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I took this so I’d have something to post on the cool Bozell holidays site. They’re donating money for every upload… it’s pretty cool. Besides, I wanted to add a little Chanukah to the slide show.

Tape it.

After the scavenger hunt to find my tape (mine!), I started wrapping gifts the other day. Until said tape dispenser was accidently knocked to the floor. And stepped on. After repairing the dispenser – with tape – I was able to finish the job.

Happy Chanukah to all who celebrate it! Tonight? Candle #5!

Poisoned summer.

I remember when I first got interested in popular music. In junior high. My parents had a stereo in the dining room in the buffet. You could play it on the speakers in there or switch it to play on the speakers in the living room. Space age stuff, huh? I thought so.

When we were younger, my brother, sister and I would lay on the dining room floor and listen to my parents’ records when they left us with a babysitter. Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass. Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris. (Timid Freida has fuck you in the lyrics!) The Sound of Music. Man of LaMancha. (I never understood why that woman wanted a pair of arms – what happened to hers?)

Well, around 7th grade, I started listening to music on the radio. I remember going to the record store and buying 45s of my favorites and then listening to them on my very own record player. It had been my cousin Cindy’s. It was aqua and opened up with the speakers on the sides. Way cool, I thought. Cindy was in her twenties when she died. It was shocking, but that’s a story for another day. But I was given her record player and some of her records. One was Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water. I loved it. I’d set the control to play it over and over and over. I still have that record. You can almost see how much I played it.

So I had all these 45s and a couple of LPs. I used to sit by the player with a paper and pencil and transcribe the lyrics. I’d listen hard. Really hard. I knew if I concentrated hard enough, the words would be clear to me. Sometimes -(a lot of times)- I got them wrong. I wonder how many hours I spent doing this. I suppose it kept me off the streets? More likely kept me from getting the recommended amount of sleep for a kid my age.

A few of my favorite 45s:
-Billy Don’t Be A Hero
-The Night Chicago Died
-Life is a Rock, But the Radio Rolled Me
-One Tin Soldier
-Seasons in the Sun

I still have them all. I even have some of my mother’s from her teen years and my aunt’s from a bit later… Some real collectibles.

So back to the lyrics. I got a lot of them wrong. Poisoned Summer is what I thought the song Boys of Summer said. Close, huh?

So years later when the Internet became so accessible and the site Kiss this Guy, the site of misheard lyrics, was around, I spent hours laughing at my mistakes. And the mistakes of others. Funny stuff.

Kids these days are missing all the fun. I was driving carpool the other day when a young teen told me that she hears a song and immediately goes online to download the lyrics. Efficient? Yes. But where’s the adventure? The puzzle?

I wonder what was easy for us that our parents’ generations had to work harder for – like we did for lyrics? What did we miss? Was it fun? Would we have gained life experience or learned persistence or some skill?

Anyone?

Go on, I’m listening.

People talk to me. I know, I know. I talk to people – to strangers – all the time. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about strangers confiding in me. And people I know casually telling me personal things. Maybe I just look understanding. Maybe I look like an easy target. Either way, this is what happened today….

I went to Quest Diagnostics to get some blood drawn. (Don’t worry, Mom, I’m fine.) I asked Mary at reception how long the wait was. She said she didn’t know. Just sign in and sit your ass down. Okay, she didn’t say ‘your ass’ but she thought it. She did say “everyone asks that question” which begs the question why they don’t work to estimate the time. Clearly the customer base has shown the need… But I digress.

So Mary calls out ‘Wendy’ about 15 minutes later – at about a kabillion decibels. That would be me. So I walked back up, Mary took my insurance card and proceeded to gripe about her co-workers. This one is taking lunch and leaving her high and dry. This other one just started and thinks she owns the place. And on and on. Yikes. She asks for info to put in the computer. My birthday? October 5. When I tell her, she goes on to tell me that she has seen many people with that same birthday lately. It’s very common, she says. I know. I tell her that more people, in fact, are born on my birthday than any other day of the year. Really, it’s true.

Anyway, then she went on to tell me that the house she grew up in had the address 1005 (correlating with my birthday) and that her mother uses that as the PIN for everything. Seems like a little too much information to me.

Now, paperwork in hand, I could go back to the phlebotomist. So back I go.

Oh well, another wait. One lady ahead of me. Two in the chairs with the weird swively arms. As I waited, I heard the two women who worked there discussing breaks and schedules. I wasn’t listening carefully, since I’m reading a really interesting new book – Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen and was kind of getting lost in it.

