The times in my life where I am emotional, because I feel overwhelmed by things and circumstances beyond my control, are few and far between.
Trust me. I’ve been called cold, callous and uncaring more than once in my almost forty-one years.
I’ve always been The Other Girl, never That Girl

On this one day, March 30th, of every year since I was 21, I don’t want to be The Other Girl.
I’ve always been the The Other Girl.
The girl who is strong, the girl who is brave, the girl who is not afraid of any man, woman or child, the one you can go to when you are hurting.
The Other Girl…
The girl who doesn’t need anyone, the girl who can go it alone, the girl that never needs to be held.
The Other Girl…
The girl who never loses it, the girl who always is in control, the girl who never cries.

On March 30th, of every year since I was 21, I desperately want to be That Girl.
The girl who is stronger than me, the girl who is braver than me, the girl who knows that there is nothing wrong with being afraid once in a while. The girl who hurts and needs to feel the warmth and comfort that only the arms of a man can provide.
That Girl…
The girl who needs people, the girl who can’t do it all by herself, the girl who needs to be held.
That Girl…
The girl who isn’t afraid to lose it, the girl who breaks down, the girl who just doesn’t cry, she sobs.

But I can’t be…and I don’t think I ever will…again.

I was That Girl once…but on March 30th when I was 21, I stopped being That Girl at 7:35pm.

It wasn’t until several years later that I became The Other Girl.

I moved, remarried, had more children and became not The Other Girl, not just yet, but a Different Girl

This Different Girl was in some ways, a lot like That Girl…
She cried, she loved, she had the comfort that every girl needs…or so she thought.
Until the first time March 30th rolled around for the Different Girl…
The comfort she had, was not the big fluffy Blanket she thought it was when she first wrapped herself in it…she finally saw it for what it really was.
A thin, cheap, threadbare, used Sheet…an excuse…an illusion to warmth, because it never was capable of giving it in the first place…and had no business selling itself in such fancy and misleading packaging.
The Different Girl did find another Blanket in which to wrap herself…four times thicker than the sheet, four times more comforting, four times stronger with four times the love that was in the sheet. This Blanket was worthy of the fancy package, it delivered everything it was represented too.
And The Different Girl loved this Blanket, more than any other.

After this realization, The Different Girl became The Other Girl…yet there were parts of The Different Girl inside, reserved for her Four-Ply Blanket.

But still…I wish…for just once, just once a year…I could be That Girl again.

I’ve come close, but no cigar…

I guess sometimes, some of us are destined to be The Other Girl…

Maybe because “somebody”, “somewhere” knows they can be The Other Girl…

Maybe because The Other Girl is exactly what The Other Guy needs.

Maybe because somewhere, somewhere deep inside of The Other Girl and The Other Guy…are The Different Girl andThat Girl and inside the The Other Guy are The Different Guy and That Guy…

And maybe, just maybe…they all will finally have That Blanket that they all want…but more importantly…need.

I think I’m having a ‘Mid-Life Crisis’!
Wait…back up a minute…I can’t be! I’m only forty! If forty is the ‘middle’ of my life, then is eighty my end? Oh hell no…I plan on finding a way to live forever. I am that nosy. OK, that would mean that age twenty was the acme of my life, right?
Someone really screwed my Deck of Life Cards, then.

It’s no secret that when women face any type of emotional crisis, we are much better at dealing with it than men are.

I feel no need to rush out and bang as many  20-something strippers named Tiffy, Chanel, Tami–with an “I”– or Cookie,  buy a candy-apple red ‘69 Corvette, and go traipsing about the globe like a jet-setter. I’m more, inward looking, more focused on the feelings and emotions of my kids and myself.

Every last one of you know, from reading all my previous blogs, the love I have for my children. It goes beyond any type of measurable amount. Unfathomable doesn’t even begin to describe the amount.
Yet…I’m beginning to ask myself, “When is it gonna be Mommy’s turn?” and I’m feeling incredibly guilty for it.

A few friends have said that I must “wait until they are all grown, than you get to play. It sucks, Lin, but that’s how it goes when you throw your husband out.” is their response, and I can’t help but feel as if I am being chided for divorcing an abusive, adulterous, spendthrift. What the hell? Oh, I guess I was supposed to continue in a loveless and unhappy home with a man who treated the kids like gold, but me like garbage, and spent every dime, of mine, he got his hands on.
Uh-huh.
That ain’t happening. Not in this lifetime, Sunshine.

So, if I take the Wait Until They Are Grown scenario, that means in the year 2021, at the ripe old age of 53…I am allowed to live, and play and find love again?

Are you shittin’ me?
Seriously, are you?

