thank god it's monday because my weekend was exhausting!

Why is it that on the weekends that I don' t have any plans "scheduled" I seem to be busier than ever? After a crazy-ridiculous week of work and deadlines and spreadsheets and meetings, I was looking forward to a little R & R. No plans except for a kids birthday party on Sunday, no sweat. I thought I'd have a leisurely Saturday, go for my morning run, cook some breakfast, enjoy the cool weather, spend time with the kids...ya know, a lot of nothing on a Saturday. Sunday, I anticipated reading the newspaper, enjoying bagels delivered by my husband, with Starbucks of course, a quick jaunt to the birthday party and time to plan a delicious, leisurely Sunday night family dinner.

What happened exactly was that I did all of that and fifty-five zillion other things in between. Six loads of laundry, wipe down the baseboards, help Maverick clean the garage, run errands, prepare sixteen meals, organize the girls' closets, make lists of lists of things I need to get done, and a host of other essential things that were not scheduled on the initial agenda.


I may be a fanatic for a clean glass kitchen table, but I do not exaggerate by telling you I wiped that table down thirty-two times in one weekend. Once after an art project, again after breakfast, another time after snack, again after lunch and afternoon snack, after dinner, after dessert later and finally again after the girls were tucked away in their beds and I saw smudges I missed the first twenty times. Multiply that by two and a half days of the weekend and that quickly adds up to thirty-two.

Then there's the shoes that need to be picked up infinitely and returned to their proper place. I'm always amazed by how four people can create a pile of shoes to fit an army by the end of each day. I also have to put away eight little baggies of unfinished snacks, two dishwasher loads, a host of mail that needs to be scanned, sorted and tossed. Backpacks to be emptied and then filled again within forty-eight hours, homework to be filed and homework to start. Playdates, babysitters and carpooling arrangements to be made. Tivo'ed shows to be watched, scattered magazines to be read and recycled. Pictures to be taken, enhanced, printed, emailed and scrapbooked.

Not to mention the list of "weekend projects" that need to be executed...things that can't happen during the waking work week: windows to be washed, patios to be pressure cleaned; garages to be organized; whole closets that need to be organized, drawers that need to be cleaned, filing that needs to be filed.

And of course, in between all this, I must find time to hang out in the driveway so the kids can get fresh air and play with their friends because we live in a sick world and I can't let them out on their own like I was allowed at their age.

It's no wonder I'm so pooped when it's time to go back to work on Monday.

Call me crazy...you're not the only one.

It just seemed to "happen" one day back in May. I was getting dressed on a Saturday night with a few extra minutes to pay some attention to myself. I'm a mother of 2 girls, so looking closely in the mirror is a luxury I ususally cannot afford. I noticed that some of my eyelashes seemed to have fallen out. I wondered how I hadn't noticed that before. I thought something was wrong with my eyes--some weird eye infection perhaps. Over the next few weeks, I inspected my eyes closely while I waited for my appointment with the eye doctor.

Then one day, I noticed the hair seemed to be thinning at the front of my face. Not just at my temples, but all along the crown and at my hairline. I panicked, worrying how did I not even notice this before? How come I didn't make the connection? I had the dull realization that the hair I saw in my shower drain lately was my own. (I had convinced myself subconsiously it was my daughter's hair since they had just started showering in my bathroom.) I completely panicked and broke into hysterics. I lost it.

I showed my scalp to everyone...my friends, my husband, my mother, my collegues. No one could see it. Instead, they all showed me their hair and complained that they too were losing hair. I knew I wasn't crazy. I knew I had a whole lot more hair on my head just two months ago. So I went to a dermatologist who poo-pooed me. She ran the blood tests, which came back normal, and shrugged me off that it was probably stress. Yes, I was stressed, but no more so than I have been the remaining 37 years of my life. She sent me on my way.

I returned to her office two weeks later in hysterics again. I could see a few random hairs missing in my eyebrows, my eyelashes were missing spots and my hair seemed even thinner and more noticable directly at the top of my forehead. She gave me some foam and send me packing.

I found a therapist. He was just what I needed because I was competely losing my mind. I felt totally out of control and at a loss for what would happen next. Over the next few months, I watched and waited. The hair loss finally seemed to have slowed. I kept telling myself that as long as the volume stayed the same I could live and deal with it. Maybe it was stress. Maybe my body reacted differently now that I'm 38. I hoped and watched all summer.

