered by mommy's new job.

You'll still drive us to school in your pajamas? Pick us up after? Pack our lunches and cook our dinner? Good.

They didn't seem at all concerned.

Until I overheard them talking.

My youngest expressed his deep concern that 'mom will be too busy now to do her chores, and our house could end up on an episode of Hoarders'.

Duly noted, children.

This past weekend was filled with bright sunshine and warm temperatures.

Two days of spring bliss.

In our house, the beautiful weather was accompanied by a clear schedule.

No games, no birthday parties, no emergency room visits.

Two days of telling our three children to 'get out and stay out'.

Yes, even on warm weather days, kids have to be told to go out and enjoy it.

Dogs too.

Our forever shedding dog was forced outside.

Forced, as if lying in the green grass is punishment.

As if backyard wiffle ball or having a catch are not enjoyable.

Seriously?

A few minutes of 'when I was a kid' stories' sent them all packing.

"And don't come in until the street lights are on!", we yelled, as they ran away.

 

When you escort a loved one to the Emergency Room, you feel obliged to let others know.

The frantic phone call is usually placed once you've signed in and answered all the necessary questions.

Then, the speed dialing begins.

The phone calls you make to let everyone know that you indeed are in the emergency room and have little or no information beyond that.

Being in the ER conveys that you have a situation you felt needed to be handled immediately. A possible broken bone, chest pains, maybe even a splinter?

Yes, that is what brought me to the ER last week. A splinter.

A fiberglass splinter that never exited my finger as a wood splinter would have.

A wood splinter knows how to find its way ourtof one's body, fiberglass>,it just swells and sits stubbornly residing bringing on infection and hysteria.

I drove myself  as the rest of my family slept. I drove myself because the pain was too much to bare and try as I might to squeeze it like pimple, that splinter wasn't budging.

The triage nurse reprimanded me for harboring a fiberglass splinter for so long. Okay, like I meant to wait that long?

Listen lady, I' ve got three kids, a dog, a husband, and a busy little league schedule, I forgot I even had that finger until it started to swell, just fix it and send me home please.

Oh no, first you must sit and try not to eavesedrop on all of these interesting stories brewing here in the ER, eventually we will slice your finger open, take out the splinter,  bandage you up and  send you home.

And thats exactly what they did.

I sat for close to three hours in the middle of the nurse's staiuomns (all the beds were take) not looking at all like a patient. Not many poeple notoced my swollen finger, so passersby didn't mind asking me where the bathroom was, or how to find the cafeteria.

I didn't  have the appearance of an ER patient.

If you didnt know any better you would think I was just a nosy blogger, looking for material.

But I wasnt, I was a person in pain with a puffed up finger, people.

Have some sympathy.

And? I was there alone.

 Noone with me to place that g=frnatic ER phone call.

I didn't even check in on foursquare or update my twitter status.

It was my little secret adventure.

Once I arrived home with an ace bandage and prescription? the jig was up.