I understand that my job is very demanding and it isn’t very glamorous, and that I can’t bring home “fun stuff, like Krista’s mom does, Mom! She brings her all the new clothes that come in to Macy’s before they go on the racks!” Na-Na informs me, with ever increasing regularity.
Hmmm…oh! I know, howsabout I bring home…’Tom’! (not his real name…don’t ask)
‘Tom’ is F-U-N!
‘Tom’ likes to blow things up and set them on fire! The best part about ‘Tom’, is he enjoys talking about the things he has set ablaze, and sometimes, if he thinks you’re not looking, but he secretly wishes you were, he’ll masturbate right there in the Eval room!
You’re welcome, ya know…for keeping ‘Tom’ exactly where he is, and others like him, for as long as I possibly can.
Anytime you think your job couldn’t possibly get any worse—trade with me, for about two hours.
That is all you will need to appreciate the job you do have, trust me. Sadly, Ken Kesey really did paint a pretty accurate portrait, and I have met my fair share of Nurse Ratched’s and, believe me, their actions are often overlooked. It’s them and the psychiatrists with the God Complex that we can do without.

**Sigh**
Guess Na-Na will just have to settle for pharmacy brand pens…

Back to me, and my MLC…I was recently offered a really good opportunity to further advance my career—but at the expense of uprooting my kids to another state.
It would be a great chance for me to meet new people in my field and surrounding branches, and gee, I’unno…maybe I’d actually get to climax with someone else in the room for the first time since General Washington slept here.

Yet, everytime I begin to broach the subject with those closest to me, all I hear is “The Kids, Linda. You have to think of them first. Are you really being fair to them? Is dragging them two states away in their best interest right now? Stop being so selfish and thinking about your needs, and think about theirs.”

Well, shit. I do think about their needs, every minute of every day of my life—I always have.
I heard the same crap before, when I left their father, but it was because I had finally decided that what was in the “best interest” of my kids, was to have a Mommy who was happy. All the time, and not just when their father wasn’t home.

It absolutely rips me apart on the inside when I am called away to go tend to one of the Daffy-Dils from God’s Special Garden, and I am gone, sometimes days at a time; with no sleep–hence my insomnia and uhhh…all those re-re APP invites I send out at like, 3am…sorry about that. I have curbed my fixation on those “What dos Your Heart Say” quizzes whose results are written like a third grader in need of some serious Grammar tutoring.

I’m still having trouble deciding if this job change would be a good thing, even though it would mean a straight-up 40-60 hour work week, no more “SURPRISE! they got out!” in the middle of the night phone calls, and I am feeling increasingly guilty with each passing day. I have until August to make a decision, and by that time, I will be full blown bat-shit crazy.

I think.
I don’t know…what do you think? Am I wrong for wanting more? Am I somehow putting my needs before my kids? What’s it all about, Alfie?

I met someone!
And he is single!!
And he is a year older than me!!!
And he has a JOB!!!!
And…he doesn’t live with his mother!!!!!

**SIGH**

Yep, you guessed it…it was too good to be true.
Well, I have my suspicions, after you read my tale, let me know what you think.

I will not divulge his real name, so…why don’t we just call him…Duck (if it walks like it, and talks like it, etc)

Duck and I were very, very, casual friends. We contacted each other a few times a month via text or e-mail, nothing more.

Then, right before my most hated Holiday of all, Valentine’s Day, Duck started to contact me again.
This time, on a more regular basis. It was still the same as before, text and e-mail, but meh, I wasn’t looking for anything serious. Any of you that have read the ‘Chronicles of HB’ series, know that I would bring way too much into a relationship, and not very many guys are fond of what they deem baggage.
Although…we did exchange, uhhh, ‘delicate ‘ pictures with each other, his were much more ‘delicately revealing ‘ than mine.

We chatted via IM’s and text about meeting up and pondered setting a date, trying to sync our busy schedules and everything.
Then…like an Early Easter Miracle…I had to go to New York on business!!
Thank you, Vodka! There is a God!

I will admit, I was a tad apprehensive, I wanted everything to be perfect…right down to the most minute detail.
OK, OK, so I’m a little anal…but can ya blame me?
I might actually get the chance to orgasm, with another person in the room! That hasn’t happened in a long, long time.
No. I do not have an extra appendage or third nipple. I’m just picky. Extremely picky about who I choose to let into my life.

So, it is now a few days before my trip, and Duck has become a little distant. He says it is because he is working such long hours and is exhausted when he gets home and is too busy during work to e-mail or text.
OK, I say to him and myself, that is something I can relate to.

It is now two days before my trip and I must book my room reservation. I call Duck and get his voice mail, after the BEEP I say that I need to speak (not text or e-mail) to him, so that we can setup a time, a place and all that jazz.
No phone call back. No text or e-mail either.

Hmmmmmmm…I’m thinking to much again, I think to myself.

The day before I leave, I send him a text that reads “no f–ky f–ky UNLESS you CALL me”
Again I get nothing…until almost 10pm that night.

By that time, I had already went into full blown Panic Mode, and sent yet another voice mail, I felt I needed to explain myself somehow.
I had already envisioned myself, in a Court Room, and having a lawyer ask me, “So Dr. LaLa, in your professional opinion—”
WHAM!
Here comes a loudly cried, “OBJECTION!” and my ‘delicate ‘ pictures are now spread out,  upon a Judge’s bench.
For all the professional world to see…my reputation and my career I can see swirling down the toilet…
I think I think too much…

Duck’s text wasn’t very reassuring either. It said “You’re a little nuts. But that’s a good thing ; ) I never keep anyone’s pic they send me, just habit.”