All of a sudden last month, the hairs started falling out. I can now see light shining through the top. I can see hair loss all over. My pony tail is half the size. No one else can see it yet. So everyone still thinks I'm over reacting. If one more person shows me their temples I'm going to scream. It's NOT THE SAME THING!, I scream in my mind. It's not. This is sudden, dramatic hair loss. I see parts of my hairline receding. I see ten hairs in the space three times as many used to fit. I had a cowlick on the front of my forehead that's no longer there. My long bang is wispy.

I'm afraid to wash it or brush it. I'm afraid to continue with my highlights or color it all back to brown. I go to the bathroom with the light off so I don't inspect, because god knows, I can't pass a mirror--or anything reflective in nature--without stopping to inspect. Heaven forbid I lose another hair and wasn't aware!

The dermatologist recommended Rogaine. I cried in the car at the CVS and laughed with the counter girl about purchasing it. I felt like a thirteen-year-old girl again buying tampons for the first time. I was mortified. I read the package insert to learn I could lose MORE hair on the way to growing new hair almost a year from now. It took another two days to get the product on my scalp.

I tried to google a hair loss specialist and all I can find are hair replacement specialists. There must be another person who can help me. I can't accept this is female pattern baldness. I've never heard of it being so sudden. I feel so helpless and out of control and sad. I can't stop envisioning the need for me to wear a wig. I saw a woman at Starbucks with beautiful, long, red hair the other day. Except her hairline started at a 90 degree angle from her nose She had a 6 inch forehead. I vomited in the Starbucks bathroom as I envisioned myself looking that way soon.

I'm almost thankful to have complete honesty from my hairdresser who tells me I'm not crazy. She expected to see new growth too, but doesn't. Last year I found out I carry the gene for breast cancer and had my breasts removed. Isn't that enough for one seemingly healthy woman? It just doesn't feel fair the way the cards are dealt in life. I'm not good at waiting...I'm not good at not knowing what to do next. I'm a girl with a plan at all times. Except now.

Another baby, no way!

Today my little brother's daughter was born. As happy as I am for him to become a first-time father, I felt my own self shudder at the thought of what he has in store in the coming months and weeks. I don't miss having a newborn baby for one single second.

I am so thrilled to never have to change another diaper, wash another bottle, sing another Elmo song, watch another Baby Einstein video, attend another Mommy & Me class, change my shirt five times, clean up spit up or pump my breasts like a cow. I'm so happy I can run into a store without lugging a giant stroller, don't have to plan my day around naptime, and don't have my living room littered with musical toys.

Now that my kids are older, I can enjoy what I like more often. I like my sleep. I like having my nipples back for my own edification. I like putting on only one outfit per day. I like showering. I like the ability to hop in the car with my kids and take off for the day without a forty-minute planning session that includes schlepping sippy cups, jarred food, a change of clothes, diapers, diaper cream, a dozen toys and three different types of snacks. I like that my kids can give me some "me time", even when they are awake. I like using adult words like "go to the bathroom" rather than "go pee-pee". I like going out to eat and actually tasting my food.

Not that having older kids doesn't present its own challenges. Sex, for one, is not as fun when it has to be moved upstairs all the time. I can't have private conversations freely anymore. I always have to be on my best behavior or else I'm called on it now. I can't curse. I have to share my jewlery, favorite lipgloss and even sometimes my best purfume. Now I'm criticized, judged and blamed. Either way, it's still waaay better than cleaning up another poopy diaper.

Rekindling Old Facebook Friendships

The other day I was sent a friend request on Facebook by a woman with whom I went to high school. She fondly remembered me from a class we both were in and even had some lovely photos of my very 80s self, which she happily shared. I found it utterly fascinating that this woman had such recollection of my high school days for which I did not. I actually felt badly that I had left an impression on her and even after a cow-poke to my brain, I failed to form a single cohesive memory of her.

And then I had to remind an old friend on Facebook of all our junior high school antics. Missy lived across the street from me and we spent much of our junior high school years palling around. She didn't remember the Jordache jeans we wore so tightly that it required a hanger through the zipper to close the fly. I was stunned that she didn't recall sneaking my mother's cigarettes and teaching ourselves how to inhale. We did these things together....yet I remembered it and she did not. Maybe I didn't make such a strong impression on my friend either.

The funny thing about Facebook is that all the reconnections we make there remind us not only of how many friends have come and gone in lives, but also that there was probably a good reason we let so many of these friendships lapse.

At first I attempted to rekindle some of the previously important friendships. I felt strongly that the core people I cared about would still have relevancy to me now, even if our friendship existed a dozen or more years ago. But those efforts proved to be fruitless endeavors. Some friendships just died off because of distance or circumstance. Some faded because we went off in different directions. And others were just not people I want to be friends with anymore. It was a sad realization for me.

