"Framily"

"Framily" - a network of friends who care for you and yours.

I hope you, my readers dear, have been blessed with a "Framily" or "Framilies" at some point in your lives.  I believe that my own life has been made all the richer through the care and security I have found among so many people, who, though they are unrelated by blood, choose me, love me anyway, even though they don't HAVE to.  They do this, sometimes as passionately as my own flesh and blood, and I believe this has less to do with who I am and more to do with who they are....

I recently had the honor of attending a 75th birthday party for the patriarch of one of my childhood framilies.  I spent so much time at my friend Lucy's house as a teenager that I called her mother "Mom."  Now that I am a grown up and mother myself, I can see what an extraordinary gift that was.  With limited time and resources, such as we have when we are busy raising our own families, Julia and John raised two sons and two daughters and made room at their dinner table for me many a night.  I consider myself so lucky to have been counted among their "kids" too. When I visited, I was expected to follow the rules they laid down for their own kids, a small price to pay in order to be included in the over-flowing love to be found in that small house, along a back road in the tiny town of  Lopez, PA.  I was a quiet kid and Lucy's dad loved to embarrass me by pinching my cheeks or giving me a big hug and a smooch.  Lucy's oldest brother, Junior, would give me "tough lessons" --actually teach me how to punch people!  I guess he thought I needed it.  After 30some years of being apart, we all reunited for John's birthday party.  As I was standing in the picnic line, John came up to pinch my cheeks and give me a smooch.  A bit later, Junior walked by and punched me in the arm, just like old times.  My first thought was, "Wow, he's matured, NOT!"  But as I stood there, watching him walk away, I couldn't stop grinning, for with one smooch from the elder and one simple junior-high punch from the younger, they told me something I didn't know I needed to hear, and that was:  "You are still you, I am still me, you are still my framily."  The world is so slippery and confusing sometimes, it's nice to know that I am still able to pick up a Stacey-shaped push pin and place myself firmly upon the grid where Julia's kitchen chair intersects with April 10, 1983.  Or perhaps I never really left...perhaps my 17 year old self still exists in that kitchen in Lopez.  She is giggly and unaware of all the missteps she will make and misfortunes she will face in the years to come.  I know, I know, we can't go home again, as they say, but  if I ruled the world, and let's face it, it's my blog, I can write whatever I want, I would amend that to say "you can't go home again--to STAY, but you can visit for short moments." Moments that crystallize like frozen breath on a wintry morning in 'The Icebox of Pennsylvania'-- little pockets of time which slow doooown, ....staaaanndd stiiiillll...stop, and then, BAM! Timetakesupit'shurriedpaceoncemore, and we are left disoriented, but grateful to have been allowed that glimpse.

I grew up in the country, on a farm, in the mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania.  I have an older cousin, a great writer I am just now realizing, who once referred to Forksville, PA as a "little silverware town". (Shout out to Tom McC!) It's part of a small, rural community; big city journalists will often refer to this type of community as "insular" or "closely knit".  Forksville may have been closely knit, however, we lived on the outskirts, which meant that I could stand in my front yard and not actually see the houses of any of my "neighbors".  But, oh, what a lucky girl I was, for my BESTEST FRIEND from first grade onward lived in one of those nearby houses which I could not see.  My love for Janie could fill an entire blog entry, but I will save that for another time.  Today I will tell you about her family--my very first framily.  The cool thing was that she and I were the same age, both the eldest children in our families, and the only girls.  We each had a younger brother, also the same age as each other and also best buds--we didn't call it "bromance" back in the day, but that's what it was, and still is.  And, we each had another younger brother, who differed in age by a year, but didn't let that get in the way of a life-long friendship. Through sleepovers and camp outs, bike rides and trips to the mall, we loved, and played and forged bonds of framiliness that are of the FOREVER type.  Her brothers are mine, and my brothers are hers.  I would do anything for her parents and my parents would do anything for her.  We are all crazy about each other's children.  Our hearts, and those of our families, are so closely intertwined, that after 40+ years, the vines, if they actually existed in the physical world, would be so thick, so wild, they would look like the brambles which encase Sleeping Beauty's castle as Disney's Prince tries to hack his way through on the way to kiss his princess.  There have been some who have tried to hack their way through, tragedy and evil abide in little silverware towns too, but in the end, that thick network of leaves and vines is much like a safety net.  It has caught and will continue to catch any of us little birdies who happen to take a tumble for the earth below.