Well gee, Duck…thanks. But why didn’t you call and tell me this yourself? Are you too tired? How is it, that a man who can text me all that, simply can not find the strength to punch in 10-digits at the end of the day?

The Day has arrived, and I have a funny feeling that something is just not right.

Duck and I text sporadically during the day, and lo! and behold! Duck can’t meet me on Friday…because he will be working until 9pm. But he wants to know about the B&B I had reserved.
I text him, saying I can stay over, but he has to let me know something.
Duck let me know something…three hours later…and it was yet another work related excuse.
I go and cancel my reservation, and yes, I lost 100% of my deposit. No biggie…I will not be making the same mistake again.

No word from Duck until the following day around 5pm. He is tired he texts, he has been working to long he texts.
“Awww…you need a masage?” text I.
“yes…ALL OVER” Duck texts in return.
I never replied.

I may have a few things wrong with me, but hebetude is not one of them.

Duck is either:

• married
• living with someone
• wasn’t really intending on going through with it after all.

What do you think???

You know, Frank wrote that we were a ‘special class‘ and that we deserved a page of our own on Facebook.

Frank is right. We were special, we were different, and we certainly questioned authority.

There are a myriad of other pages and Groups for our beloved AKHS on Facebook, but none of them have that certain ‘it‘ that our class of 1986 did.

I go to these Groups and read some of the Wall Postings, and immediately Noel Coward springs to mind,
“…one great stampede of lips directed at the nearest derriere.”

Our Class were the non-conformists. We dared to question everything and everyone. We said what we wanted, and we paid the price for it. I think I was among the few that had been suspended at least three times, every year, in all four years.

We never ‘settled‘ for the answers given us, we asked the ‘why’s‘ and what ‘for’s‘, early on, the nickname Saint Thomas was given to me during one year in Religion Class.

Among our class of ‘bad kids’ came Graduates, who are Doctors, and Lawyers, NASA Engineers, Mathematicians, and Scientists. We have individuals that are within the top names of Fashion & Design among New York’s elite, we have Career Marines, Army, and Navy, both Enlisted and Officer. We have Business Owners and CPA’s, and we even have a few Educators.

How’s that for a class that always seemed to be in trouble for something or other?

We are a Class of Successes, not a Class of Failures, as few thought we would undoubtedly end-up as career criminals.

We still are unafraid, we still remember our four years at AKHS, but we remember the whole, not just the pretty parts.