If Facebook has been “good” for anything, it is for the few strong connections I’ve resparked again and that was worth it. When we’re young, it was all about quantity. Now, it’s all about quality. Every now and then, we’re lucky to find a friend we somehow lost our way with and reconnect in a meaningful way. The rest of them on Facebook are just Web 2.0, social networking cotton-candy. Light and fluffy and not much substance.

I-Pod Playlists for Life

Recently, I attended a book signing for one of my favorite authors. After reading from his newest novel, the author explained it had an accompanying soundtrack that the author "scored" to his book, chapter by chapter. It would enable readers to "see" his vision by hearing, and therefore feeling, whatever emotion he was trying to convey through his writing. I thought that was the coolest idea.

So, if a CD score of a book can add pleasure to the reading experience, I wonder how much more pleasure I could derive in life by just adding the right soundtrack. I decided that night, that my new project is to create more playlists for my I-pod.

l already have a playlist for running. The “Get Your Ass Moving” playlist includes twenty songs of dancing and bump-and-grind hip-hop. It keeps me motivated and running faster.

Then I have the "This House is a Freaking Disaster" playlist that includes stadium-thumping, hair band alterna-rockers. It's the kind of collection that inspires me to throw my hair up in an Aunt Jemima-red bandanna, toss in a load of laundry and wield my Windex bottle all over the house. I can rock out while I straighten bedrooms, organize closets and put away sixteen pairs of shoes in three sizes.

I also have a great "I Work Hard and Deserve to Chillax" playlist for when I allow myself a very lazy afternoon in the pool…floating on my favorite metallic-gold raft with a vat of guacamole and chips and something chilly to drink. That playlist is comprised of mostly classic rock.

There are some other “event-driven” playlists that need to be created, such as the “Mommy’s Cranky So Stay Away While I Take My Frustration Out on This Pillow”. I imagine that will be filled with hard-core heavy metal. Then, I’ll need one for the “I’m Crying At Everything Because I’m PMSing” playlist that will probably include sappy love songs. Of course I’ll need the “Never Let Go Of My Youth Even Though It Was More Than Half My Lifetime Ago”, which will be filled with one-hit wonders from the 80s.

Finally there’s the “OK Kids, I’ll Connect With You Over Songs That are Performed by Singers Who Are Young Enough to be My Own Children.” Yes, you guessed it….Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers. That’s for my girls, of course, when we dance around the house and I get to pretend I’m 6 again.

What about you? What playlists would you like to add to your I-Pod to help get through your day?

(Sarah +Palin) + (Mother + VP)= Yes

I cannot believe all of the conversations going on in the news media and in the blogsphere regarding Sarah Palin. People are not just questioning her experience and readiness to become the future VP of the United States. They are questioning whether a mother of five can possibly have the time to be VP. Personally, I'm offended, irritated and aggravated by this entire line of thought. I surely haven't heard anyone on the radio, on TV nor on the Internet questioning whether Barack Obama or John McCain is capable of leading this country because they are fathers. The question is truly inane. And any American who asks it is a schmuck.

Of course, Sarah Palin can be the second in command and be a mother. For Christ's sake, us women do that sort of multitasking all day long. It's in our DNA. As a working mother of two, I'm so disgusted that I even have to waste my finger energy typing this post. No one questions me at my job if I can perform my job functions just because I also happen to have children. As a matter of fact, my hiring manager was not even legally allowed to ask whether or not I had kids when I was interviewed. Know why? IT'S AGAINST THE LAW!

I realize that when it comes to selecting a President or other high-level position, Americans want more information on their candidate than just their resume. I get that. But it really pisses me off when I see the double standard against women. Like we're not capable of doing what we always do and be just the same as men. Especially when I consider that as a generality, women ARE better at a variety of skills that would probably help this country recover from the mess we're in:

--Multi-tasking. Being the President requires the ability to juggle many decisions at once. Our male president, Bushwacker, proves my point that men cannot multitask like women. He's taken more vacation days than any other president. If he were my employee, I'd fire him for poor attendance.

--Communication. Women are made for communicating. Plus throw in our ability to see both sides; clearly communicate our feelings; express empathy and concern; and we can talk without sticking out our peacock feathers like men. Can anyone tell me these skills would not be most helpful to resolve the Israel/Palestine conflict?

--Organized. Our great country is such a hodgepodge of people, policies, bureaucracies, etc. Imagine a women at its helm. The first thing she'd probably do is spring clean and toss out the crap.

