So Your (Child is) Applying to College......

I wanted to share my experiences of the college application process with all of you that are currently enjoying this rite of passage.  First off I suggest drink heavily, it does nothing for the process, but it might make you feel better.  For seventeen years we have been preparing our babes for this momentous step, going to college.  The majority of you, like me watched the “Ivies” being taken off the table by the end of the first marking period in freshman year.  I watched as the premier colleges got shuffled to the side as the march through high school proceeded.  Oh we begged, threatened, promised rewards, stood on our heads and spit nickels, trying to motivate junior into improving his grades. We tried explaining to him that being the best at “Halo” and “Call of Duty” was not going to impress the college admission board. Well the time passed, and bang, Senior year. Now there is a bright moment here, if you’d like to partake.  You and your spouse are officially eligible to engage in the “I told you so” dance, as it pertains to grades, club participation, and community service. It goes something like this, “I told you to work harder, but no, what do I know!” Sadly it wasn’t as much fun as I anticipated.

The process began.

The first step is finding out what you want in a college. To us parents that would mean reputation, size, areas of study offered, graduate outcomes, and to some, distance from home.  In our case my son wanted a higher ratio of girls to guys, great party reputation, proximity to major cities, and did I mention  great Party reputation.  He also preferred a location close to a beach, with a temperate climate. Distance to home was not a priority, as he did not plan on coming home, unless he absolutely had to. We rapidly realized that our son was viewing this whole college gig as a Club Med singles vacation, and we would get to pay!  We asked him if he had any colleges in mind.  He replied he wouldn’t mind going to college in Hawaii. Like Don Ho school of surfing? We think not!  We asked him what he thought he would like to do with his life………”surf and be rich,” was his reply. Oh our work was cut out for us.

After heartfelt discussions, “no we are not paying $50,000 a year,” “there is no school with a major in beer, babes, and bongs,” and “keep dreaming!” we had narrowed the field down. Next step was to see what these institutes of higher learning required in the way of SATs, and GPAs.  Obviously we must be in the midst of a genius baby boom. According to the literature, the midline SAT scores, and GPAs expected by most of the colleges on our list was, in my humble opinion, wildly inflated. My husband and I are no dumb bunnies, yet with the scores we received, back in the day, we would be lucky we weren’t laughed right out of the guidance office. I would also like to interject here, DO NOT listen to other parents! If you do, you will end up crying yourself to sleep, convinced that junior will stay at home with you forever. Everyone knows someone whose child had perfect SATs or toll frees (800,800,800) and did not get into the school your child is considering.  They will also regale you with tales of valedictorians, who besides being legacies, had done promising research on global warming, received plaques for outstanding community service, yet were denied admission to the school you were thinking about for your “if all else fails” he can go there choice. On the other hand you will hear tales of a kid who received a full ride with stipends, to a prestigious college, when you know for a fact, this child is far from being the sharpest knife in the drawer. Don’t listen, don’t believe!  No one will admit to you that they are confused and worried that their children won’t “measure up.”

Now the list was down to a manageable size. Let the applications begin!  From my own experience, most of the application is very much like all those forms we have been filling out every September for our children since they toddled off to preschool. Name, birth-date, address, blah, blah, blah, blah.  The twist on the form is this, you don’t have to fill it out, they do!  Hooray!  You are not off the hook, though.  In fact you may be shocked and appalled at some of the things your children do not know. For instance, “where was I born,” ”hey mom, did you go to college?” “What is my status?” “The choices being single, married, or divorced.” I was tempted to say stupid. This segment of the application is not too bad.  Then comes the essay. Most colleges require an essay.  Usually they are asked to write something along the lines of what “makes you special!”  Because my Mom said so, usually is not enough.  This is when the real procrastination begins.  My child can text the equivalent of “War and Peace” with his thumbs, on a cell phone, with his eyes closed, while listening to music, yet was stalling on typing a 750 word essay. He would sit in front of the computer and gaze off into space, softly moaning at the indignity of it all. I had to keep reminding him, if this hurdle was not crossed, there was no Club Med, I mean college for you. Eventually that onerous task was behind us.

Addressing and mailing the applications, a snap! Paying the $50 per application, not as much fun.

The final step is the wait.  The mad rush to the mailbox, as decision days came along. The elation at being accepted, the devastation accompanying the rejections.  The worst by far, is the deferral. You’re not in, but you’re not out. Eventually all the responses are in, the good, the bad, and the ugly. It all does work out. Your son or daughter usually ends up where they are meant to be. Trust me I survived! Thank you Vodka, for all your help and support through this perilous passage.

Fashion Sense, and Sensibility

I read somewhere recently, about a woman being caught in a, shall I say, less then flattering outfit, when someone came to her house unexpectedly.  My home is my “safe” place, and some of the get-ups I flounce around in, should never see the light of day.  Sadly, I too have been caught in some Interesting wardrobe choices over the years.  (Thankfully, they pre-date u-tube.)

Many years ago, my husband and I purchased our first home.  I carefully packed up our belongings, and meticulously identified the contents on the side of the boxes.  Since I had been at my previous residence for over 9 years, and was unwilling to part with a thing, there was a boat load. I stayed at our old place overseeing the move, while my spouse directed traffic at our new digs.  One would think that “someone” would have the movers place the containers according to their labeled contents.  One would be wrong.

When I arrived late that night, our new home seemed curiously empty. However the bedroom at the back of the house was packed ceiling to floor, with every box I had packed.  Remember the last scene in the first Indiana Jones movie, where they wheeled the Ark into the massive warehouse?  Enough said.

The next morning, after grabbing a quick shower, and starting the wash from the previous day, I went looking for clothes. Well I couldn’t find them. Even if I knew which box they were in, I wouldn’t be able to get to them. The clothes I had worn the previous day were now mid-wash cycle.  I began the joyful task of unpacking, keeping an eye out for something I could put on.  Lucky husband had gone off to work.

