Monday, November 28, 2011

The Kitten: World's Best Pillow

Seriously, I have the world’s best cat. No offense to my other cat, but The Kitten has a lot going for her in the way of personality (if not so much by name).

This cat will follow me all day long anywhere and everywhere. I know. This should be annoying. And in fact I’ve had cats who did this and excised a meow on me every chance they got. I wanted to kill them, or put them outside (one and the same). This cat, however, has an attitude something like a cozy pillow. I mean, when you turn and find a pillow on the couch, are you annoyed? Never. Add a purr and this is The Kitten.

A fat, soft, purring pillow everywhere you turn, most often when you feel a nap coming on. A pillow on four legs. One that spends most of the day flat out on her back, her white belly up to the world. I’ve spayed the one cat on earth who is a perfect density for back and side sleepers.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

GTW Editorial: Shopping Strategy

With the holiday season here, it’s safe to say most of these buys are done exclusively by women:

The Emergency Buy
This occurs sometime before midnight Christmas Eve, but not much. It’s when you realize one of your children has one more toy than the others. You can’t bear to think of taking away a toy, storing it in your closet with its red festive wrapping staring at you, waiting to be returned to the store by the evil mother you are.

No, far better to head out to the last store open while the rest of the world is around a kitchen table trying to get out of doing the dishes. You will be standing at a toy store, shelves stripped bare, debating between another Star Wars anything or an Erector set that will make your husband try to catch your eye casually over the children’s heads when they rip it open.

The Revenge Buy
This is when you decide you’ve spent enough on the guy, more than enough on the children and you notice, with no surprise, that there is one gift under the tree with your name on it. One. One. For the very woman who has created Christmas out of a threadbare bank account. One. For the woman who just made a gingerbread house with six hands and zero control. One. For the woman who will try to spread out Christmas morning for at least 15 minutes, carefully unwrapping her gift in sections so that no one notices she has One.

You tell yourself that one present is enough because it is. But there’s that little 9-year-old girl inside of you who is thinking, Are. You. Kidding. Me.

This is when you go out and buy yourself whatever the hell you want.

(Sometimes this is the same year you wake up to a half-dozen gifts you didn’t realize were hidden in the bed of your husband’s pickup truck. He thinks he’s tricky. And he is. But keep whatever you bought yourself anyway.)

The Duplicate Buy
This is when your children say they want Legos. So you get Legos, special ordered from the ends of the earth. You are pleased with yourself, your tenacity, your sleuthing. You can’t wait to see their faces on Christmas morning!

About a week later, your father calls to say he’s bought them Legos. He’s stumbled upon your rare find, in bulk, at Walmart. You bristle. The Legos were your idea. You will keep the Legos and they will open them from you, in front of your very eyes, in the glow of your very own Christmas tree.

That is what you planned and that is what will happen. You tell him this. But he doesn’t hear you because he’s in the middle of a rant about the traffic at the mall the one time he braved it.

The Smurfette Buy
This is when you go out and buy your son a Smurfette figurine. What, why not? You really wanted to get him something he didn’t ask for, didn’t expect, but, most importantly, doesn’t want.

You, on the other hand, have wanted a Smurfette since 1983.

There’s nothing wrong with making sure there are a few presents left in the rumpled wrapping paper on Christmas morning, to be rescued and loved by none other than you.

Bonus: You can also squeeze in a nice lesson on: “It’s the thought that counts,” as you balance Smurfette on the dash of your minivan, tuck her into the pocket of your coat, and perch her on your alarm clock every night.

Here’s to another holiday season! We hope you’ll enjoy the chaos and remember to put a little something for yourself under the tree this year.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Are you expecting?

A friend of mine just posted this awesome entry about being asked if she was expecting when she was not. We all have some version of this story, don't we? If you don't, step off. If you do, let me share mine.

It was maybe 4 years ago and I'd been talked into modeling an outfit from a downtown store at our GTWoman Network Nite.

A) The modeling gig had started out shaky. The boutique had maybe two tops in its long closet-like store that might fit me. I didn't feel large until I ripped the armpit out of one of the shirts in the dressing room. B) I surprised myself, marching on, fearless (and trapped) in the face of a store full of single digit sizes. C) With some elbow grease (literally), we finally found one top, one pair of jeans and one pair of boots to fit my lovely 5-foot-8 frame.

In the end, I felt sexy and wild and carefree - my cleavage was showing! I had cowboy boots on! I had a lovely flowy top that showed my BLACK LACE bra. Hot stuff!