--Education. Our educational system is in shambles. Women care about education. We'd make a difference because we realize spending money on education is probably a more worthy en devour than lots of this country's other pork-belly spending.

I'm not saying I plan to vote for McCain/Palin. I still am undecided. but I am thrilled to see a competent women on the ticket. I just wish the country would start focusing on the issues and the candidates would truly speak about what's important and tell us where they stand. Because I'm sick of hearing about the damn glass ceiling that Sarah's trying to break.

Vacation packing hell

I’m taking a ten-day vacation to an island far, far away. Maverick and I are going to celebrate our ten year anniversary (no, we didn’t intentionally plan the 10 years/10 day thing but I like that romantic idea.)

I can't wait to go. The only thing holding back my enthusiasm is all the planning that goes into packing my suitcase. Why, women, why do we complicate such things?

When Maverick packs, it's a last minute affair. For men, it's never more complicated than brown shoes, black shoes, sneakers, flip flops...I realize as I write this that Maverick may care more about his shoes than the typical man...shorts, t-shirts, dress shirts, jeans, boxers, done. It takes him about 15 minutes and half of the stuff comes right out of the dry cleaning bags into his suitcase. He's become such an expert packer that over the years, I've watched him downsize his suitcase so that any trip he goes on for almost any length of time, all his clothes can fit into one tiny 21" suitcase.

For me, I need at least a 26", plus a shoe bag, plus a carry-on. And this is for a weekend excursion. How the hell will I manage 10 days with such little luggage? I mean, could I possibly not take every coordinating pair of shoes that goes with each carefully selected outfit? Should I try to downsize the "extra" outfits, bikinis, undies, bras, work out clothes, cover ups, shorts, tanks, socks, books, lotions and magazines that I originally planned to pack as back-ups in the event that I decide not to wear any of my planned outfits?

Consider the fact that I have to pack the outfits for many different occasions while on vacation such as what wear to breakfast. Then I need beach wear, sightseeing wear, lounge wear for between the beach and sightseeing, work out clothes, and dinner wear, and after-dinner ware ;) That's six outfits per day times eight full days. Not to mention the two days of traveling to Hawaii and back, which require the proper airplane wear--you know, something that travels well, is comfortable yet stylish, keeps me warm but isn't too hot and makes me look fabulous when I hop off the jet, spritz my face with Evian (I'm dying to do that like the Hollywood stars!) and saunter on over to the Four Seasons. Really. I just can't walk into the Four Seasons looking jet-lagged and puffy.

Which reminds me that I also have to consider what to carry on the plane. I'll need an overnight bag for which to stow my books (both novel and Sudoku puzzles); two magazines (one frivolous fashion rag and one "serious" reading of Time or Fast Company); lip glosses in several shades (because I never know what sort of lip-gloss color mood I'm in until the moment strikes me); tic tacs & gum (again, one can never be sure what the momentary preference will be); pen & pencil (can't journal in pencil and can't Suduko in pen), journal; laptop; camera; makeup bag; snacks; water; socks; hoodie; neck roll; travel guides; sunglasses; I-pod...ugh, my shoulder is hurting just thinking of all the stuff I have to carry!

So I started a packing list that will never get quite done. Instead, I'll stand in my closet for hours the night before the flight agonizing over what to bring and what not to bring. I'll wish I could just Fed Ex my closet. I'll try on several combinations and drive Maverick nuts asking "which do you like better?" then I'll get aggrevated when he doesn't chose the one I was secretly hoping he'd chose. My bedroom will be in total chaos as I painstakingly pack. My bathroom and jewelry drawers will look as if they've been ransacked by a burglar. (Because of course, aside of all the coordinating shoes, I'll need six pairs of practically identical but ever-so-slightly-different earrings and necklaces to go with the outfits.)

By the time I go to bed, I'll be totally exhausted and irritable. As I close my eyes and try to rest, I'll remember that I had forgotten to buy something I desperately wanted for the trip.

Then I'll wake up early to recheck whatever decisions I made the night before. I'll unpack a few things and if there's an inch of space left in the suitcase, I'll shove in another tank, another bikini, another pair of earrings.

If you're exhausted reading this, then you can imagine how I feel after this process. By the time I zip and lock the last bag and get into the car to make our way to the airport, I'll be completely ready for a vacation. I can't wait. I just wish going on a vacation didn't require so much work.

Carefree thrill-seekers

I fancy myself a bit of a thrill-seeker. I fantasize about jumping out of an airplane...driving a Lamborghini at 140 miles per hour…surfing a killer wave…cruising on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet…moving to Europe on a whim…or just packing up our stuff and moving to another state.