I spent my single-chick years in the Pocono Mountains of PA, about a two-hour drive from my parents' home.  Those years between college and marriage - the sweet spot, as I like to remember it, were such fun.  Mostly.  There were moments when it would have been nice to have family around, and luckily, thanks to my Canadian friend, Kelley Farrell, I did.  Kelley was lucky enough to still live at home with her parents, brother, sister and assorted pets in a rambling, comfortable, lived-in home.  After my first few visits her mom became mine, I think I called her "MomO", but I don't remember why. Her dad is still one of my favorite people.  The Farrell home was my go-to refuge, whether the residents knew this or not, on tough days.  I loved being a "back-door-no-knock-necessary-pop-in" friend.  There was always good coffee on and someone to talk to. Hannah, Kelley's mom served me my first REAL cup of properly brewed tea, while introducing me to the joys of half and half for my coffee.  Prior to that, I had never thought of buying half and half to keep at home. I just lightened my coffee with the gallon of skim milk I kept in my single-girl fridge. (Eww.. I know, right?)  Now I keep half and half in my married-with-children fridge and think of Hannah every morning when I wrap my sleepy hands around my quart of half of half.  True story. I had many sleep overs with Kelley in that house (mind you, we were 20somethings) and they are some of my favorite memories.  I was honored to be one of Kelley's bridesmaids and the night before her wedding she and all of her bridesmaids spent the night in a big bunch on the basement floor of the Farrell's house.  In the morning we all woke and began our preparations for the big day, moving off in separate directions for fittings and hair appointments,  only thinking of the hustle and bustle, schedules and deadlines that so often are the hallmarks of a wedding day, not realizing at the time, that even though it was Kelley's big day, it was also a turning point for the rest of us.   It strikes me now, as I look back on that morning, it was one of the last mornings I spent as a child.  I was engaged, not yet married, my future husband's fiance, settled into another one of life's sweetest spots.  My only responsibilities were  to make sure I was ready to do my part in the wedding and look after Kelley as she gracefully moved down the aisle and into the next chapter of her life as a full-on grown up, some one's wife.

And now, twenty some years later, I too am a full-on grown up, some one's wife and mother, still living far from my own parents and siblings.  I watch the other moms I know from church and PTO who have the pleasure of their parents company for dinner any night of the week, and the secure feeling that must accompany them when they wake up for work to find a sick child and call on Grandpa or Grandma to care for the little one so they can go back out there to bring home the bacon.  Oh my heart, it squeezes when I think of how much my children miss out on by not having that daily or weekly access to their grandparents and cousins.  But, we do have a semblance of framily here, in Reading, PA too.   I don't live in the friendliest of places, as I may have mentioned in a previous blog, but I have managed to unearth a gem or two from the cold German ground here.  I have girlfriends I met in "MOM's Club" when my babies were still babies.  I have my Church Family who pray for me and teach my children. And I have been gifted with one adorably nutsy neighbor who makes me laugh and to whom I would entrust my children's lives in a heartbeat.  A big part of my current, cobbled together framily is my Canadian friend (why yes, I do have two Canadian friends!  Jealous?  You should be.)   Taylor.  Taylor is one of those people who can easily talk to anyone, my opposite in so many ways.  She oozes friend appeal.  Within 5 minutes of meeting her you want to get her out of her work clothes into something more comfortable (like sweatpants) and onto your couch, with a glass of wine and a movie.  This serves her very well because her family of origin is even further away than mine. As a single mom she built the ultimate framily which cares for her and her son so thoroughly and completely, they want for nothing. It is a thing of beauty, a true framily.

My children are still in elementary school, where I volunteer in the library once a week and am heavily involved with the PTO.  I do these things in order to meet people, always on the look out for the next addition to my framily.  I do these things because I want to know who their friends are, who their friends' parents are.  As the children grow older, I hope my house will be that warm home where they and their friends will come to hang out. It's kind of exciting to wonder who will these young people be who will sit at my dinner table and call me "Mom".  If my children are lucky as I was they too will develop their own framilies among their friends' families and I will know where they are and what kind of people they are staying with.

I pray they will be blessed as I was to have all of these extra people in their lives to love them and guide them too.  That can only be a good thing.