My turn. Latisha started typing my info into her computer and then stopped cold. She was a big woman with an ornate barrette holding a Pebbles-like ponytail up. Her red, red lipstick was freshly applied and shiny. She turned to me with a serious look. Really serious. And she said, “I’ve been working here for 6 months and they have scheduled me for every Saturday. Every one. I’m working 6-day weeks. And they’re nuts (okay, different word, but this is nicer) about overtime. So they’re 6 short days. I have no life. I can’t get my Christmas shopping done. And the other girls here? They get whatever they want.”

I thought about suggesting looking for a different job. I thought about mentioning that the new guy usually gets the raw deal. I thought about telling Latisha that a positive attitude and not complaining to the clients/patients might help her advance in her chosen career.

But truth is, I was in a hurry. I was afraid that if I engaged her in a conversation about her career goals that I’d never, ever leave Quest Diagnostics. I was afraid she’s ask for my phone number and want career counseling. Or better yet, that I’d offer to help her with her Christmas shopping. I had to remain quiet. No other choice. Control yourself, Wendy.

But I slipped. I don’t remember what exactly I said, but I can tell you it prolonged the conversation. Doh!

And now that she was really worked up over her challenging work situation, she didn’t notice that the tourniquet she put on me was way too tight. My upper arm was turning purple! And when she put the needle in the vein, it was not painless, as usual. Shit!

But I kept my mouth shut this time.

I’m sorry!

I know you all are totally sick of hearing about the kids. This is it for a while. I promise. But the girls at poker made me promise I’d post Max’s bridge project.

Take a listen!

(the link works most of the time in Firefox & only sporatically in IE. Sorry!)

Al Hirt.

It’s a wrap.

I wish.

Actually, it’s only 2/3 over. Gift wrap at the mall, that is. Our nonprofit has a gift wrap booth at the mall – right by J.Crew and Build-A-Bear – that we share with the local hospital. It’s a huge fundraiser. Huge. Covers a third of our annual operating costs. (Do you know I’m the president of the org?)

For the past 10 years, one teeny little and extremely strong-willed and persistent woman ran the operation. Feared by some, she somehow managed to fill all the slots for volunteers (and it’s a lot of slots – believe me) for all the days between Thanksgiving and Christmas. She got the supplies ordered and schlepped to the site. She did set up, got posters strategically placed, got weekly captains. Somehow she managed to make everything run smoothly.

Okay, fine. She pissed a lot of people off. But she did the job. And she made it happen for a lot of years.

This year? She was finished. No more. Who couldn’t understand her desire for a break? She wanted a holiday season to enjoy for a change.

So, one of our board members said she’d do recruit volunteers. And then, another board member (and close friend of mine) said she’d handle the rest. This was a big mistake. Neither she nor I knew what that meant. And trust me. It is harder than you think.

So she gets calls for every cancellation. For every question. For every person who doesn’t want to take the money to the bank. For every fricking sneeze.

She’s exhausted. And she probably hates me. (I swear I didn’t make her do it!)

Anyway, it’s going fine. Is it perfect? Not perfect. But it’s fine. We’re ahead on dollars. And the org should be grateful we’ve provided fodder for lively debate and conversation.

On Christmas Eve and Christmas Eve Eve (we say at our house Erev Christmas Eve), we are low on volunteers. Not a little low. A lot low.

So here’s the reason I had to post this. My darling husband, Andrew, said he’d go wrap gifts. Now this strong little teeny lady who ran the show for 10 years will be the captain that week. To imagine my Andrew working for this woman put the fear of God in me. I could see him tossing her over the railing onto the smoothie cart. I could imagine him stuffing her under the counter with the extra bows. I could even imagine him wrapping the ribbon around her little neck.

Somehow, this does not sound like a good idea.

Not at all.

We’re so proud.

Click on the photo to enlarge and to see our little maestro.

Back to work. Yikes.

We’re going to the country….

There was a song in the 60′s – can’t get it out of my head. Remember Canned Heat? It goes “Goin’ up the country…” and it’s catchy.

At any rate, last night? We went to the country. We were hosted by a lovely couple whom we’d only met once before, but whom our good friends and colleagues know better – and they were there too… It was a long drive – about an hour and a half.