Being a working mother of two doesn't often allow the opportunity to indulge in my inner fantasies. Not to mention, the thought of actually hurting myself! But these were the dreams of a young woman. Living my life to the fullest! Testing my limits!

Somehow, as we get older, and more responsible and dependable, we let go some of our young-and-careless wishes. I don’t think it’s a conscious decision; it’s just a fact of life when reality sets in that we have to prepare lunches, commute to work, and get the groceries. We put aside what we’d like to do for what we have to do. But once in a while, wouldn’t it be nice to go back to being a carefree teenager again?

When was the last time you and your girlfriends drove around with no particular destination in mind? Remember those days in high school when you'd have a whole afternoon to do absolutely nothing but whatever felt right at the moment?

Hit the beach, maybe a game of volleyball, grab a bite to eat, visit a friend, get some ice cream, listen to your favorite song and just cruise. My friends and I would put tons of miles on my Fiero. No place was too far to drive…nothing was off-limits because we had a vehicle to take us wherever we wanted to go.

The most important item of the day was whether we had good tunes for the joyride to nowhere. Life was as simple as a sunny day, the right mix-tape and a full tank of gas. Perhaps a Diet Coke, Doritos and a pack of cigarettes too. (Because remember, this was high school...)

Thrilling back then was doing donuts in the bank park lot in your mother's car. Or spending the whole night at the beach when you were supposed to be sleeping at your friend’s house. Or having a giant slumber party at the Embassy Suites after homecoming. Or caravanning with a dozen of your best friends to Spring Break. Or sneaking out of your house at night like a CIA agent to meet your boyfriend. Or getting into a nightclub with your fake ID. And who didn’t try “dine and dash” at Denny’s at 3am at least once?

I’d even went as far as to help a friend spray paint (or “tag”) a highway sign over I-75 that read “J loves Jeff”. That was so very thrilling…not to mention dangerous and illegal. But when we were caught up in the moment, both with red, flushed cheeks of excitement, we felt very much alive and happy—no, thrilled—with living life. It was a rush, a high, that lasted several weeks, especially every time we drove underneath that sign on the overpass.

The scales of “thrilling” has changed for me over the years. Now, I’m thrilled when my first grader gets her first “A” on her spelling test. I’m thrilled when I get away once a year with my best girlfriends. I’m thrilled when the Friday night traffic on my way home is light. I’m thrilled when I score a new pair of shoes on sale.

The thrills may be a whole lot less adventurous than they used to be, but the thrills of daily life, love and family are just as much fun. I guess that’s what they call “with age comes wisdom.” The acceptance and understanding that I may not ever get to bungee jump off a bridge but I still can find excitement in my life. It’s just a matter of changing one’s perspective. Of course, though, when I’m vacationing in Hawaii later this month, you can be sure that I’ll be looking for a hand gliding adventure over a volcano or something like that. Because the glass-bottomed helicopter tour probably won’t be thrilling enough.

Growing old ungracefully

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about how as we grow up, we don't even realize we're growing up. We don't wake up day after day, week after week, and notice small changes within ourselves. Rather, one day we all face this big, monumental sort of rude awakening; and that’s the day you want to pull the covers back over your eyes and snooze a little longer.

One minute, we’re just chugging along in life and then it just sort of "happens" that one day we take a critical look in the mirror and think, "Hummm….I didn't notice that tiny crinkle in my eye last time I looked." Or "Was that brownish patch on my neck always there?”

Not too long ago, I had my own freak-out moment when I noticed the skin on my hands had changed. At first, I thought I needed some seriously strong cream on them. They looked dry and scale-y and not as young and taut as I had remembered. After moisturizing and not noticing an improvement, I used my pointer finger to push around the skin on the back of my hand. With disgust, I could see the veins in my hands more prominently now and when I pinched the skin on top, it didn't lay back down as quickly as it used to. I realized that day my collagen was getting old and, therefore, so was I.

And that fact just snuck up on me, without any warning. One day: feeling youngish. Next day: feeling ancient. I wondered, where else was this getting old crap happening that I hadn't closely inspected?

I ran to my make-up mirror and stared at my reflection. This time I turned the mirror over to use the industrial-strength magnification side that is typically deemed useless I’m plucking a stray eyebrow hair or squeezing a blackhead. You know the side of the mirror that shows every bump and crater on your face? The side no one ever looks good in…

So there I was..staring, and noticing, and crying, and pinching and prodding and cursing. What happened to my 20-year-old self? I grew up being told I looked so incredibly young for my age and one day I would love that fact. Now approaching 40, it would be a great time to cash in my youth chip, but instead I’m faced with my old face and body. The claim window must have closed while I wasn’t paying attention. No fair!