After unpacking 5 or 6 boxes, I came upon a negligee.  Now this was no ordinary night gown. This number had the “Fredrick’s of Hollywood” stamp of approval all over it. I had received this lovely get-up from some co-workers for my wedding night. The adjectives, sheer, plunging, peek-a-boo, and marabou trim, would all be useful in describing this ensemble. Well desperate times call for desperate measures, and with the alternative, wearing only underpants, on it went.  I got back to work, unpacking and putting things away.

Ding-Dong!  The front door bell. I am hoping it is a friend or family, coming to help, but no. It would be the cable guy.  I try to be nonchalant as I tell him where the outlets need to go, and scurry back to the “warehouse” to hide out.  Ding-Dong! Phone guy.  Ding-Dong! Gas company guy, to hook up your dryer. Ding-Dong! Electric man, to switch over your  service.  All the while I am prancing through the house with this “Hookers R Us” outfit, trying unsuccessfully to shield the “peek-a-boo” parts from the now sizable audience of utility technicians. I believe the phrase “Desperate Housewife” was coined that day. Finally everyone was finished, and gone, or so I thought.  One joker who’s utility will remain anonymous, came back later in the day with a partner, stating they needed to double check something! I think they were looking for my non-existant dance pole.

Now my Mother always told me to look for the silver lining in events.  My silver lining here was the prompt response received from my utility companies for that first year.  When something had to be repaired or replaced, I usually got a TEAM of technicians, immediately.  I was thinking about donning the old outfit when I moved into my present home, but alas that was 25 years and 50+ pounds ago, and I fear it might have the opposite effect.

Summer Tune-up

    OH, the crying, wailing, and gnashing of teeth that ensued as I stood in front of the mirror, clad in my gray (formally white) bra and large granny panties.  Thank God I was behind closed doors, with the shades down. It was time to get my body “detailed” for summer, and there was much “detailing” to do.

   Starting at the top, I knew the two-inch gray skunk roots had to go.  Off to Carol, the coloring queen at the local salon.  Carol covered my hair in dark brown dye.  She also painted some on my gray eyebrows and waltzed off as her magic potions took effect.  I glanced up after five minutes and who should I see looking back at me but former Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev.  I was sporting a thick dark uni-brow and jowls like deputy dog!  I was so shocked I nearly dropped my devil dog. Luckily all turned out well; the devil dog was safe.

    The only gray hairs left were those sprouting off my chin and upper lip.  My sister-in-law informed me that waxing was not good for thin postmenopausal skin. (Figures, the only thin thing on me.) She told me about threading - a painless facial hair removal procedure.  Threads are gently rolled over the offending hair and magically whisked away.

    I decided to go to a threading kiosk located in the center of the mall. I had nothing to lose but my whiskers.  The operator stands above you while she “threads” the offending hair away. Since I am a tad over six feet tall, I had to scootch down in my chair.  When the right height was established, I was lying on my back with feet propped up on the counter. The threading began. My sister in-law, who shall hence-forth be known as the big fat liar, glossed over the pain factor. The last time I was in that much pain, and position, they gave me an epidural. Unfortunately, my HMO does not cover anesthesia for hair removal, a gross oversight in my humble opinion.  According to the crowd of on-lookers, I shook like a leaf, and had tears running down my face. One eyewitness swore I was foaming at the mouth.  Three hours later (it had been closer to five minutes) I was the proud owner of a face that looked as if it had been attacked by killer bees, but oh so silky smooth.

  Tomorrow’s agenda will find me at my local weight loss group, the “Middle Age Muffin Tops”, where I fear I will hear: “Hey, weren’t you the crazy lady I saw yesterday getting your mustache threaded?”  Some things are better left behind closed doors. 

Swimsuit Shopping

Well it’s that most wonderful time of the year!  The purchase of this year’s swimsuit.

My self and my young shopper (three year old son) headed off. Oh

the choices……bikinis, thongs, tanks…or my usual favorite the skirted, where does a girl begin.  If you are like me, you grab a few in a size you were last year, and head off to

what you know will be painful….the fitting room.  This year they were carrying a little

number called “The Slim Suit”.  This little suit had special space age technology fabric guaranteed to take inches off your shape!  They also carried it in slimming black.  Well

Hello slim suit you have my name all over you!  The three of us headed behind the curtain.  What is it with those fluorescent lights, which make it painfully obvious that

besides missing a few aerobics classes, you’ve also scrimped on the personal grooming

this past winter. The lovely white pasty thighs, cellulite creep, and nether regions crying out for a Brazilian.  Sasquatch comes to mind.  I begin shimmying this garment up.

OH MY GOD, I feel like I am trussed  tighter then Dr Hannibal Lecter, in “Silence of the Lamb’s”, I can’t breathe, the fabric is cutting off my circulation, I pull it up another inch, I get it to my knees….And there it  is “A  Break for the Border!” My three year old son, has had enough, and has escaped through the bottom of the dressing room curtain.

What do I do? What do I do? Well we all know that motherhood trumps embarrassment

So off I go in hot pursuit.  Luckily I have managed to hike the straps partially up my arms (Kinda) and I am sprinting out of the dressing room.  You’ve heard of “Dead Man Walking”, think “Penguin Running.” My young associate thinks this is a game, he dashes under racks of clothes, all the while yelling “you can’t catch me, you can’t catch me!” You read about mothers imbued with superhuman strength when their offspring are threatened.  You would be amazed at how fast they can run too!  I charged through the store, dodging shopping carts, other moms   who glanced sympathetically, as they shielded there child’s eyes, and of course the fitting room lady, who wanted to know if I was taking the suit. After a tour of most of the areas in the store, (the men’s department was particularly delightful), I finally did catch him, and wrestled him back to the fitting room.  There I did notice that the claims of the “Slim Suit” were correct.  I had lost inches around my torso.   Unfortunately, like toothpaste in a tube, the inches had to go somewhere.  In this case I was now sporting what can best be described as a flesh colored inner tube around the top of the suit. I shed, “La Slim Suit” along with my dignity, while I played goalie: young son playing the part of the ball, and the escape route being the net.  As we slunk out of the store I realize how much I really liked last year’s suit.  It has the cutest skirt!