There was lots of ribbing at the actual Network Nite about the peek of my black bra, there were a few drinks ordered, photos taken. Truth be told, we were having a blast. I was thinking of keeping those gorgeous red cowboy boots that would set me back over $200.

So I did my thing, strutted the length of the room, and flashed that bra.

Then, just after stepping out of the beautiful hot spotlight, a woman whose face I can not remember but wish I did now, asked me...

"When are you expecting?"

I was like, '"Expecting? Expecting what? A compliment??? Any minute now, bitch."

So pissed. Still. 


Thursday, November 10, 2011

Book excerpt: The Wedding Reception

Lainey entered the wedding reception with high expectations. She was overdue. The year had brought her enough angst to fuel a college kegger. Tonight, she had a babysitter, a hotel room, dancing shoes, and little doubt she would even the score.

She found her name place card in the most delightful of places: at the children's table. A perfect place to be at a child-free party.

And so it was that the youngest generation in attendance, all now in their 30s and 40s, would reap the benefits of becoming the children's table, their kids tucked in for the night and out of sight, their parents on the far side of the room, their hotel within walking distance.

Lainey tasted the promise in her glass of champagne. She sat with Nick to her right and her sister-in-law Jen and cousin Christi and their handsome men to the left. The trio of women had a history of allegiance and, when they saw the lay of the land, they moved the men to one side of the table and themselves to the other. Lainey needed this night, one of solidarity with her sisterhood.

They ate each of the six courses in a polite and normal manner whenever their parents or the bride and groom approached the table. Otherwise, they spent the meal plotting. 

The night wore on slowly at first, the girls growing more and more fidgety in their finery. Lainey wanted to drink more and dance sooner. The line was long at the bar and her patience was short. The music, while on offer, was slow and sedate for mingling.

Lainey wanted to fast-forward things and lose her head a little. Was that too much to ask? she begged the girls, bending her head to theirs at the table.
This was all that Jen needed to hear. After the groomsmen’s toasts and the couple’s first dance, she hatched the escape plan.

“There’s a bar and restaurant downstairs in this building,” she said, pointing to the floor between her sparkly heels. “We’ll go for shots. It will move things along.”

Lainey raised an eyebrow in question to the other guests.

“No husbands, no parents,” Jen said.

She did not hesitate. This covert operation was to be Lainey, Jen and Christi alone.

 “Meet at the elevator in 15 minutes,” Jen's eyes mapped the shortest route for them. “Now spread out.”

“Wait. What shall we tell any inquisitors?” Christi asked, her mother’s eyes burning holes in the back of her head.

“It’s a supply run, for, you know, girl things,” Lainey said.

“Whose time of the month is it?” Jen asked.

“His,” Lainey said, pointing to a groomsman who had mysteriously appeared, ready to lead the runaway trio, his credit card in hand.

At 10:15 p.m., they were at the elevator as planned and, just as importantly, with no one chaperoning them.

Their first shot was tequila, which Lainey had never done.

“Never?” Jen accused.

“Ever?” Christi screeched.

“Never.” Lainey looked at them dead on.

“Us either,” they said. “We’ll ask the bartender for a little how-to.”

The salt and the lime and the tequila went down as instructed and the girls giggled and congratulated each other and paid their buyer a fair amount of attention. This too, Lainey had never done. So this is what it feels like, she thought. Not bad.

Back at the reception, Nick looked at her and smiled. He had done some quicker figuring than his mother and, while unsure of the exact goings on, appeared to approve.

“So, who’s not getting lucky tonight?” It was an aunt, back to cross-reference their story.

“Nick,” the women said in unison. It was as if the tequila had synced them. Also, they had decided in the elevator that, if pressed, this would be their answer.
The aunt finally wandered away but only after the three women made a careful study of boredom and tried not to speak, breathe or even appear alive in the next several minutes. Once the aunt was back to her own table and distracted by Great-Grandma, they all raced to the dance floor, scooping up their men or someone else’s en route.

“Round Two in 15 minutes!” The underground message wove through the dance floor in seconds.

By 10:45, they had another buyer waiting by the elevator and they remained undetected by the older generation. They felt like teenagers again.

“If only we’d get carded,” lamented Christi, double the legal age, as she did a shot of vodka.

The bartender was happy to see them back and happier yet that their crowd had grown in size by the third escape. It seemed unlikely that they would find another groomsman to throw down $60 for round three, but they, in fact, did.
This time it was Southern Comfort. Whiskey was another first for Lainey. But she didn’t admit it this time, because this time she didn’t care. The shots and champagne from before were doing their thing.