Remember, all you that have graduated after us, and those who still continue to,

“Cherish your visions; cherish your ideals; cherish the music that stirs in your heart,
the beauty that forms in your mind, the loveliness that drapes your purest thoughts,
for out of them will grow delightful conditions, all heavenly environment;
of these if you but remain true to them,
your world will at last be built.”
~~~ James Allen

This was originally posted over on another web site, so a few of you may have read this before. I have finally gotten our Cause ‘Carlos’s Friends’ off the ground and running. This story is for everyone who hasn’t read it before or for those who wish to read it again.

From myself, Carlos, and all of our family, thank you, so very, very much.

This is the story of myself and my son. Our struggle to understand a strange new language, and a new way of living.

After a relatively easy pregnancy and delivery, both uncomplicated, I gave birth to a beautiful 9 pound 10 ounce baby boy. My first son, and third child, we named him Carlos.

Carlos was a very happy baby. He always smiled, and laughed. He loved when you would read or sing to him. He would follow you everywhere with his eyes. Carlos did everything early, in terms of milestones. Sitting up on his own, rolling over, crawling, walking, even talking and potty training, were all done much earlier than his older sisters.

When Carlos was about 26 months old, I noticed a change in him. He began to revert back to ‘jargon’ or ‘baby babble’ and he would become increasingly frustrated whenever there was a slight change in venue.
For example, we always took the same route home from the grocery store, and if one day we took a different route home, he would become uncontrollable & sob hysterically. Try driving with a screaming 2 year old, AND his older sisters all telling you, “Mom! Mom! MOM!!MOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!! Carlos is SCREAMING!!!”
Carlos also had begun to bang his head, have horrible temper tantrums while sleeping, and began to exhibit symptoms of OCD–he was fascinated with UNO Cards. He would line them up, in numerical order AND in order of color ALPHABETICALLY! I thought that not only being able to count from 1 to 9 and being able to alphabetize colors before he could even read was phenominal.

It’s no secret that I have a background in psychology, so while all of these things may have seemed harmless to others, I knew that was not the case.

I knew, my beautiful Sunshine Boy, as we had come to call him, was exhibiting signs of Autism.
I immediately made all the ‘right’ appointments. Carlos had his MRI’s, his EEG’s, his appointments with Early Intervention.
We were able to begin to combat this baffling disease early–when Carlos was only 29-30 months old. He entered the Ken-Crest South School until he was ready for Kindergarten. Ken-Crest is a wonderful place for children with disabilities. Carlos learned to talk again, and I was perfectly fine with knowing that, while my son may never run to me with outstretched arms and wild abandon that other three-year olds do, at that moment in our journey, just to hear him say ‘Mom’ and see his smile were enough for me.

Carlos stayed at Ken-Crest until he was ready to enter a ‘regular’ Kindergarten class. He had been evaluated, and it was decided that the School district would ‘mainstream’ him, with his TSS. His birthday falls after the cut-off date for enrollment, so he started when he had just turned six.

His Kindergarten teacher was, in my opinion, an Angel sent from Heaven. She helped my son and I can honestly say, she loved my son. She understood him, and she helped him in more ways than any teacher could.

I am proud to say, that Carlos was the FIRST child in the history of the School District to be awarded First Honors in Kindergarten, and he has been awarded the same while in First Grade as well.

Carlos is now in Second and doing equally well, except for some problems with reading. While Carlos is reading at a Third Grade level, as is par for the course with most children diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, his comprehension skills are lacking.

Many people knock Philadelphia and Pennsylvania for being a crime filled city full of derelicts, and corrupt City Officials. While some of this may be true, it certainly isn’t all of it. Living in Pennsylvania does have it’s advantages.

Our Governor, Ed Rendell, is one of the strongest advocates and lobbyists for Children with Special Needs. Even though I may not always see eye-to-eye on a lot of his political issues, I will continue to support Governor Rendell in his efforts.

Carlos and I continue on Our Journey of Learning. He is currently enrolled in a Martial Arts School where he is doing very well, and he enjoys it. He has a purity of both heart and mind that I have yet to meet in anyone that doesn’t have the Gift of Autism.

Yes, I see Autism as a gift, not as a curse or as something to be ashamed of.
Autism has taught me that things really are cut and dry, in almost all situations, there can be no ‘middle ground’.
Autism has taught me to appreciate and celebrate the smallest of things, and not to wait for something ‘bigger’ to throw a party.

God gave me the greatest gift of all, my Sunshine Boy, and Autsim & Asperger’s only made that gift all the better.

With Thanksgiving over, and the trek to and from the Armpit of The World, otherwise known to me as Newark Intl. Airport to drop off my sister (they changed the name, now it’s Newark Liberty Airport, but what they have freed us all from, still remains a mystery) I had shopping on the brain!