My Broken Hip(ness)

"... well maybe I'm not "the norm". I'm not "camera friendly", I don't "wear clothes that fit me", I'm not a "heartbreaker", ... I don't know "how that works", I don't "fall in line", I'm not "hygienic"...I lack "style", I don't have "self-esteem", I have no "charisma", I don't "own a toothbrush", I don't "let my scabs heal", I can't "reach all the parts of my body", when I sleep I "sweat profusely". But I guess the powers that be will keep signing my pay check until Jack and Jane K. Viewer start to go for the remote so they can get back to commentators who don't "frighten children", who don't "eat their own dandruff", who don't "pop their whiteheads with a compass they used in high school"..." - Chris Farley as Weekend Update Commentator Bennett Brauer on Saturday Night Live, circa 1991  


My Readers Dear who are laughing hysterically right now don't need to click on the link below to know what this reference is about.  For my Readers Dear who are scratching their heads, please click on the link below.  I guarantee it will be the funniest 3 minutes of your day.  Whether you are laughing or shaking your head, it matters not to me, I love you anyway.


http://www.hulu.com/watch/269988/saturday-night-live-chris-farley-as-bennett-brauer


Right now I predict you are thinking one or both of the following:
1.  "Whew, I'm glad she came out of her January funk. She was really bumming me out."
B.  "That's a pretty obscure reference. Why is she pulling this one out of her near-encyclopedic,  yet, pretty much useless, collection of entertainment trivia?"


This particular Farley character came to my mind as I contemplated my current state of "unhipness".  I have always prided myself on this useless compendium of knowledge I carry around in my oversize, almost-Mensa-material brain.  I have been heard to immodestly say, "I speak in movie quotes."  I'm fluent in Seinfeld, Bing, Lennon AND McCartney. At weddings, I like to dance like Elaine Bennis.  My friend Karen has a "Costanza Wallet".  My husband and I, while watching any show or movie in which appears an actor who is since dead, will turn to each other and say, "He's dead, Jim.".  When I am having a bad day, I tell myself to "just keep swimming.".  One of my (female) roommates in college had "man hands".  I giggle to myself when I chop broccoli -- every.  time.  I can say all the lines in "Grease" before the actors do.  I crack up when the ice cream man comes to the park.   And if you have never seen "Office Space", or worse, have seen it but, (horrors!) don't get it.  Well, you're off my list.  


But this is where my hipness ends, you see.  Although I fancy myself still hip and relevant, in reality, my hipness wore off somewhere between 2003 and the present.  My husband and I, in our mid-lives, often tease each other about falling down and breaking a hip.  Sadly, I think my "hip" has been broken for some time...


I became a mother in 2003.  In the 9 years since then, I have lost touch with my inner hipster.  Several factors contribute here, not the least of which is the fact that I'm exhausted ALL.  THE.  TIME.  I have spent the last 9 years carrying, birthing, nursing, changing, rocking, singing to, playing Candyland with and driving my offspring to preschool, church, and playdates.  I have filled my days and years with the repetitive tasks of so many mothers:  sippy cups, chicken nuggets, boogers, barf and the PTO.  (Side note:  Second place title for this blog -- "I Don't Think I had Cheerios in my Hair When I Laid Down Last Night."  I know, too wordy.)   So, yes, I'm exhausted and just want to go to bed.    In addition, I'm NEVER allowed to watch my T.V..  My husband or children are always in charge in that department.  Thank heavens for DVR technology.  Yes, I know DVR technology is not new to those of you who think you are soooo hip, but I have only just mastered it in the last 3 months.  Now my oldest will soon be 9, my "baby" is 7.  They both attend school and I am just now awakening from my cultural-reference-slumber.  


The scene plays something like this:  I wake up, much like Dorothy as she comes out of her poppy slumber.  I wander through this strange new land, where I have 9 years worth of t.v., music and movies to catch up on.  Some of my discoveries are grim, some delightful....


Imagine my surprise to find that Doogie Howser is not 14 anymore? working?? gay??? a father of twins????  


Apparently you can make a show about anything, anybody, anywhere.  There's a show about Hillbilly Handfishing? Ghosthunters? Ice Truckers? Ice T? 1000 Ways to Die?


I have missed not just an episode, not just a season, but the ENTIRE run of the following shows: "24", "Lost", "Grey's Anatomy", and "Desperate Housewives".  I have yet to watch an episode of "Glee", "Big Bang Theory", "American Idol", "How I Met Your Mother", "30 Rock" and "Downton Abbey".  I have seen "Two and a Half Men" -- I'll take the zero on that, thanks.


And, p.s., Did Howie Mandel have chemo?  And who, who, who gave Donald Trump his own show???  


The yearly spectacle of The Oscars has descended upon us.  I have seen exactly zero of the nominees for Best Picture.  I've seen only 2 movies in the theater this year, both comedies.  If I show up at your house with a tribal tattoo surrounding my left eye and carrying a "bear sandwich", you'll know which movies I'm referring to.  