Lost in Translation

The migration begins in June when school lets out.  Moms accompanied by their offspring

head to the shore.  The Dads arrive on Friday nights, and head out Sunday , or early Monday morning.  The Moms try to bring to the beach house everything they need for the duration. This includes but is not limited to clothes, swimwear, goggles, towels, sunscreen, summer reading list books, prescriptions, DVDs, bikes, scooters, sunglasses, stamps, stationary, helmets, aspirin, any perishable food in the refrigerator, etc.........The van is packed to bursting, the children's faces usually mashed up against the window, oh did I mention pets?  Well I think you get the picture.

Invariably something will be forgotten.  I then get to play "What Language am I Speaking?" with my husband.  The  first week down this season, I realized I had forgotten to bring down my special summertime martini glass.  It is a very cute hand painted number  that I received from one of my LBI buddies. It was residing in the top shelf of the cabinet over the microwave.   I also left my deviled egg platter in the cupboard directly over the oven.  Additionally I failed to back up some files from my home computer  that I needed down here.  Now this is where the fun begins.  I know my husband will be coming here Friday.  I also know the biggest thing in his car will be a hefty trash bag of dirty clothes.  Why not have my beloved bring some of my missing items!  I called him during the week, and made my request. I included what I thought were pretty detailed  descriptions of said items, including  GPS coordinates.  So what did my dutiful spouse show up with?  A plastic juice tumbler, with a painted Disney motif, an empty egg carton, and  two floppy disks (my computer only takes CDs/DVDs). Trust me this is a big improvement over previous retrievals.  At least the objects he brought  for me had some,  tenuous relationship  to the items I had requested.  I have learned that he hears green when I say  blue,  I said tweezers, he heard screw driver, you want  your nice sun dress, be prepared for a wedding gown complete with veil.

I had often puzzled over this summer time break down in communications.  I believe I might have solved the translation issue.  Mind you, I said solved the translation  mystery, not solved the problem. I believe when my request was being made, I did not take into consideration some very important facts. I have a sneaking suspicion that my darling received my call as he was sitting with his feet up on the coffee table, having a beer, and eating a large bag of potato chips for dinner.  Compounding the problem, was  the grand slam that was hit as I was describing the articles I needed.   This action on TV caused a reaction, namely my husband sitting up straight, and thus knocking the beer and chips to the floor with his feet. Since he doesn't like to burden me with problems, he made an executive decision to keep this mishap to himself.  So to spare me he just said "sure thing, I'll bring them down on Friday night" as he was grabbing paper towels  and the dust buster, or not.   Later I'm sure it crossed his mind when he headed up to his un-made bed, dodging piles of dirty clothes and damp towels, or not.  It probably made a fleeting pass through his thoughts as he lay in bed watching slo-mo replays of the earlier grand slam on Sports center,  who was I kidding?  Friday morning as he was having his daily OJ  directly out of the carton, before loading his trash bag for the trek to LBI, a nagging at the back of his conscience reminded him of my request.  Since he will not admit  that he doesn't listen to half of what I say, he relied on the memory of our phone conversation. Hence the ensuing confusion.

I have rolled around some ideas on how to remedy this situation. I believe I have a workable idea. All I need to do is take out an ad on the jumbo-tron.  Instead of" Mary will you marry me? " My message will be: Please bring down my red flip flops, not to be confused with the LL Bean duck boot. In the meantime you may see me around town, I'll be the one in the wedding dress and bedroom slippers.

A Matter of Trust

I really thought I could trust him.  Home alone Monday through Friday all summer , while  myself

and the kids were  tucked away on the corner of "Easy Street" and "You got It Made Boulevard" in LBI. 

(Thanks for  the reference, Ruth)  I remained on the Island the entire summer in 2009.  No treks back

for Doctor's visits, no pressing appointments that couldn't wait till September, just LBI for ten weeks

straight.  Then I went home...........I've learned my lesson. My husband cannot be trusted with the house.

My first clue was the dead lawn in front of our home.  When I  last glimpsed it in my rear view mirror in

June, it was a lush green carpet, brimming with vitality.  No resemblance  to the parched weedy  patch

of dirt my house  sat upon.  I feared my house plants had suffered a similar fate.  I  was right. Inside my

home, every appliance and electronic device winked  and texted PF, PF, PF (power failure...OMG!) In

other words a power outage had occurred sometime over the preceding  ten weeks, and nothing had

been re-set.  The mystery of the neglected lawn was solved!  The GFI switch for the sprinkler system had

been tripped during the outage.  Judging by the lawn condition, I would put the outage at approximately

8 hours after I pulled out of town. 

 I made a brief reconnaissance of the refrigerator, freezer, and pantry. In the freezer I found my carefully

wrapped "just heat it up" dinners, under a two inch protective layer of permafrost.  Well at least dinner

for our first night home was taken care of.   The refrigerator looked mighty empty, except for a gallon

jug of juice, with a 1/8 of an inch left, assorted condiments,   4 or 5 items that had overstayed their

welcome, and fishing bait.  The real   treat was behind door number one, the pantry. When a potato

goes bad, it goes real bad!  I won't traumatize you with any descriptions, let's just say open windows,

fans, and a multitude of sanitizers were put into play. Unfortunately there was a high percentage of

collateral damage to adjacent items .  Let me tell you, there is no such thing as a non-perishable  when a

potato has gone to the dark side.