Now, I love…wait, scratch that…I adore shopping. However, I am a Rapid Fire Shopper. I know exactly what I want before I go in, and I don’t play games. I will step on your feet, pull your hair, or gently ‘bump’ you out of the way to get my item before you do.

However, I don’t ‘do’ Black Friday. I never have. Even before the blessed gift of Online Shopping. Too many people, and way too many nut jobs all grouped together in the Toy Aisle.

So, like I’ve done every year since it began, I shopped Cyber Monday.

Before embarking on my Quest for Savings, I asked the kids what they wanted from Santa.

“OK you guys.” I began, “What do you want from Santa this year?”
“I want cars, lots and lots of cars. Oh! And I want the remote control kind too.” HB declared.
HB usually asks for cars every year, so I wasn’t surprised.
Then, he hit me with, “Cuppala more things, I want a WebKinz, and I want that Frog thing that helps ya read.”
Screeching laughter from Na-Na as she said, “A WebKinz, HB?!?!? Oh my GAWD! Those are for GIRLS!. Why do you want a WebKinz?”
HB looked at her from the side of his eyes and blinked as he answered, “So I can use the ‘puter an’ play games wif my girlfriends. AN has one, and so does BG, and MN, and even a few of the BOYS have them Na-Na. So, you can go scratch yer butt in da corner for all I care.”

The Twelve Year Old howled with laughter, and SB giggled, then he asked,
“Can I have some cars, too? Not too many, maybe like 10 or 15? And some books about football, and some games?”
“Sure hon–” I began, before HB interrupted with,
“Oh! I want books too! And games!”
“OK, HB. I got it, can you let everyone else get a turn and–” once again, interrupted, this time by Na-Na
“God HB! Why can’t you just be quiet? You always have to open your mouth and interrupt everybody!”
“Kinda like what you just did, IHOF?” he retorted.
Before WWIII broke out, I shut them both up, by saying Santa wouldn’t bring anything if they kept fighting.

Then, the Bomb went off.

“SANTA ISN’T EVEN REAL, MOM! SO STOP LYING!” Na-Na huffed with her 10-year old superiority.

Everyone was quiet for a minute, then a chorus of, “Be quiets” and “YES HE IS!!” began to fill my Living Room.

I stopped the noise with The Mommy Look, and continued.

“Twelve Year Old, what do you want?” I asked.
“Linkin Park CD, Three Days Grace CD, the Twilight books, and the new Vampire Knight books.” she rattled off with much ease, I could tell she had been anticipating this question.
“No clothes? No boots?” I asked.
“Well, how about you get me these boots from Vans, and like, a pair of jeans, and 2 shirts. Then, gimme a Gift Card to wherever, I don’t care, so I can buy my own clothes.”
“Fair enough.” I answered, adding, “You don’t have a particular store in mind?”
“Gimme a few days, ‘K?”
“OK.” Turning to Na-Na who was shooting daggers at me with her eyes, because I had dared to make her go last, I asked her the same thing.
“Dereon Jeans, 2 pair. Apple Bottom Jeans, 2 pair. You can find them in my size at Macy’s. I know, because I went there with Daddy. OK, I want a sweater dress with a pair of matching leggings and coordinating leather boots. I also need boots for school. I want 3 sweaters, and 4 shirts, 2 button down shirts, some Yoga Pants, anything but white, or green, purple would be fantastic if you can find it. Ummm, yea, I want some books too.”
Dumbfounded, I asked, “Is that all?”
“OH! All that stuff you can find at either Neiman’s or Nordstrom.”
I just sat there. I don’t even think I blinked, I may have twitched, though.

After dinner and ‘bafs’, I was finishing up some work on the computer, when HB walked over to me.
“Mommy?” he asked, very quietly, which is so unlike him.
“What is it baby?” I answered.
“Ya know that stuff Na-Na was sayin’ ’bout Santa?” he took a deep breath and continued, “It’s not true, is it?”
The look in his eyes almost killed me.
How he managed to hold that much hope in something he had never really saw, except for the Mall Santa’s etc, was astounding to me. What was also amazing, was the faith he had in me, to tell him the truth.

I thought for a minute, then sighed as I pulled him onto my lap.

“OK, HB” I began, “Here is the truth. Yes, there really is a Santa Claus. But, Mommy has to send him money for your toys and when you turn 10-years old, or you start eating at IHOF, whichever comes first, Santa stops coming, and then Mommy buys your presents for you.”
I gave him a few minutes to digest that information.

HB reached up, wrapped his arms around my neck and hugged me tight.
“Thanks Mommy.” he whispered. “I knew she was wrong. I guess we’ll wait an’ see what happens when I’m 10, huh? Coz I won’t be eatin’ at IHOF. EVER.” Then, he gave me a kiss goodnight and off to bed he went.

But not before stopping at the doorway of Na-Na’s room and saying, “You. I am done wif you. Santa does come here for me, an’ SB. Don’t you try an’ ruin my Chrissmas, Na-Na, just coz you eat at IHOF.”

I braced myself for yet another Prize Fight between those two.
But…
Lo! and Behold!
It was a Christmas Miracle come early!
Na-Na said, “I’m sorry, HB. You’re right, there really is a Santa Claus. C’mere.”
And she kissed & hugged him goodnight.

Hello everyone! I apologize for being away for so long, but things have been a tad busy around here, ‘Tis the Season and all.

My little sister, Amy, came to visit us over the Thanksgiving Holiday. Needless to say all the kids, The 12 Year Old included, were extremely excited.

Amy is a fantastic Aunt to them, the kind that always gives the right present and always knows just what to do.