I'm still learning how to download music.  Stop laughing!  It's not funny! I play around with Spotify and Pandora a little, I like my M5, a little Vampire Weekend, and some Dia Framps.  That's about as hip as I get with my music.  Ultimately, my heart belongs to Michael Buble and the New Wave on which I cut my teeth in college.   


Chris Farley died in 1997, along with him, Bennett Brauer.  If Bennett Brauer were to come back and join us, I imagine he would be as mystified as I am at some of the things that pass for entertainment today.   His SNL commentary might  sound something like this:


"I'm not "Bachelor material",   "Lady" Gaga "terrifies me" , I don't have "moves like Jagger" ,  I can't "keep up with the Kardashians",  "Skinny Jeans" don't work for me, neither do "Pajama Jeans",  I don't have a"disco stick",  I don't "get Snookie", "Holy Shniekies, there's a black man in the White House!?", I'm too fat to "Twitter",  I don't have a "Sexy Back",   I like "the Food Network",  I'm not cut out for "American Idol",  I'm not"Pinteresting", Apparently, the housewives I know aren't "real",  I don't worship at the altar of "Hilton and Lohan",  I'm incapable of "manscaping",  I'm a "hoarder".  I sweat too much to pass one of "Maury's"  lie detector tests.  But I guess as long as John Q. Public is willing to tune in to see me as an alternative to Glenn Beck and Nancy Grace, I must be doing something right."


Oh Chris, how we miss you.  No one ever wore David Spade's sport jacket better, not even David himself.  


I'm off to watch my DVR'ed episodes of "Grimm", "Once Upon a Time", "Smash" and "The Voice".  Maybe by the end of the week I'll be hip enough to strike up a conversation at the water cooler with you.  

Losses

I hide these tears from my husband and kids. It upsets the kids, unsettles them, to see me cry.  My husband, who loves me, but who never properly dealt with his own grief, is not able to respond to the quivering blob of bottomless need that replaces his normally stoic and capable wife each year at this time.  This upsets me--but then most everything upsets me right now.  I am short with my darling dears.  Then berate myself for not holding them close and treasuring them instead.  They are, after all, the babes God allowed me leave the hospital with.  

But, now, it's a rainy Monday morning, my darling dears are at school, my husband, at work and I am on the couch, still fighting a stomach thing that has been dogging me for two weeks.  I call the doctor to explain the problem and as I am made to list and thus face, the pain, inconvenience and other indignities I've suffered for the last 10 days, it is too much, something snaps and the tears will not be stopped.  

Who are these tears for?

They are for my raven-haired first born.  Why she was allowed to leave here without knowing how very much she was loved and wanted, I can't comprehend.  When I think of the things she missed, that we missed as a family, I can only shake my head.  I'm sorry her last day on earth was spent on the surgeon's table instead of in my arms.  I'm sorry I let them cut her satin skin and crank open her impossibly tiny chest.  I guess we made the only decisions we could at the time, but, now, knowing the outcome, I wish I had said "no" and spent her last days holding her warm little body, letting her feel my love for her. Covering her angel skin with mommy-kisses and tickling her tiny feet.  I would have rocked her and sang her all the lullabies I'd been storing away like so many Christmas ornaments wrapped in tissue paper.  I didn't have the chance to do any of these things until it was all over. I hope she doesn't hold it against me.

And, they are for me, the girl I used to be.  The girl I was 12 years ago who never believed, no matter what the doctors said, that my baby would not come home with me. I was the one reassuring everyone around me.  I was keeping every one's hope afloat.  The possibility of my baby dying never once computed with me until it was all over.  It took us a year and half of trying, in earnest, to conceive her.  "God wouldn't make us wait that long, give her to us, then take her back after 3 days.  Where is the sense in that?  Of course we will take her home, of course we will.  She will come through this day-long surgery just fine and we will take her home.  This is just another test--He just wants to see how much we want her."  That girl? The one who was so sure she understood the order of the universe? She doesn't exist anymore.  And I miss her.  I cry for her broken heart, as I would cry for anyone else's.  She left a piece of her heart back there in that bitter and grey January.  I see it now, that lost piece of her heart, as one sees the broken bits of muffler in the rear-view mirror as the car it was once an important part of,  inexplicably, continues to chug on down the interstate.    


I keep a list in my head of all sorts of things I lost in that moment.   Topping the list: consciousness.  I'm pretty sure, as the surgeon came into the waiting room and said, "I'm sorry folks....", that I passed out, perhaps for only a few seconds as I slid, sweating and shaking, out of my chair and onto the floor --I was 3 days post-partum, wounded and bleeding, and I remember thinking, "Why does this shit always happen to me?"  