Next stop, bathrooms.  All in all, reasonably clean much better then what I had  anticipated.  Sadly

I am still the only member of our household that possesses  the skill set needed to change the toilet

paper  rolls.  In every bathroom, a single sheet clung to the tube, waving in the breeze, while new rolls

perched  jauntily on the tank.  Every seat was in its upright position, ready for takeoff.

Later, I was called upon to print out some forms for school .  The grinding sound

emanating from the printer did not bode well.  A massive paper jam, one that required tools and the

removal of a  back panel .  Apparently someone that   shall not be named, must have added a huge

sheaf of paper, while printing was in progress.  When the crinkled mess was removed , I noticed the date

on the jammed page. This  jam had been committed  the day after The children and I headed south. Oh,

and by the way, the printer was out of ink.

I slowly worked my way through the house, making minor repairs, replacing burnt out bulbs, putting

dishes in their rightful places, knowing I only had my naive trusting self to blame.   Later that night, 

when I thought my work was done, I turned  on the bedroom TV, and ole!  The shows were all being

televised in Spanish.  El senor of the house had somehow managed to change our TV from English to

Spanish, but  wasn't quite sure how to reverse the process.  I now grasped the significance of His

greeting " Hola, Senora,"  welcome home.

School Daze

I have been the mother of elementary school children for over 12 years now. (I believe

they only allow the president to serve 8 consecutive years hmmmm) In these dozen or

so years I have skillfully evaded being the “Class Mom”, a thankless job, with no pay,

and even less benefits. From time to time I have been guilt tripped into coming in to school to help out.  Usually this is to aid in the throwing of a Holiday extravaganza!

I was the helper mom at one first grade Thanksgiving party. A word to the wise…glue sticks just don’t have the holding power when it comes to attaching feathers to brown

paper vests. I spent the morning cutting, gluing, and stapling, for 24 designer divas.

I never knew that glitter was a popular Puritan embellishment.  I now stand corrected!

I helped with numerous “Hand Turkeys”, which seem to never go out of style, and

Candy Corn name collages. The buffet style meal of apple cider, and popcorn just

couldn’t be beat.

I thought the whole thing had gone off rather well!  True I was covered with gold

glitter, and the apple cider had given me a touch of indigestion, but all in all a good day.

My guilt effectively banished.

Later that afternoon, when my young son came off the bus, he couldn’t wait to

rehash the day.  “You know everyone asked me, if you were my mom,” he said.

“Yes, she is,” he related proudly.  My heart was swelling with pride, and

I made a mental note to volunteer more often. “And then they said, “Shes’

huge!”  “And I said, I know!” He happily recalled. “I told them that you are probably

the biggest mom in the WHOLE first grade!” “Isn’t that great mom?  “When are

you coming back in ?”

 “Oh maybe in about 35 pounds or so,” I replied.  

Yes, I am your Mother!

To every cycle in life there are things to be learned.  I have entered the “invisible”

And “unhearable” cycle in my personal journey.  My children are getting a little older.

They no longer come running over, arms wide for a kiss and hug.  They still run, but

now its’ in the opposite direction.  Don’t even think of trying to hold the hand of a pre-

adolescent.  If the child is a teenager, don’t even think of walking on the same block.

I have seemingly overnight lost all my taste in clothes, music, and people.  I realize

I am no “Stacey’s” Mom”, and  I don’t “have it going on”. I just didn’t know how badly

I don’t have it going on.

There are lessons I am learning that I would like to share with you, my fellow boat mates,

and to you moms getting ready to embark on this journey.

Never, and I mean never introduce yourself as so and so’s mother.  Children of this

age do not want their peers to know that they have a mother.  Oh yes it is understood that

even their friends have mothers, however their moms are way cooler then you. In fact

their moms let them stay out as late as they want, give them unlimited funds, never ask

them questions, or nag them about wet towels on the floor. (I wonder if I can live with them.)

When you ask where they are going, and who they are going with, be ready for a battle.

In fact sometimes the simple “how was your day?” can be the first shot in a skirmish.

Be prepared to hear the time honored “why, do you need to know, don’t you trust me?”

Another popular response is “no one, no where and nothing.” The key here is dogged perseverance.  Stay your course.

Do not buy them clothes in a moment of maternal kindness.  Unless of course

you don’t mind finding your gifts scrunched up in the bottom dresser drawer, tags

still attached, and far too late in the season to be brought back or exchanged.

You need to learn how to text.  I fought this for years, but it is the only sure fire

way to contact your offspring.  For some unknown reason the vibration of the text

message acts like the bell on Pavlov’s dog.  They spring to attention. The amount of

typing my son has done with his two thumbs boggles the mind. He moans and groans

about typing a five page paper with a week deadline, yet types the equivalent of “War

and Peace” daily.

Get ready to repeat yourself over and over again, as these children are deaf to your

pleas pertaining to chores and curfews.  They will adamantly deny they ever heard

you, ask them to take out the trash, pick up their rooms, or do their summer reading.

The only way you can prove that you have made these requests is through writing.

This is when your ability to text comes in handy. Rest assured a text message never

goes unread.

Another lesson I have learned is “beware the random act of niceness.”  When

your teenager compliments something about you, or does a chore unbidden, be

on guard.  This is usually followed by a request for money, a ride, an extended

curfew, or some bad news.  Cynical you say? Nah….experience I reply!

They drive me crazy, yet I still love them with all my heart. The bottom line is that this too shall pass.  Just think of all the fun, and I told you so’s I’ll have when they have some children of their own “JUST LIKE THEM!”

Night Out on the Town

It was a wintry Friday night in December, and I was a fairly new stay at home mom.