Not easy to find either. Lucky we had Uncle Charlie along. (He’s our GPS. Uncle Charlie helped the Dad of My Three Sons, remember? So the name seemed apropos...) And when we got out, we were greeted by 2 huge and very friendly dogs and the sight of this firepit….

Life was looking pretty darn good. I could so see us sitting around this fire with a lovely Pinot Noir. Yes, I could. We went past the pit (soon to return!) and in to the house. It was a sight. Candles and flowers and a beautiful table.

This was some house. You could feel the love that went into restoring it. It was perfect. Honestly, I can’t ever remember walking into a space that made me feel so comfortable and happy. If they’d sell me the house tomorrow, I’d take it… But I digress…

We had wine and appetizers and sat by the fire. Then sat down to a wonderful dinner.

Did I mention that the candles were everywhere? She had a candlestick collection that was just beautiful!

Haven’t you just been with people you barely know and realize that you know them so well? Though we were just getting to know our hosts, it was comfortable and fun and funny and, well frankly, it felt like we’d always been friends.

It was hard to leave. But alas, we have responsibilities at home and it was a long drive. Such a nice evening.

Nice.

*************************************

Okay, me again. I was going to call it a day, but there were tons of motorcycles in the garage. A Ducati, a KTM, a BSA… (sweet) and the one that really got me….

A Honda 50.

My dad had a Honda 50 when I was little. It’s a teensy bike, as you can see. Well, my dad thought that it would be really fun to take me (or my brother or sister) on the back of that teensy tiny bike. So he welded a frame to the back of the seat and got a Nauga as a cushion.

He was right. It was way fun.

We’d ride through the woods across the street. He’d take me on steep hills and the dogs would chase us. And win. I loved those days.

Seeing this bike was the cherry on the top.

Happy Birthday, Finley.

Special report to Finding Blanche, by Megan….

At exactly 5:28 a.m. one year ago today my amazing little girl came into this world. After an induced 20-hour labor, a fever and only 30-minutes of pushing, she popped right out and she was a redhead, just like her daddy. I knew I should have shown some more emotion, probably even start crying like they do in the movies. I even remember apologizing to my doctor and nurse for NOT crying and chalked it up to fatigue and discomfort. What I didn’t know then, was that the crying would start as soon as I got home. And that it wouldn’t stop for months.

I’d always wanted a family – a husband, children. I was always the one who babysat every weekend growing up and peeked in any stroller that came my way so I could admire the baby in it. I took the classes, I had all the stuff, and I read the books. I was ready; this was going to be great. My hormones had other plans. I’ll never forget walking into the house with Finley and starting to cry. Going upstairs to change her diaper and just shaking and feeling so out of control. I thought it was only natural, after all, after just taking care of me for 34 years; I had someone else who was totally dependent on me. It was overwhelming.

As I was lying in bed with Finley next to me this morning, I was trying to remember her as a little baby. But all I could remember was the crying, the fits of panic and unease and self-doubt. I remember telling my husband that he had to find someone else to take care of the baby. A nurse, a nanny, because I couldn’t do it. There was no way. Well, that person came in the form of my mother who took care of Finley for the first six weeks of her life. She would show up on Mondays with her suitcase and we’d get through the days together. As soon as she walked in the door my shoulders would relax, a smile would come over my face and I knew it would be ok. She would only leave for the weekend when Jon was home and we could take care of the baby together. I can NEVER thank my mother enough or my father for going without her wonderful for cooking or my sister and her kids for letting me have their babysitter.

I finally said enough is enough, this is not the way it should be and I went to see my doctor. I spoke with a very caring nurse practitioner who had also suffered from Post Partum Depression (PPD) and knew what I was experiencing. We talked for a while and then she prescribed some medication that would help get my hormones back in line and let me relax. Me and Brooke Shields, in the same boat, who knew? As soon as the medication finally kicked in and I felt like myself and enjoyed being a mother, I wanted to go find Tom Cruise and kick his ass. But I digress…

I knew I couldn’t let this wonderful day go by without reflecting on the year that’s been. And unfortunately it’s the PPD that sticks out most in my mind because it was so frightening and all-consuming. But then I look at my little “Nut” and she ALWAYS has a smile on her face. She’s healthy, happy, smart, silly, stubborn and affectionate. And I realize that I am the mother I always wanted to be and I have a child that reflects the love that my husband and I give her every day. I guess we’re doing something right.

So, happy birthday to my Finley Rose. Your mommy loves you so much!!!