I lost all faith in God. Fear not, Readers Dear, the Big Guy and I are tight these days.  But in that moment: I was done.  I hated Him and I was convinced He hated me.  The spiritual rug had been pulled out from beneath my feet, and it took many tears and alot of time before I was able to put my world view right again.  


I lost a future.  To best explain what I mean,  I can only say that I spent much of my mental energy reconciling what existed with what I thought my existence would be.  These moments of reconciliation would come upon me in many places.  In the grocery store, I would look down at the empty seat in the shopping cart and think, "there should be a baby there."  At Christmas I delighted in my little 1 1/2 year old niece, who was such a comfort to me, then sneak out of the room to dab at my eyes, because my baby should have been there in a pretty Christmas dress to match her cousin's.  At support group I broke down, sobbing, saying, "I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be here."  The other ladies there, also grieving, rushed to reassure me that I did indeed belong there.  My friend Donna, who gained her own understanding of the situation the hard way, gently explained my tears to the others saying, "She means she shouldn't be HERE because she should be home taking care of her baby."  Rocking and clutching my sides, I could only nod and sniffle.  "None of us should be here.", said another girl, and she, of course, was right. 


I didn't know it then, but in that moment was the beginning of the end of a friendship.  I had a friend at the time, who, having chosen to be child-free, simply was not able to relate to my grief.  She made me, if you can believe it's possible, even more miserable than I already was. Let me tell you, there are few things more pitiful in this world than a young mother with aching, empty arms.  She couldn't understand why I couldn't shoulder her unending problems and listen to her go on and on.  AND, BE FUNNY!  She actually asked me, "Where did my friend Stacey go?"  If we had been in the same room I probably would have, well, I don't know what I would have done.  As it was, I spat out across the phone lines, "HER.   BABY.   DIED!"  The words tasted like bile and I couldn't believe I had to actually vomit them out for her.  Eventually, I learned, as I hope anyone who survives a life trauma learns, that I had to show her my back as I turned to face those who did "get me."  


I am happy to report, when I look back on that time, I believe I gained, if not more, than, at least as much as, I lost.  The PA Posse as an example, (read "Wine for My Horses, Chocolate for My Girls" to learn more about the Posse)  and other new relationships. New character traits: strength, patience, peace, etc..  And, a close, personal relationship with my new boyfriends:  Ben and Jerry.   I've never been fond of the whole "when God closes a window He opens a door, yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah".  The universal, mathematical  truth of it is that once a vacuum is formed, it will soon be filled.  


We all lose our innocence. If we are lucky, we gain wisdom in it's stead.  

Annual Asswhoopin'

I go a little crazy every January.  My judgement leaves me.  I bounce checks, cyberstalk old boyfriends and high school crushes on Facebook.  I cry in the shower.  I eat only chocolate.  I probably shouldn't drive. 


I play my Elvis Costello & Burt Bacharach CD over and over, marinating in the perfect melancholy captured in their collaboration.  I crave physical contact. I follow my husband from room to room, wordlessly stalking him in search of the reasurance his presence brings.  I don't think he knows this is what I am doing. 


The rooms in my house are in various stages of  Christmas undecoration.   I wander from pile to pile, looking at the decorations and feeling at a complete loss at how to begin to pack them away.  I am normally very organized, methodical, even, in this annual necessary, but, nonetheless depressing event. My husband, always patient with me, finally gave up and finished deflowering the artificial tree, packed it up, and took it down to the basement today himself.  It is the latest I have ever left up my Christmas tree. 


I itch to purge my home of everything unnecessary, to fill boxes for delivery to my church's outgrown sale.  In my mind I am busily working my way through closets and drawers, feeling lighter with each item I happily toss into box after overflowing box.  I don't do any of this. I sit, staring into space for seemingly hours. My leaden limbs are heavy, rendering me inert.  My body aches with the the smallest of efforts.  I tire easily.  This is my life, for now, as I  exist on the edge of the shitstorm of grief that is inexorably bearing down upon my coordinates here on the sofa.


I am easily overwhelmed.  I sigh.  A lot.  I have not decided if they are the sounds of defeat or surrender.  These sighs are big--comparable to the sound emitted by a 15 year old girl whom, as she sighs, blows the bangs out of her face.  She sighs, with accompanying eye roll, at the suggestion from her mother that she pull her bangs out of her face.  I have not heard these sighs for 12 years.  Why they arrive this year, I don't know.  Do they always come to visit me in January and I just don't remember? They are the sighs of inevitability, in preparation for the annual asswhoopin' I know is to come. 