My husband came in from work, and asked if we would like to run downtown, and

eat dinner out. Never one to turn down a meal, especially if I didn’t have to prepare

it, I was buckled up in the car in a flash.  We decided to go to the local Brew & Burger

joint in town.  Now this place was a local hot spot, especially on Friday nights. Needless to say parking was always a little difficult.  As he pulled in front, my husband said “go

put our names in, I’ll park, and bring the baby.”  I hopped on out, and entered. The place was jumping!  “We would like a table for two, and 1 highchair, please”, I informed the hostess, when I finally reached her. She looked at me a little strangely, but took down the info.  It was to be about a twenty  minute wait.  I snagged a primo table right in the middle of the action, halfway  between the bar, and the eating area.  Everyone gave me a big smile as they walked by, and I couldn’t help but think, what a warm, friendly town I lived in.  I was really enjoying myself, smiling at one and all.  After about 15 minutes my husband finally arrives with our son.  He comes to where I am seated and says “If I were you, I’d check my lipstick.”  “I’m not wearing any,” I replied. “Oh, but you are,” was his response.  I grabbed a napkin, and wiped my lips, and looked down…..

I had grabbed what I thought was a chapstick from my purse on the ride over. Since I

had chapped lips, as well as dry skin around my mouth, I had applied a heavy dose of chap stick to my lips, and the surrounding area.  I also put a large dollop on a cold sore located under my nose.  I had inadvertently grabbed a RED lipstick, not chapstick.  I had been sitting at this happening bar, made up like BOZO the clown the entire time.  A lesser women might have fled the place…I ordered a double martini.

GYM Part TWO

Perhaps you remember a year or so ago, I wrote about rejoining the gym. I have

stayed the course (although you could not tell from looking at me!).  I have

settled into a daily pattern.  The alarm goes off, I get a pain in the pit of my stomach,

And just like the Dunkin Donuts baker…..its time to hit the gym, its time to hit

the gym. I would like to dispel a number of rumors circulating about “working out”.

NO! it does not become a habit, No! you don’t miss it if you skip a day or four,

NO! it does not give you more energy. Maybe it increases your metabolism, but that is

only to burn up the extra calories you are consuming, because exercise makes you

very, very hungry! Yes! It prolongs your life, but that is attributable to the fact that every second spent exercising feels never ending. Ever notice how the clock never moves in an

aerobic class? I believe it’s the QUALITY of the longevity that needs discussion.

The first problem I usually encounter at the gym, is finding a parking space. I sometimes

have to drive around that parking lot a good 15 minutes before one of the legal spots

next to the handicapped parking opens up! I then need to scurry in to get “my spot” at

the back of the room. I operated under the false illusion, that the instructor couldn’t really see me back there.  That myth has been laid to rest. I have become the poster girl for

“Take it at your own pace and modify the moves to what you are able to do.” “Look at

Marion, she is modifying the move, and lowering the repetitions.” I just don’t have the heart to tell these gym newbies that I have been coming here for years now, and this is as good as its’ gonna get!

I tried a yoga class for a change of pace.  There is a series of positions that you need

to learn in this class, like “child pose”, “cobra”, and ‘downward dog”.  I don’t know

about you, but “child pose” means somebody with their hand out, “cobra” is the position

taken if my stash of milky ways are threatened, and my “downward dog”, is more

recognizable as “dead dog”, call animal control. Spin has a devoted following. Some

spinners rave about what a great time they have. They love cycling away on a stationary bike, accompanied by inspiring music.  I tried it.  Until they come up with downhill spinning, with “A Bicycle Built for Two” on the sound track, I’m going to pass.

I always seem to head on back to my old stand by, the tread mill. Some people like to run

on the treadmill, cranking up the speed and incline. Others prefer a brisk walk. Personally

I employ what is known as a meander, or gentle stroll. I still go for two miles, it just takes an entire morning. I can then say with all honesty, “I spent hours at the gym today!”

 I have had religious experiences on this piece of equipment.  One morning the thing started smoking! I immediately recalled that God appeared to Moses in the guise of a burning bush. I think he was appearing to me on the smoking tread mill.  He was saying “You can stop now, you’ve done enough for today.” “ Furthermore, you were made in my image, my child.”  I now know that God is pudgy woman, with frizzy hair, and a bad candy habit. Every time there is a power outage and my tread mill stops, I know it is him sending me a sign that I have worked out enough for that day.

I am looking forward to seeing all of my old friends at the beach, and I’ll be there as soon

as I finish at the gym around noon. Unless there is a brown out!

GYM TIME

I joined a gym last summer.  After much research, I discovered that laying

on the beach, reading pulp fiction, and salivating like Pavlov’s dog  whenever the

ice cream truck made an appearance, was not the road to the svelte shape I was

hankering for.  So I bit the bullet, plunked down my cash, donned my stretchy shorts

and headed off.

I have come to the realization that a lot has changed since Jane Fonda, leg warmers,

And simple sit ups were de rigueur. We are now offered a plethora of options. “We

offer Pilates, Yoga, low impact, high impact, and step,” I was told.  Additionally

The gym had strength training, circuit, and bosu sculpting. Not to be forgotten are

the spin classes, kickboxing, treadmills, and free weights! My, oh my what should I try

first?  I figured with all of these new advances there must be some type of exercise I

would like, or not actively despise.

Bosu sculpting seemed interesting.  Of course I had never heard of Bosu, but I

was hoping it was some kind of acupuncture-y thing, were you lay quietly in a darkened room, a Bosu was applied, and the muscles began to self improve.  Let me tell you about

Bosu…it isn’t pretty.  First off its’ named for a piece of equipment, a large sawed in half

gym ball. It resembles a huge contact lens.  The instructors expect you to balance on

this contraption, while doing squats with 10 pound weights.  Personally it goes against

my religion to handle any weights over 3 pounds, let alone while standing on top of a unstable, rubbery surface.  The next exercise on the Bosu was to focus on the thighs.  I was instructed to kneel on this apparatus and do back leg lifts.  I looked like those cartoons of elephants balancing on balls at the circus.  All that was missing was my little Shriner’s cap.  Obviously, Bosu and me, not perfect together.