By the time they made their way back to the reception, the supply runs were being deemed innovative, historic even. In the elevator they named themselves after the last shot and became the “Dirty Girl Scouts."

Back upstairs, their manly buyers were enjoying the show and the dance floor was hopping. Their husbands, it seemed, were content with watching from afar and awaiting the result of the escapes, all in due time.

Lainey tried to restrain herself but found she had to jump on her brother-in-law and get a piggyback ride around the dance floor after the third shot. This was met with rousing approval from the Girl Scouts.

By the fourth round with Jäger, the mothers and aunts were completely perplexed, the husbands were apprised of the scheme and all parties on the inside were happy.

There was a second piggyback involved and a photo booth moment that, in the light of day, would be evidence used to disprove the story that any "supplies" were needed by any one of the girls.

By the time the DJ announced "last song," Lainey was happy, her hair was a mess and Nick was holding her up. She liked the warm air that met them as they spilled out into the streets of downtown Grand Rapids with her sister-in-law, her cousins and their buyers in tow. And she knew that while morning would not be pretty, tonight was.

It was a night that she needed, when there was nothing more in the world than new dresses and bare shoulders, friends pressed one against the other, squeezing into a full elevator or through a door two at a time.

Going anywhere and nowhere, for no reason at all. None. Except to see what would happen next, together.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Motherhood: Home Alone

It’s sad but true. I feel safer staying home with my two children than I do staying home alone. Translation: The first and third graders are my protection.

But they are finally old enough to go off to deer camp for a night or two… leaving me alone. Very alone. And here’s what last Saturday night looked like for me:

No kids, no Star Wars, no Beyblades. Freedom? Wrong. It felt more like a setup. It was too quiet. I could see the carpeting and the entire length of the dining room table. No one was screaming. No one was accusing me of backtalking. Someone was putting me on, no doubt. What better way to get killed than to be relaxing in your own home?

I was on edge, waiting for nightfall. I drifted around the house. There was plenty TO do, but it felt wrong spending, what might be my last night on earth, on dishes or laundry. No, it had to be something fantastic, remarkable. So I got crazy — I rented a movie, ordered a pizza and drank a forbidden Mountain Dew.

This felt quite awesome for the first stretch. I felt like a college kid again, illicit, fat and happy on the couch. I watched Three’s Company for the first time in 10 years. Two episodes. I felt reckless and safe.

I grew antsy before long though, the feeling of relaxation foreign and mighty on my conscious. But I persevered. I dug my heels in. I watched, I ate, I tied into a Lifetime movie. Look at me go! Then. It took a digger. The movie turned out to be about a guy who stalks his girlfriend. And just when she thinks he’s gone, she goes to bed to find him sitting there. Waiting.

This, as you can imagine, brought the party to a screeching halt. Every door in the house shifted in its frame and something scampered across the basement floor. I found myself a corner of the couch, papered it with cold sweat and fear, and watched the remainder of the movie, and the back door, with as much courage as I could.

Well, with that raging success, I figured a second movie was in order. This movie turned out to be about alcoholism. A Will Ferrell movie with a moral theme? Major disappointment. But I pressed on, watching the character fall into a daze, sitting in his chair, alone and shaking, much like myself.

And that’s when things got out of hand.

Suddenly I noticed that my left arm was numb. OMG, heart attack. I leapt from the couch, shaking my arm and patting down my chest. Panic rose. There was no one to help me, no 7- or 9-year-old paramedics on hand. I was completely, utterly alone. I would die here in a pizza and peanut butter stupor.

Then I lay down on the couch. Yes, I had ridden hard that day on the trails. That’s right, SO maybe it was like tennis elbow, but of my entire biking arm. It was just overtired, overused. I lay there and waited for the arm to reappear on my nerve database.

Then I discovered this: The left side of my face was numb too. A stroke! Sheer terror walked in as I slapped my face a few times and smiled repeatedly, making sure my mouth moved. I could have gone to the mirror but instead I stayed on the couch, helpless, no children here to save me, again. I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Just then, I saw it was 10 p.m. Finally, I had killed enough time to go to bed. I slipped under the covers with my hammer on the nightstand and closed my eyes. Now all that was left was another eight hours of darkness. What I wouldn’t give for a couple tough, dangerous little kids to cuddle up with and keep me safe for the night.