My husband and I lost our 3 day old daughter on a dark January night 12 years ago.  She never saw the pretty room we made for her.  I never rocked her to sleep.  


In the years since, I've learned to push aside the grief, to work through it, to function with it and in spite of it.  Most days I succeed.  But, every January it returns and WILL NOT be denied it's due.  It rears it's ugly head and makes a beeline for my heart.  It sits on my chest, pinning me to the couch for weeks.  It cuts my phone lines. It flushes my libido down the pooper.  It averts my eyes and erases my smile.  It will not relent until it deems me sufficiently isolated and demoralized.  


Do not despair, Readers Dear.  This is only a temporary state of being.  I am certain I will emerge into the blue sky waiting on the other side of this, I always do. I face the upcoming days and weeks knowing that though they will be difficult, they are nothing compared to what I've already lived through. 


There is unshakable peace in knowing I have already survived the worst day of my life.  

Is Everyone Having Fun Without Me?

Midlife meltdowns are more fun to have than to watch, I think.  


In recent years I have watched 2 friends morph into versions of themselves which are all but unrecognizable to me.  I am completely bewildered and a little shaken by this new state of affairs -- "affairs" being the keyword here.  The path of destruction is wide and long, inventories of the wreckage are still being taken.  I could sound off about the immeasurable damage, the broken families, the wounded children, left bobbing in the wake. But, not today.  It doesn't make anything better.  


Today I want to say that, damage aside, in a world without consequences, it might be nice to have a midlife meltdown of my own.  I completely understand the urge to just sit down in the middle of everything, throw a hissy fit and say, "I want something else!  I've been given everything I thought I wanted but now I don't want it!  I want something else!  I don't want to be a responsible adult anymore!  I don't want to unload the dishwasher every day!  I miss my old job!  I wish I was still young, single, in college, partying more than studying!  I want my 20 year old body back! I ....WANT!"    I get it, I really do. 


I continue to put off my hissy fit however, because I DO live in a world of consequences and I DO have children counting on me to unload the dishwasher so they can have their after-school snack on clean dishes.  I AM a responsible adult.  I am no longer a single, dancing-on-the-table (I'm told this goes on in college bars, though I,  personally, have never experienced it) , 23-year-old, size-6-wearing hot chick.   I miss that girl.   And I envy her.  


There is a part of me that envies my meltydowny friends too.  How nice for them that they were able to put themselves first.  After 10+ years of marriage they could walk away, go look for someone else, go find themselves.  How nice for them. How were they able to not worry about the consequences?  How did they weigh their childrens' happiness against their own and choose themselves?  I'm not being judgemental, I'm truly curious. I want to know how they did that. What did it feel like?  


I don't have that quality in my genetic makeup. I worry about EVERYONE's happiness.  I want my single friends to find love.  I fret over children caught up in tsunamis and earthquakes.  I donate to the local food bank.  I volunteer my time at my childrens' school.  When will my "ME" gene make it's presence known to me in a way so undeniable that the only answer is to throw that hissy fit I've been dreaming of and putting off?


Tomorrow I will turn 40something.  If I live to be as old as my beloved grandmother, I am smack-dab, center in the middle of my life. My hubby and I just celebrated 19 years together. We've been through hell, lost our first-born.   I have yet to walk away.  I'm running out of time to have my midlife meltdown!  But, wait, I'm already having an affair....


With my hair!  Woo Hoo, I'm living on the edge.  I love my hair, it's my favorite thing about myself. At the roots of my varying shades of red, auburn, strawberry (pick a color, any color, it's different every time I have it done) is the brunette I was born with mixed with the grey I am acquiring along the way.  I haven't looked lately, but I think the grey is winning.  It is naturally curly. I waged war against my curls for the first half of my life until I saw Julia Roberts with her unforgettable mane of red curls in "Pretty Woman."  "Bing!" went the light bulb over my head when I realized I could have that look everyday, and, in less time than it took to wash, gel, blow dry, and otherwise beat my curls into submission.  Although, lately I have become quite enamored with my "InStyler" which polishes and smooths my hair into the glossy, bouncy strands I always longed for in high school.   I wear my hair long these 40something days. It's a little past my shoulders.  Some (my mother, perhaps?) might say it's too long, unflattering for a woman of my advanced years.  But I adore it.  I toss it, flick it, twirl it around my fingers -- I'm thoroughly obnoxious with it. And my 40something hubby of nearly 20 years likes it too.  


When midlife hits, some men buy Corvettes and go on the prowl for a new trophy wife,  some women leave their families and begin to sport that "mutton dressed as lamb" look.  Me, I have become an obnoxious hair-flicker. The most dire consequence of which is a potentially clogged shower drain.   Don't worry, I'll put it up in a scrunchy when I decide to throw that hissy fit.  