“Lets’ give step class a whirl!” I had heard of step, and since I have been walking up and

down steps (if there is no elevator) for years, I figured I knew the moves.  Wrong!  Apparently this class was designed for the “think you can dance?” set.  There was an entire choreography involved. Step up basic, v-step, lunge, and tap, kick, step.  I was

never a dancer, and some things will never change, so on to….

Pilates! In the first class the participants used a large circle, that was placed between their

thighs. The instruction was to bring your knees together (think thigh master), hold and release.  Sounds simple enough.  They don’t tell you that the circle is made of stainless

steel rebar, and therefore will not budge.  Oh there were some gym rats (envy speak for those super toned ladies) who did not find it difficult.  They can also crack walnuts between their thighs. I, being the proud owner of a nut cracker, do not have a need for

thighs quite that strong!  They also attempted another move called the “plank.” Lets

just say my plank had wood rot, been declared a disaster area and abandoned. 

Well darn it, I can walk! Off to the treadmills!  This was not too bad.  Not only was I

satisfied with my form, I was sweating profusely, and my pulse was at 75%.  I really

don’t know what that means, but I am told its’ very cardio.  Visions of marathons danced

in my head as I clutched the handles tightly, and punched that speed up to 1.5 miles per

hour!

Everthing was going great guns until a friend (former) hopped on the machine next to me.

She set the incline to its’ max, ramped the speed up to 8.5 miles an hour, and took off.

This is akin to running up the side of a building” Who is she? Spiderwomen?  To add

insult to injury, she wanted to chat! Between my huffs and puffs, I was able to croak

“send help!”

On The Road Again

GREETINGS, FROM MY VAN………..

Well six weeks into the school year, and in the words of Willie Nelson, I am

“On the Road Again.”  I didn’t always drive a van.  I am really a sports car

kinda chick, you know…born to be wild and all that.  During my last pregnancy,

it was also time to buy a new car.  Counting up our current household population,

and knowing that twins were on the way, there were some hard decisions to be made.

Unless one of our tribe was willing to be strapped on the top of the car like a deer, a

van was our only option.  I will have to admit, that driving a sporty car during

the last trimester of a twin pregnancy was not the easiest way to travel.  Heaving myself

in and out was a half hour ordeal, and that was with the help of a crane! The van arrived when I was in the Hospital giving birth.  As much as I hated to admit it, stepping up into a vehicle beat crawling on hands and knees out of my Sporty image auto.  But I digress….

Little did I know that the days of living in my house were coming to a close.  I was

about to go van mobile.  Three boys, equal 3 swim team practices, countless swim meets, three soccer practices, soccer games, CCD times three, Chess club on Tuesdays,

play dates, birthday parties, Doctors appointments, Dentists appointments, Orthodontists

appointments, flag football, School newspaper meetings, Cub scouts, trips to the emergency room, (I have active boys) subsequent trips to orthopedist, an occasional

stitch removal jaunt, Church, library, school when the bus is missed, etc…….

Well Marion, you may say, you must get to leave your van when the youngsters

are in school! You would think.  Alas it is not so.  My “free” time is spent purchasing

gifts for aforementioned parties, as well as athletic equipment for previously mentioned

sports.  Another great road trip is the craft store to pick up supplies for ANOTHER

project.  This usually entails the procuring of popsicle sticks, poster board, pipe cleaners,

felt, and double sided tape. Then there is the trip to fulfill the “Can you please send in

to school 24 green grapes (must be green, purple will not work!) for our Hooray It’s

Green Day Celebration!” request. Well you get the picture!

It should come as no surprise that “home Cooking” is just a memory of days

gone by.  We usually dine with our good friends, Ronald, Wendy, The Colonel,

and of course the King.  These understanding friends realize that we are van dwellers,

We can only consume that which can be eaten without utensils, and drunk through straws. This leads to what my Husband affectionately calls my van….the garbage barge on wheels. Ok so there are a few petrified French fries, an old moldy pancake, and an occasional chicken bone to be found among the scattered game boy cartridges.

Thank God for those little scented tree fresheners.

All this time on the road allows for some real quality conversations with my offspring.

Like “he’s touching me”, “he’s sitting in my seat, and you said I could sit there, next time!”, or the dreaded “uh-oh….” This signals the entertainment portion of our journey. It used to be a turning up the volume of my 80’s oldies CD.  That gave way to Disney’s greatest hits, and that Holiday Classic “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” Now

that my eldest has past the age and weight requirements necessary for riding shot gun, I have a co-pilot /DJ.  He has taken over the music choices, and is schooling me on the intricate nuances of hip hop, and alternative music genre. For those of you not in the know, this music must be played at earsplitting volumes, accompanied by head bops

and air guitar.

On one of my brief layovers at our house, my husband and I were musing over possible

Retirement options.  “You know what I think would be really cool?” he stated, “purchasing an RV and touring the country for a year.”  “NOT”, I replied.

Birds n Bees

My son was a happy, healthy, miss-informed first grader.  His immediate circle of

friends all had older siblings, and the trickle down effect of information relating to all matters of procreation  was like a skewed version of “telephone.”  I spoke with his pediatrician, and questioned her, as to what he needed to know, and how much depth should my explanations contain. I was remembering my own intro to the birds ‘n the bees talk. It started and ended with “never sit on a boy’s lap.” This was at age 16.