My sister adores children. Television Children to be more precise. the first instance of arguing, or turmoil, sends her straight to the toilet to vomit. I’m glad my kids have stopped calling her ‘Aunt Chicken‘, though that was all my fault to begin with.
The last Holiday Visit, Amy’s hair was short, very, very short. When she woke up in the morning, it was sticking up in the back just like a, well, a chicken’s butt.
I forgot which one of my kids asked for what, but I told them, “Ask Aunt Chicken to get it, she’s in the kitchen.”
The name Aunt Chicken stuck for about two years.

“When’s Aunt May-me gettin’ here?” HB asked for four hundred forty-seventh time in a week.
“On the twenty-first, HB.” I answered with a sigh. Oh be quiet! You would sigh too if you had been hearing it as much as I had been.
HB continued his concentration of a SpongeBob cartoon when Na-Na came bounding down the stairs, to ask,
“Mom. When is Aunt May-me coming?”
“The twenny-first, Na-Na. Now shush! SpongeBob is on!” Well, that took care of that.
Until dinnertime.
Same barrage of questions. When is Aunt May-me coming? When is the twenty-first?
And then, The Countdown Began.

The day my sister arrived, to say she was exhausted would be putting it mildly. Amy lives in Berlin and works for Sony EU.
She adores Europe, and I am slightly jealous. I would love to be free of kids, and in Europe. For all of fifteen minutes.
Then I would be bored to tears. Sure, I would have friends, but c’mon, who could ever top my four kids?

The night before Thanksgiving I prepared all my side dishes, the sweet potatoes (which make me gag), the god-awful time honored classic, Green Bean Casserole, the Baked Mashed Potatoes with cream cheese and sour cream, that could probably double for Spackle in a pinch.

For weeks, HB had been pestering me about pumpkin pie, and apple pie.
The last time I tried to make an apple pie, I put the adults into a diabetic sugar coma, and the kids were on a sugar high for 18 hours straight. I caved, and a Bakery apple pie was bought, along with a sweet potato pie.
I made my pumpkin pie, let it cool and called HB into the kitchen.

“HB! The pumpkin pie is done.”
“YAY! Gimme da first piece! Wif LOTS of whipped cream!”
HB had already eaten 2 whole tubs of Cool-Whip himself, so I let him try the pie alone first.
“MMMMMMM….Punk’in pie! My favorite!”
“Here, HB. Taste the pie first, and then tell me how big of a piece you want.”
I wish I had gotten it on video. Not sure where or from whom he had heard about pumpkin pie, but it definitely was not what he was expecting.
He gagged. Twice.
“YUCK! What the hell? Are you trying to kill me? That stuff is nas-tee!”
“HB! Don’t say ‘hell’ and no, I’m not trying to kill you. You“, I reminded him, “where the one going on and on about pumpkin pie for days now.”
“Yea, well if I knew it was gonnna taste like crap, I wouldda told ya to give it to Angus.”

I just blinked, and racked my brain for some ingredient that I may have missed. Because, not to toot my own horn, but my pumpkin pies rock!
“I’m calling Gramma ‘n tellin her what you tried to do. Let’s see if you get anything for Crissmas, MOMMY!”
I just blinked again.

Amy came into the kitchen, “Lynn, are you OK?” then, seeing the look on my exhausted face, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can you just taste this?” I asked as I handed her a forkful of pumpkin pie.
“Oh my God!” my heart skipped a beat—damn—I had forgotten something!
“This is delicious! How do you make it so good?” I wanted to scream from the rooftops, the awesomeness of my pumpkin pie!
“This is just as good as Grandma’s was.”
I choked up a bit, because her and I had been to visit our Grandparents and Great-Grandparents graves two days before and to put Christmas Wreaths on them.

I cleaned up the kitchen, went to sleep much to late because my Mom had sent me a huge box of books, and I was reading until 3am.
The alarm rang at 5am, and it was time to prep the turkey, put in my signature cranberry, sausage & sage stuffing, and start the dough for the dinner rolls.

Dinner came and went, with a few minor glitches, those glitches involving HB and Na-Na, IHOF and what Na-Na deems ‘deplorable table manners‘.
Hmmm, Na-Na is getting a C+ in English this semester, by uses ‘deplorable‘ in a sentence correctly?
I’m going to have to look into that one.

Thanksgiving left us all with full bellies, hearts, and very, very thankful that Aunt May-me had come to visit us for a week.
And I didn’t have to offer her a Valium even once!

***Part II will include taking Amy to the Airport, My Adventures on Cyber Monday, and everything else so far.***

It was late Saturday afternoon, SB and The Twelve Year Old were spending time with their Dad, who had agreed to watch them for me so I could embark on a trek worthy of Jesus—The Hooters on Scooters Pub Crawl sponsored by the Ladies Auxiliary Club of the Riverfront NYA. It was an event to remember. On our twenty-four (give or take a few blocks) block trek, we hit nine pubs, count ‘em, nine pubs—starting at 8:00pm and ending at 11:30pm. Most, if not all, of us are Irish, cast iron livers are ingrained in our DNA. So the two beers at each bar, accompanied by shots were a night to remember…in pictures.

We started at the Club and I had a ‘few‘. A few for me is about five…in an hour. Then we began the Crawl. Some courageous gals were actually on Scooters. I was not that brave. I can barely walk when I am ossified, can you imagine me on a Scooter?