    

Still Waters and all That...

I attract chatter boxes.  I am, by turns, dismayed and amused at this. I'm one of those "quiet ones". I like to think,  however,  not in a disturbing loner/sniper-on-the-clock-tower-way. And right about now, Readers Dear, you may be thinking to yourself that this cannot be accurate because I seem to have so much to say--so much to say that I started a blog.  Ahh, but, you see, I am not the one doing the talking here.  It is the Hamster.  If you were to sit across from me with a cup of coffee, you would not find me so riveting.


We relocated to our current city of residence about 8 years ago.  In that time, I have labored, and I truly mean labored, to make new friends, a network of connections to be a safety net for myself and my family as we have no family of our own nearby.  It's been tough.  I feel weary just thinking about how hard this work has been.   The longer we live here and the older I grow... the shyer I have become.  With age, I have learned a few things about making friends.  

• I can learn much by listening to someone.  Not just about her, but about how she sees me.  Does she speak only about herself?  Does she show some interest in me? When getting to know someone new, I ask her the basic, small-talk questions about family, career, place of origin, etc..  If she answers my questions but does not reciprocate with any interest in knowing my answers to those same questions this person doesn't care about getting to know me.  She doesn't even care who she talks to--she just likes to hear herself talk.   Forget it, she is off the list.  
• I am constantly sizing potential new friends up for their "D.Q." -- "Drama Quotient".  If her conversation is peppered with phrases like "I threw a glass of water at my mother-in-law at the Christmas dinner table" or "So I said to the salesgirl, 'Honey, I'd like to see your boney butt just try to make me leave this store'."  Forget it, she is off the list.
• Actions speak louder than words.  It's a cliche, I know, but cliches become cliches because they are TRUE!  If a new person in my life is promising to get together but never picks up the phone to make it happen or never returns my call when I try to make it happen-- forget it, she is off the list.  I am entirely too old and weary from raising two children to run after someone who is not interested in me.  
• Does she share my values?  Does she seem to be a good mother?  Is she materialistic? Is she constantly bitching about a personal problem but taking no action to solve it? Is she rascist?  Elitist? Compassionate? Intelligent? The answers to these questions and others will determine my interest in pursuing her as a friend.
• Does she laugh at my jokes? Does she "get" my references? Seriously, this is important, because I have a weird sense of humor and it may not be for everyone.  It's not an ego thing, I just don't want to have to tiptoe around her and censor myself in her presence.  
• Is she happy in her life?  If she is expecting me to come along and make her happy, fix her up? Then, no, I don't want that job.  It's not a cold-hearted thing to say.  It's just practical.  I'm a softy and I've learned that people take advantage.  I'm over 40, as most of my potential friends are.  If she doesn't have the basics of a life, i.e., finances, relationships, belief system, well in hand at this point in time I tread cautiously.  I may lend an ear and, if asked, offer what I hope is sound advice.  Then, I'll sit back and watch to see what she does.  Her actions will determine how much more emotional energy I want to give her.

So then, with all of these filters in place, does it surprise you, my Readers Dear, that in 8 years' time I have accumulated less than a handful of new close friends?  I am discouraged by this at times, but I guess this is the choice I make.  I can over-populate my life with fickle, flighty people or invest in true, solid friendships.  I choose the latter.  I think I'm worth it.  When I sit across the table from you at Starbucks, I may not say much.  Until you ask me.  I hope you'll think I'm worth it, too.

Behind the still waters of my big, brown eyes there runs some pretty deep water.  And in that water happily swims a hamster with much to say.  Stay tuned for more...

Wine for my Horses, Chocolate for my Girls...

I once had a boyfriend.  I use the term "boyfriend", loosely, and only in the stead of other more suitable, yet unprintable words because both my mother and my pastor read my blog.  This man was neither a boy,  (I was 23 at the time-- he was 45), nor a friend, as he was not very nice to me.  Insert Linda Richman reference here:  "Stacey's boyfriend was neither a boy, nor a friend--discuss".  He once said to me, "Stace, you're such a WASP, I bet you get out of the shower to pee."  To which I replied, "Well, YEAH.  Duh."  -- Totally not getting the joke, as usual, was on me.  For this remark, and other reasons, he became my ex-boyfriend.  I bring this up not to give him precious blog space, but to illustrate to you, my Readers Dear, that yes, indeed, I suppose I am pretty WASPish.  My WASPish state of being is not unique, in fact, some of my best friends are WASPs,  (actually all of my friends...).  However, my WASPishness is part of what makes my friendship with Hend so unique--the other part being the fact we have yet to meet.  (Refer to my previous post "Sloppy Seconds?" to read more about Hend)  The topic question of the Real Simple blog contest was "Who Are You Most Surprised To Be Friends With?"  Hend was the first person to come to my mind. I dashed off my response in a matter of minutes, spent a day tweaking it and with high hopes and a little tingle in my tummy, sent it off to the editors of the magazine.  