After the make-up mirror, I had to inflict more self-loathing upon myself by making my way over to the full-length mirror. Because when it comes to self-loathing, I can’t just be satisfied with a facial inspection. No, I must find all of my flaws to criticize at once. Why dose out the contempt in manageable chunks when I can jump right into a big bucket of self-pity?

Standing semi-naked in my closet while inspecting my body like a prison guard is not for the faint-of-heart. If you haven’t yet done this yourself, I suggest a rather large glass of Merlot to temper the experience.

Slumping shoulders? Check! Droopy boobs even with breast lift? Semi-check! Pot belly? Check! Saggy ass, thighs and kneecaps? Check, check, check!

It was not pretty. However, now I’m completely up to speed with the patchwork of fine lines and wrinkles that mask my body (I’m not even talking about the stretch marks and puckers!) I’m now oh-so-familiar with every saggy patch of skin, like the gobbler that’s making its way under my neck, to my Sahara-dry elbows of a ninety year old woman.

By the time I got to my feet, which grew a size with kids but ultimately have maintained their girlish shape, I was emotionally drained as was the bottle of Merlot. Looking at my feet, I was thankful to end on a positive note when I observed that my pedicure still looked fresh. Whew….let me at least get my priorities straight.

But I still wonder: If 40 is the new 30 then why the hell didn’t someone care enough to let my body know?

Lightening crashes

Imagine being 50 minutes away from your house, perhaps at work, when you get a phone call like this: "You have to come home. The house is on fire!"

This was the nightmare that plagued me Tuesday. I heard my name paged over the intercom at work and found Maverick on the other end, telling me that lightening hit the house, he ran upstairs and saw thick, black smoke, grabbed my daughter and called 911.

I threw myself into my car, flicked my cell phone into the passenger seat, turned off the radio and DROVE! Thank you, BMW, thank you, BMW, played over and over in my mind as I raced home, fearing the worst. I drove like a well-trained race car driver. I've made the commute from my office hundreds of times...I'm used to the long drive. But this time was different...the drive was taking twice as long.

I got home in record-time to find five fire trucks in my driveway and a water hose snaked into my upstairs window. It seemed as if fifty people were milling about and everything around me slowed down as my brain processed what was going on around me.

First, I found my family and hugged them. Mental check off the 'ole list that they were fine. My second thought went back to that hose. Fear set in that the firemen were going to douse the upstairs of my home with water to tame a flame. All I kept thinking about were my photo albums. All the time and loving care I've taken to document my entire existence...up in flames, I panicked.

As it turned out, luck was on the Fives family side. During a typical summer thundershower, a bolt of lightening struck the roof of my house. The electricity made its way into the attic and raced down the air conditioning duct. It popped out my daughter's bedroom ceiling and smoked some insulation on the way out but that was it. No burning embers, no attic fire, no lost power or computers. Just a stinky mess.

You never know how your brain is going to comprehend such a disaster. Maverick was in complete control. He was directing people this way and that. Once the firemen left, he had roofers plugging up the hole and an emergency clean up crew washing down walls and covering the black mess in Camryn's ceiling.



I on the other hand, did not fare as well...I just didn't know what to do with myself. I walked around the house, useless, in a fog and devoid of being able to make a single decision. My brain turned off...I wasn't ready to deal with the scare. So I picked up the toys on the playroom floor and wiped down counters. A friend came by to hug me and I asked her for a raincheck. I was afraid to cry right then because I didn't yet know what all of the damage was nor how lucky we truly were. People asked me a thousand questions and needed answers I couldn't give. I was in shock and I knew it. Finally, the stress was too overwhelming so I left Maverick to deal with the post-lightening mess and I hid at the neighbors.

Eventually, as the dust settled and the smoke cleared, so did my brain. I was able to once again put two and two together. I made sleeping arrangements for us, got our things together and began to put our life and home back together. I'm very thankful for all of my friends who rallied around us. I'm thankful that the damage to our home was contained and in the scheme of things, manageable. I'm thankful that my photo albums are not ruined. And tonight, after almost a week, I'm thankful to be sleeping in my own bed again.

So if you wondering why I haven't blogged in a while, consider yourself up to speed.

Just because it's a convenient time to call...