She advised me to get an age appropriate book, and read it with him.  I found a delightful

little paperback, with anatomically correct cartoon characters, and all the pertinent info.   I mean ALL, the info!  I don’t think I knew that much at 16. In fact I learned a thing or two, myself.

That evening, after dinner, my husband decided he would be the one to tackle the “TALK”.  He got comfy on the couch, and began to read to my bright eyed boy. I

was hovering in the next room, straining to hear everything.  I listened as my husband

choked over a number of the passages.  They likened the culmination of things to

The relief one gets after a big sneeze! (Please….if that were the case we’d all be snorting pepper!)  Mercifully I heard the words “The End.”  However this was quickly followed

by “now, its’ time to go to bed, see you tomorrow buddy.”  My boy shot up the stairs to

his room, like a rocket.  “I believe you skipped the question and answer segment of the talk” I said to my husband.  “I just couldn’t say another word, without breaking into fits

of laughter,” he said. (eyeing the pepper mill)

I let my boy stew over things for about 20 minutes, before joining him.  “Well, that

was quite the book, Daddy just read you.”  “Uh-huh”, he replied, looking like a deer in

the headlights.  “Do you have any questions?” I asked.  “Just a couple,” he replied.

“Like,….did you and Daddy do that to get me?” “Yes, we did” I replied.  A shudder of

the likes I have never witnessed, coursed through his body.  “You don’t still do that, do you?” he asked in a wavering squeak.  “Very rarely”. I replied.  Not the answer he, or for that matter my husband, wanted to hear.  “You have to be married to do that, Right?” He beseeched.  “Well you should be.” I replied.  A relieved sigh escaped from his lips, “and you don’t HAVE to ever get married, right?” “No, you don’t have to get married,” I answered. “Good!” An escape clause.

I then told him, that this talk was not for general discussion with friends or classmates.  “Don’t worry  Mom, I would never ever repeat this stuff to anyone!”  “Its’ too gross.”  Lets’ see how he feels in ten years!

Fashion Plates

There goes my child, out to the bus stop.  No, that is not his older brother’s winter

coat, as a matter of fact, it’s his brand spanking new coat!   You see I suffer from

A wide spread disorder that effects most moms.  “Fear of Fitting-like –a-glove-itis.”

This came home to roost, as my young son (one of three) was doing the obligatory

modeling, before heading out to picture day.  (As most of you moms know, this is a lesson in futility. How you send your offspring out, does not guarantee that is how they will look disembarking the bus twenty minutes later!)  This particular morning, I recognized the same polo shirt he wore at last year’s picture day.  If you are assuming

that it had gotten too small…you’d be wrong.  It fit beautifully!  Therein lay the crux of the problem.  I cannot buy my children clothes that fit them perfectly. I always need to buy them a “little big”. I am always trying to squeeze out two years worth of wear.  Unfortunately, those smart pristine outfits, do not stay that way.  Usually some sort of

indelible mark will festoon the front, tar, magic marker, or more commonly, grease

stains from lunch. Jeans that were rolled up a little on the bottom, now bear more then

a nodding acquaintance with Capri pants. The clothes finally fit, but they look like trash! Don’t even get me started on footwear! I don’t believe my children have owned a perfect fitting snow boot, in their young lives. We all remember our parents feeling for our big toe, as we tried on boots, sneakers, and school shoes.  We also recall if there was not a goodly amount of space between toe and shoe, we moved up a size.

 Have we inherited this disease from our parents?  Possibly, but I have my own theory. 

 I believe the roots of this affliction begin in the earliest days of motherhood.  The perfect

layette is ready for your new infant, all size 0 to 3 months.  You quickly realize, you are

out of clothes in the first week.  Your baby blows through those monthly sizes in hours!

What fit in the morning, is only a memory by nightfall.  You shake your fist at the sky, and swear never to be duped by misleading size/age charts again.  By your child’s six month check-up, you are purchasing nothing under size 1, and more likely are buying  size 18 to 24 months. Thus this insidious disease has gained another victim.

Oh there are exceptions to the rule.  Those clothes you purchased last season from the clearance rack might just fit perfectly!  The reason behind this: your child had an unprecedented growth spurt.  Bottom line…you had purchased them extra large, relying on your estimation of how much the youngster would grow, and you blew the estimate.

Be honest with yourself….if buying that same outfit today, wouldn’t you be tempted to go “just a little” bigger?

  Some times one is forced to buy the perfect size.  This usually occurs when the child is celebrating Religious rites, such as Communions and Bar Mitzvahs, or possibly representing their school at the White House.  A gray area develops when in addition to aforementioned event, the child is invited to a family Wedding or Anniversary within six months.  Usually at this juncture, you buy just a ‘tad’ larger, and hope for the best…..because no way are you forking over money like that twice!

Then of course there is the dreaded “hand me downs.”  If you grew up with older siblings, older cousins, or even older neighborhood kids you know what I’m talking

about.  As tormented as we were by these duds, we are keeping this proud tradition

alive with our own children.  Perfectly fine t-shirts washed and folded in my son’s

dresser drawers, were previously owned by a cousin, now in college, and an older

teenaged brother. So what if my younger guys don’t have any clue as to the identity

of Power Rangers, these clothes fit fine, and I won’t twitch when the inevitable

grease stain lands, or rips and tears appear.  Besides, they will be handing down

their Telly Tubby  apparel  to the current crop of Wiggles fans!

                                                                                       

Event Planning

My two youngest will be turning 9 the end of this month.  Just when I was finally

recovering from my post traumatic Holiday stress syndrome, I am thrust once again

into the planning of yet another “Celebration.”  Unfortunately, this time the guests

are usually much more demanding as to entrees, and entertainment.  The tostadas and

Gina’s velvetta and chili dip that the moms are quite happy to scarf down with a little chardonnay do not cut it with the pint size gourmand set.   I have been

hosting these soirees for the past 13 years, and I have lived to tell the tale.