Since then, I've been thinking of the other unique friendships God has gifted me.  I'd like to share with you now, Readers Dear, a group of girls I call "The Pennsylvania Posse".  The PP began on the RESOLVE message board 12 years ago and continues today. (If you don't know what RESOLVE is, you are truly blessed.  If you want to know what RESOLVE is, Google it; or, as my dad would say, "get on the Google") It consists of 4 members, surely too few for a proper posse, but it works for us. They are:  Cindi, Jenny, Jennifer and me.  To save you the confusion of two Jenny/Jennifers, I will, from here on, refer to Jenny as "Pottymouth" and Jennifer as "Sister Mary Jennifer, or SMJ.    We were all in various stages of grief, frustration,and hopelessness when we discovered we all lived within an hours' drive of each other in northeastern Pennsylvania.  So we began to meet up.   First, at restaurants, then for daytrips and sleepovers.  The bonding was immediate and the laughter, unending.  Over ice cream sundaes, antiquing trips and one fateful day when I made the mistake of wearing a brand new (read:  profusely shedding) pink chenille sweater beneath my black winter coat to Baltimore's Inner Harbor and the Posse let me walk around all day  looking like I had been dipped in a cotton candy machine without telling me, we traded Top 5 Lists and reproductive histories and teased each other about our days of being "Superfreaks", as we are all 80's chicks.   We even gave each other "Captain Underpants" names.  (Get on the Google for that)  Within months the laughter we shared proved to truly be the best medicine.  

One by one, our long-suffering and much put-upon hubbies knocked us up!  What joy! What Bliss! However, bliss is always short-lived, that is it's nature.  I'm sorry to tell you, Readers Dear, that Cindi, Pottymouth, Sister Mary Jennifer and I all experienced miscarriages within months of each other.  We were the walking wounded.  At least we still had each other. 

I went to church this morning, where my pastor did a sermon on Ecclesiastes 3:1-13, better known as the "To Everything There is a Season" verses.  Bliss, grief, they are simply seasons which visit all of us from time to time.  The dark, tear-heavy clouds accompanying our season of grief  lifted for us again as one by one, 3 of us announced our miracles, this time for good.    First, Pottymouth shared she would be delivering a baby in January, near my birthday!  We lovingly christened her bump: "Chenille Lynda Carter".  The reasons for this, I cannot remember anymore, so if you ask me why I will only shake my head and tell you there was the lingering scent of fertility drugs in the air at the time.  Then, Sister Mary Jennifer announced she was expecting TRIPLETS!  Triplets for God's sake!  Due, no lie, on 3/3/03.  Upon their arrival, on 3/13/03 we welcomed them as "The A Team", for all of their first names began with "A".  Last was me. After five years of monthly trying and crying, prying questions, insensitive remarks, avoiding baby showers, and dreading christenings--a baby girl, delivered a day before Mother's Day in 2003.  Finally, a Mother's Day that didn't suck.    Well, at least it didn't suck for ME.  For Cindi?  I can only guess how much her heart was aching that Mother's Day...

For whatever reason, only God knows why, Cindi and her husband remain childfree.  Worse, as Pottymouth, Sister MJ and I floundered through our first few years of young motherhood, we lost touch with Cindi.  I know, I know, my Readers Dear, you are shocked and outraged, as well you should be.  I'm still embarassed and ashamed about it.  After a second baby and a few years of treading water in the seemingly uncharted ocean of motherhood,  I wrote and sent an apology to Cindi. And SHE FORGAVE ME.  She still loves me.  And now, through the miracle of modern social networking, we remain in touch, still cracking each other up, long distance.  Recently, she gently suggested to me that I should stop praying for a baby for her.  She would rather I pray her through menopause instead, she said, but left the decision up to me. 

The Pennsylvania Posse still rides.  For now, only via email and Facebook and in my dreams as I picture the 4 of us, barefoot and toasting a red sunset.  Maybe someday, when "La Petite Posse", as we refer, collectively, to our offspring,  have become college-aged, we will saddle up and ride for real,  together again.  I'll wear my pink chenille sweater...