I’ll get to the Crawl later on, in a different blog, when I can find my camera, right now, I want to talk about the Wisdom of HB and his Electoral Picks.

Their father is a Teamster, and Sen. Obama has the backing of The Teamsters Union, so we received a flyer in the mail on Saturday, heralding the cry of “Vote For Obama!”

HB loves to get the mail, and read who each piece is for, and when he saw that, he said, “Ugh. I hate him.”
“Hate who, HB?”
“Obama.”
“Why, HB?”
I never discuss politics with my kids, they are too young, I think, to worry about all that right now. Hell, being a kid is hard enough without worrying about Our Country going into the toilet.
HB’s reply, ” ‘Coz he sucks.”
“Well, what about McCain, HB?”
“Oh, he sucks, too.”
“What?!?! Why do they suck, HB?”
” ‘Coz they get on my nerves, Mommy.”
“What do you mean, ‘they get on your nerves‘ ?”
Holy Moses with a staff! He’s only five!
“Their commercials. They get on my nerves. All they say is ‘Obama did this bad stuff’ and ‘McCain did that bad stuff’. No body is saying the good stuff. No body’s saying what they want us to do to get the good stuff from ‘em. They make no sense Mom.”

For once, Na-Na was speechless, and so was I.

Has the campaign actually reached the minds of Kindergarten children, and are they actually seeing something we aren’t?

I asked, “OK, HB, if you could pick who would be President, who would it be?”
Without batting an eye or looking up from his new ‘Skippyjon Jones‘ book, he replied, “Santa Claus.”
“SANTA CLAUS????” screeched Na-Na
Ahhhh…I knew she wouldn’t stay quiet for long.
With a sideways glance, he simply said, “IHOF, again?”
“Be quiet!” she seethed. At least it’s better than her standard ‘Shut UP HB’.
With a sigh, HB explained, “Look, all ya gotta do to make Santa happy is keep your toys in the toy box, make your bed, not hit SB, try not to cut Na-Na’s hair when she’s sleeping….”
“WHAT??? YOU TRIED TO CUT MY HAIR??”
“Na-Na, please, let him finish.”
“See? There she goes again. Yap, yap, yappity, yap. Go take a nap, Na-Na.”
“Finish what you were saying, HB.” I tried to diffuse the bomb that was about to go off between the two of them.
“Well, if you do the stuff that Santa wants, he brings you the stuff you want. Simple. Santa Claus for President.”
I was silent for a minute. HB looked up from his book, and said,
“The End.”

Sometimes, I yearn for the clarity of a five-year old.

The other night, after homework, dinner and ‘bafs’ my kids and I were discussing Halloween.
We all love the Autumn/Winter Holidays, and everything they entail. From decorating to shopping, to baking to watching TV Specials, we love all of it.
Even The 12 Year Old…and she loathes just about everything this year.
Sigh
I sure don’t miss being twelve.

Na-Na opened the discussion with her usual Oscar-worthy dramatics.
“Mom.” she began. “I refuse, do you hear me? I refuse to be a witch this year.”
“OK, Na-Na. You can be whatever you want.” I replied, then added, “As long as you are covered.”
SB chimed in, “Yea, I guess being a witch the other 364 days is enough for her.”
“HA!” laughed HB.
“See? And this, is why, I can never have a mature conversation with them in the room.” Na-Na claimed—with as much ‘maturity’ as any 9-year old can muster.
“Well, I’m gonna be SpiderMan, Mommy!” HB piped in.
“Again?” came the distant voice of The Twelve Year Old.
“Yes.”
“But, HB!” Na-Na screeched, “You were that last year!!”
“And?”
“And? And? It’s old HB!”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is.”
“Nope.”
“Oh, yes. It’s soooooooo last year, HB.”
“You ate at IHOF again today.”
The Twelve Year Old and SB laughed uproariously.
“Well, I wanna be a Pirate. With a parrot. I don’t want a sword, Mom.”
SB had staked his claim to a Pirate Costume sometime in August and I had already purchased one. Now I have to scramble to find a parrot for his shoulder. I’m sure HB will enjoy the sword, but Angus probably will not.
“Hell-looo-oooooh! I was talking first! Anyone remember that?” Na-Na exclaimed
“We’re all trying to forget.” That makes twice The Twelve Year Old has contributed to the conversation! A new record for our household!
“Oh be quiet!” Na-Na answered with a little flourish of her head.
“Anyway. I found a really cute costume online Mom, it’s a Devil. I printed it out when I had Computer Class. Wanna see it?”
“Sure, Na-Na. Lemme see.”

Nothing prepared me for this:

She had found it over at buycostumes.com

“You are not wearing that. Not until you are married.”
“Lemme see.” droned The Twelve Year Old, then she added “Oh. My. GAWD!! You’d look like a freakin’ hooker!”
SB and HB had appeared out of nowhere and were looking over my shoulder.
“Na-Na. That is a grown-up’s costume. You are a kid.” said SB
“You can’t wear that anyway, Na-Na,” chimed in HB, “ya don’t have boobs. Ya prolly need boobs to hold that thing up.”
“SHUT UP HB!!!!” and then, “Mom! I am not a baby! I refuse to wear a baby devil costume!”
“Your butt won’t fit in a baby’s costume, anyway.”
“SHUT UP HB!!! I wasn’t even talking to you!”
“Na-Na, don’t say ’shut up’ and later we’ll find a costume more for you.”
“Whatever.” and off to her room she stomped.

I turned to The Twelve Year Old, “How about you?”
“I’m just going to paint my face and hand out candy this year.”
“Are you sure? You used to love Halloween. You would torture Gramma for costumes from Disney World.”
“Oh GAWD!”
“It’s true! You did!” I was desperately looking for the little girl that just had to be somewhere still inside.
“Let’s see…” I began recounting the various Halloween costumes my Mother had purchased for her from Disney World in Florida, “Your very first Going Out Halloween you were only two, and you wanted to dress up like a Nurse–just like Gramma! Then the Disney stuff started. First it was Tinker Bell..”