I'm in a mood right now, so bear with me. I have a simple statement to make about the phone and it goes a little something like this: Just because it's a convenient time for you to call, doesn't mean it's a convenient time for me to answer.

I get such shit from my friends because I'm terrible with the phone. That's me. Accept me, please, warts and all. I commute two hours a day and that's my phone time. Maverick will tell ya my cell phone bill is through the roof and I could support my shoe habit if I only laid off the cell.

I love to talk on the phone, really, but only between the hours of getting to work and driving home from work. So if you can't catch me then...try texting me.

Yes, sometimes I do hear you on my answering machine, calling out for me: "Tray, I know you're there; pick up the phone." But you have to understand that by the time I walk in door after being gone for almost twelve hours, walked into the insanity that exists with two screaming kids who are thrilled to see me, I've got to go to the bathroom, I've got to get these kids to bed, I'm starving; I'm tired; Mavrick's probably complaining about something I had forgotten to do that day; there's mail to read, previously a dog to walk and feed, and well, the last thing I feel like doing is talking on the phone.

That would require me to stop all of those things above and sit down to listen to what you have to say. And I want to hear what you have to say. I don't want to give you the "uh huh, uh huh" because what kind of friend would that be?

Sometimes I do answer the phone, even when I'm busy because I feel guilty; then I rush you off in sixty seconds anyway with a plea that I'll have to call you later...So what's the point of that?

Also, there's nothing more annoying than when I do sit down to talk and I've got to listen to your screaming kids in the background. So, there's another thing: please don't call me if you can't control your kids.

I don't mind the occasional "Dear, please put your dishes in the sink after you finish your snack". I'm talking about the girlfriends who can't finish a sentence or let me get my thought out before she interrupts sixteen times to reprimand a child who's grabbing the phone out of her hand or are such out-of-control lunatics that I just can't hear you on the other end.

Seriously, whatever you called about most likely isn't that important right that minute! Can't it just wait until 7am the next morning, while I'm on my way to Starbucks?

A Philosophical Question about Blogging

I’ve been questioned quite a bit on why I’m blogging and what’s the point. I’m not sure I truly have the answer. But for now it’s a personal experiment, a creative outlet, a voice in the blogsphere. All I know is that I have these thoughts rattling around in my head; and finally, I wanted a forum to share them with a larger audience. This is the stuff I usually save to entertain my girlfriends.

Jackie and I can pour a glass of Chard after the we put the kids to bed, throw some cheese and crackers on a plate, turn on the tunes, pull up a chair at the patio table, light a candle, and instantly create our own happy hour. About halfway through the bottle, Jackie shoulders begin to ease down from her ears. The weekday stresses start to melt away. She releases an audible sigh. She's finally relaxed. Wine does that to her.

On the flip side, there's me. I get fired up. The blood flows and my muscles get warm. Synapses begin to fire and the gears spin. My mind starts to process a thousand thoughts at once. I can go in two directions now. One is tear off on a tangent about some idea I've been tossing around. Or I can zero in on Jackie, and begin to question her about some random topic until I have her squirming in her chair, begging me to leave her alone and stop making her answer so many questions!

If you're my friend, I know you're laughing right now. Loudly and you should be. I know you've been victim to the entertainment factor of my tirades. Now, I just want to try it to a broader audience, and just maybe have a dialog about it.

At least blogging is something to do until I can write that children's story and make millions like my mother has been bugging me to do. Anyone have a idea about a plot?

The sucky fact of being a woman

I wish just once, a man would have to use a tampon. Not all day, that would just drive him completely over the edge of insanity. Just one tampon, rammed up his butt, just once. Of course, it would have to be one of those half-way dry days when you question whether you should use one at all. Men can’t even begin to imagine how getting your period is truly one thing that sucks about being a woman.

I didn't mind my period until I decided to stop being a reproducing human-being. We should be able to shut off the hose once the pool is filled. Instead, I have to live with my perfectly-tuned every-28-day cycle for another 10-to-15 year prison sentence. I'm tired of the cramps, the tears, the moodiness, the Doritos, the endless trips to the bathroom, and those damned tampons! Plus, as Maverick would agree in no uncertain terms, I become a bitch.

Furthermore, it sucks to be of the womanly-age that requires a mammogram. Talk about the cold chicken cutlet boobs! For those who have never enjoyed the delight of a mammogram, get ready for the panini press! Yes, girls, having your breasts checked for little bumps and lumps that harbour evil little cancer cells can be equated to watching a fat Italian man smashing up your tits on a hot panini press. Un cappuchino to go with that, senora?