To the uninitiated: DO NOT, I mean never, host this fete in your home! Unless

your home has been chosen for the “Extreme Makeover Home Edition” don’t go

there. You will be guaranteed rain that day, and there is no way that your guests remain

in the designated area.  Small children will swarm over your home, leaving a path of

destruction rivaling Sherman’s March on Atlanta.  Cabinets and drawers will be inspected by small enquiring minds; you will be critiqued on your home décor,

and informed that your house “smells funny.” The food you serve will not be up to snuff.

You either ordered the pizza from the wrong place i.e.: “We don’t eat ABC Pizza at our house; my mom says XYZ’s is much better.”  Or “why are we eating chicken fingers

when everyone knows I only eat Pizza?”  (Sorry kid, never got the memo from your

advance people!)  There is usually an embarrassing question or two lobbed……

“Gee this house is much smaller then my house, are you poor?” “This house is bigger

then my house, are you rich?” The games you lovingly planned, are either ignored,

or result in tantrums, when everyone doesn’t win.  Call me politically incorrect, but not

everyone can win at musical chairs, or bingo. You find yourself looking at your watch,

wondering if you have entered a time space warp, and time is actually standing still.

It is at this point when you decide, next year we have this shindig off premises.

Oh the choices!!!!!  My first off site party was at one of those indoor playgrounds,

with a ball pit, those toddler size hamster tubes, and the bane of most Moms…video games.  It looks much better on paper.  When mom has to wade into a ball pit,

wiggle through a tube, to retrieve a screaming child, or pull the plug on the video token

gravy train, it tends to take the polish off the proceedings. You know that the twenty something “party host” (that poor person dressed up as a character, leading the festivities) is rethinking their decision to leave college.

The following year I hosted a party at one of those pottery places.  The guests are

invited to pick out a plaster statue, then paint and decorate this item to keep as a memento

of the wonderful time they had at your child’s party.  Lovely idea.  Unfortunately

they only had six ninja turtles, and we had eight ninja turtle fans. Oh what budding little artists.  They painted the statue, the table, and each other.  Try explaining that to the mother of the Gene Simmons look a like, when she shows up to retrieve her little angel.

I also tried doing the miniature golf outing.  Be warned, little golf clubs become lethal

weapons in the hands of second graders!  Ditto for batting cages.

My favorite of the birthday bashes was the laser tag party.  At this event the children

 play two rounds of laser tag, are fed pizza, soda, and ice cream birthday cake, and then sent home.  Neat, virtually painless, two thumbs up from the guests, and I was able to get a pretty good interest rate on the second mortgage that was needed to pay for it.

The common denominator at all of these parties, be it at home or out,

is the goody bag, the child’s swag, or as I call it “the bag o’ crap.” I don’t know

where or when, or more importantly why this tradition was started.  (Although I have

a sneaking suspicion it was invented by the good people at Oriental trading company) A small remembrance is given to each guest, at your child’s party.  This is the area

that is most severely critiqued.  Irregardless of the fact that the life expectancy of the

contents are about 24 hours.  Most take homes consist of small trinkets, such as

tattoos, yoyos, bubbles, and penny candies. (As if such a thing exists anymore) I personally try to toss in a few miniature snickers or milky ways for the chauffeurs (moms) to snack on, as they bring home their sugar hyped offspring. If you can’t beat em, join em. Woe to the host if such offerings are overlooked.  The departing guests will hunt you down like a dog….”I’m leaving now, where’s my bag?” The bag is then rifled through, and an opinion is rendered immediately.  You will be informed if your bag is substandard, (Billy had way better stuff at his party) or OK…which by the way is two thumbs up…way up! 

Before I get started planning this year’s extravaganza, one more word to the wise…

book early.  It is easier to get the Plaza for a wedding, then a slot at the local Birthday’s

R us!

   

Baggage

Here on the island  I notice the things I carry.  I trudge into my house each summer loaded down with the things my family  needs  for the duration. Bathing suits, rash guards, shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops , the dress code of the season.  Condiments for upcoming barbeques, saran wrap for leftovers, cases of bottled water, shampoo, sun block, and toothpaste, to name a few, are all carted from car to house. The beach towels come out of hibernation, and bikes are given a tune-up.  The first week on LBI is a constant carry, as we settle in for the next 10 weeks.

I measure the years by the paraphernalia I carry to the beach.  The summer of 1999, saw me hauling 2 cribs, 3 umbrellas, 1 blow-up pool, diapers, bottles, coolers, blankets, towels, chairs, sandwiches, boogie boards, skim boards, sun block, water, beach badges, and a multitude of beach toys. I do believe the transport and setting up of camp took longer than the actual  beach time.  I had  no moments  to sit, read and ponder, I was too busy counting heads in the surf, and patrolling the water's edge.  After a few hours,  the reverse  process began, then  we trudged back for baths and dinner. At night we all fell into bed, exhausted.  Life was simple.

In 2010, I carry myself, a chair, and a novel.  However I find myself carrying  many more intangibles. As my physical load lightened, my mental load increased.  My babies got older and more independent, but  my parents became more dependent.  My young children  started school, and I worried about grades and bullies. The transition into teen years  contributed big time to my mental load, as I fretted about drugs, alcohol, and poor choices.  Toss in world events, September  11, the recession, the war, with a jigger of braces, drivers licenses, and SATs....well you get the picture.

This summer my physical load is greatly diminished, but my mental baggage has increased. My first child is leaving the nest for college.   He won't be returning home with us at summer's end.  I will not be carrying his things back, he will be carrying them forward by himself. He is looking ahead to these times with high hopes and great expectations.  As it should be.  Me, I'd much rather  be burdened by the physical loads of 1999, they turned  out to be much lighter then I realized.