“Blech!”
“Then it was Esmeralda the Gypsy from The Hunchback of Notre Dame…”
“AAAACK!”
“Then you were Sleeping Beauty…and the gown was all pink and sparkles!”
“NO EFF’ING WAY!!” (she always says ‘eff’ing’ never the real word…such a toughie)
“Oh yes eff’ ing way!
“Then it was Cinderella”
“STOP! You have got to be making this up.”
“I’m not! I have pictures!”
“You also have friends with PhotoShop.”
“I did not fake your childhood memories!” I exclaimed with incredulity.
“Whatevs. Just help me paint my face so I look dead on Halloween.”

I sat on the sofa, dejected. All hope of reaching her inner child had vanished. Oh how I curse the age of twelve!
“It’s OK, Mommy. She eats at IHOF with Na-Na.” reassured HB.
“Yea, Mom. We still wanna go Trick-or-Treating. Who doesn’t love free candy?” SB said, patting my shoulder.
“Well, as long as it’s not ‘want some free candy, little boy’ and the guy is creepy and eats at IHOF.” HB added.

He is right you know. Who doesn’t love free candy? As long as it’s not, ya know…

Well into the second month of his Quest for Kindergarten Dominance, HB has decided to call a truce–of sorts–with Big T.

Walking home from school the other day, which by the way is a total of 14 blocks, a trek worthy of Jesus I’m sure, HB announced, “Imma take it easy on Big T,” he paused to kick a rock, “until at least Janna-ary.”

I was in shock! Total, complete, utter disbelief washed over me. What was going on? I didn’t raise my children to be quitters!

Holding his wee hand in mine, I continued the conversation.
“Janna-ary, HB? I think you meant ‘Jan-u-ar-y’ ”
“That’s what I said, Mom.” he sighed.
“OK, why are you waiting until January? Is everything OK?”
My maternal instincts kicked in, and I worried about him changing his mind because the other kids didn’t want to be friends with such a strong minded *snort* personality type.
“Big T has this board, Mom.”
“OK.”
“An’ it has Da Rules on it and it has color cards next ta’ every bodies name.”
“I see. And this is a bad thing or a good thing?”
“Bad thing if ya get flipped! Green is where ya wanna stay at Mom, if ya want a treat before the bell rings.”
HB then went on to relay the Horrors of Being Flipped, and that he had been flipped a few times.
“Green means good, Yellow means you’re halfway to trouble, and Red, well, I don’ wanna talk about Red.”
“Have you ever been flipped to Red, HB?”
“NO WAY! Only Yellow, Mom! I promise.”
“Good, HB. I’m very glad to hear that. I wish you would stay on Green–”
“MOM! Do you have any idea–”
“Yea, HB I do.”
“You do?”
“Yep.”
“Yea, an’ da Octoberfest is commin’ up an’ I don’ wanna miss that an’ I don’ wanna miss the Hadda-ween Party, either.”
“So, you’re gonna stay on Green?”
“Yep.”
“Great!”
“Until Janna-ary.”

It was a gorgeous day, and after everyone was finished with their homework, I dragged the bikes up from the basement, and we all went outside to play.

I left my 12-year-old in charge when I hauled the bikes back in and check on dinner.

About ten minutes later, I called the kids in, and saw that HB & SB were starting with their allergies.
Both were sniffling, and their eyes were puffy and red. Fun times ahead!

“OK. Everyone wash your hands & face. Boys down here with me, girls upstairs in the bathroom.”
“SB, c’mere baby. Mommy is going to give you your allergy medicine.”
“OK Mom.” SB took his medicine, asking, “Can I have some water to wash this down with?”
“Sure baby, here.”
“HB.” nothing.
Well, let me try that again, louder this time, hey maybe the neighbor’s kid will answer,
“HB! Come here honey! Medicine time!”
Silence.
I poke my head out of the kitchen, because I am guessing he had slinked back outside again, but lo! and behold! HB is sitting not ten feet away from me, watching TV.
“HB! I know you heard me.”
“Oh, I know you know I know I heard you too, ya know.”
Yea, I shook my head after that one, as well.
“C’mere, HB and take your allergy medicine.”
“Is it gonna make me sleepy?”
“No HB.”
“Who told ya that? The doctor? Or that nurse?” He said nurse with as much disdain as any 5-year-old could.
“Yes, HB, why?”
“Well, I don’ believe nothin’ that lady says. She told me that needle wouldn’t do nothin’ and I got a huge bruise and  a big ol’ bump and she lied! So I don’ believe nothin’ that comes outta her mouf.”
“Well, the paper from the pharmacy says ‘non-drowsy’ that means it won’t make you sleepy.”
“Don’ believe everything ya read, Mom.”
Huge sigh, “Please HB, just take it.”
“Nah. I’m callin’ Gramma. She won’t lie to me. Where’s the phone?”
HB dialed the phone, and said,
“Gramma? Yea, it’s me, HB”
“Fine” he gave me a sideways glance.
“Listen Gramma,” he then turned his back to me and spoke in a hushed tone “Mommy wants to give me this medicine for my allergies.”

“Yessssssssss—my nose is stuffy. Yessssssss—my eyes are itchy an’ puffy. But–but–but–ARRRRRGHHH!”

Turning to me, he says, “You get this stuff from her, huh?”
I silently nodded.
“OK, look Gramma, all I wanna know is, is this stuff gonna make me sleepy?”
Three blessed minutes of silence followed! I know it was exactly three minutes because I clocked it.
“Well, if you say so, Gramma. I trust you.”
Hanging up the phone, he walked over to the dining room table, and said “Gimme the poison.”

My mom called me well after the kids were all sleeping to ask me what that was all about with HB. I explained it to her and recounted his day, and his semi-truce until Janna-ary. My mother’s stellar reply?

“Ha! You got one just like you! Enjoy!”