Well that’s probably enough for now. I could fill this blog with so many other reasons but I think I’ll save them for a different post. I’m sure I’ve scared you young ‘uns away with that graphic description. You'll awaken with nightmares of the Italian guy chasing you with his George Forman grill. (Sorry girls. It’s the cold, hard facts about mammograms and someone’s gotta be honest.)

In the meanwhile, you tell me what one thing absolutely sucks about being a woman. Go ahead. I really want to know. Share. Let it out. It feels good!

Here's one from me: one good reason why being a woman is not sucky. It's the fact that we women have a wonderful ability to understand our own feelings, rationalize the "why" behind it, and create an action plan to solve it. Then we discuss it with our three closest friends. Modify based on their input. Vent it aloud. Afterwards, we feel better and say, “Yes, that feels good!” I’m glad I got that off my chest.

6-year-old Smart Ass

I think I must have missed the chapter in the mothering handbook entitled, "Six years old equals smart ass." It was probably an oversight that happened somewhere between reading "What to expect when you're expecting" and "How to discipline a spirited child." I must have convinced myself I had this parenting thing under control.

Then my daughter turned 6 and all hell broke loose. She transformed from a sweet, inquisitive five year old into a Miss I Know It All, Prove It To Me Smart Ass. And yes, the capital letters are intended for emphasis.

I heard about this stage from my friends with kids older than mine, but I thought, no, that couldn't happen to my precious child. I'm a great mother. It must be some deficiency in my girlfriends' parenting style. I've got my kids whipped into perfect shape.

Ha ha! Laughs my six-year-old. She knows better. That prim behavior was so last year. Now, I've got my little shadow questioning me, quizzing me, challenging me. Nothing I say is ever taken for granted anymore. I now must prove myself.

Such as today, when I received an email from her camp counselor informing me that tomorrow would be "Super Hero Day" and Maya should wear her favorite superhero costume. Maya insisted I show her the email. She wouldn't take my word for it. I puffed out my chest in a childish response and told her she'd just have to trust me. Maya crinkled up her nose as she processed this idea. Then she promptly responded that she'd just have to pack the costume in her backpack "just in case".

I thought part of the fun with parenting would be to actually teach your child about life. Imagine that at six, she's fully in control of all her faculties that goes into living it. There's nothing I can say to Maya anymore that she doesn't already know. Her favorite sayings are "I know that already!" or "Daddy already told me!" or "That's not true!" She gets annoyed when I try to show her anything because she can figure it out on her own whether it be the TV remote, a new game, tying her shoes and such. Even when it's quite obvious she can't, her response is that she doesn't want to. (As in, I CAN do it if I WANT to but I don't WANT to.)

Add to the smart-ass frustration the fact that now I have yet another person living in my house who is quick to pick up and pick on all my flaws too. "Mommy, you ate six cookies already!" or "Mommy, that makes your butt look big." I especially enjoyed her observation of my Saturday night outfit that "It doesn't look very good on you." (Of course, I was just thinking the same thing but do you think I want a six year old criticizing me about it?)

Maya now has a running commentary of critiques and smart-ass questions such as: whether her homemade pancakes are fluffy enough; why didn't I finish folding the laundry?; what's the matter with the first six outfits I just tried on, why did you forget to wash my camp shirt; why are you yelling at Daddy?; why do you always need to suntan?, your panties up your butt is gross; how could you not have bread for my PB&Js?; why are so tired?

Pair that with the "It's Not Fair"...that I get to stay up late, I sleep in the bed with Daddy, I get to go out for dinner with my friends, I get a new lipgloss....you get the point. It's not so much what she says but the perfectly pitched whiny/annoying voice that goes along with it.

I try to chalk this all up to the fact that she's a smart cookie. And she is. Sometimes I just wish it wasn't so smart-assed.

More pea-brained features for you!

First, I'd like to thank my beta-testers for all of the great feedback I've received. I've been enjoying hearing from you as I try out this space. As I get more adept at this blogging thing, your experience will improve as well.

I know a few of you have tried before to add comments, but apparently I had the site settings incorrect. I have since fixed the problem, so comment away! I want to know if you like/hate the posts, think I'm posting often enough, what you have to add to the insanity from your own perspective, what you ate for dinner...whatever you'd like to share. You can easily add a comment by clicking the comment button and you can post anonymously, if you so choose.

The second bit of good news is that you can now subscribe to my blog. Just add your email address at the right and you'll automatically be informed whenever I update! It's easier than ever to get fully updated on all the thoughts spilling out of my brain. (Enter if you will...). Feel free to share the love and pass along my blog URL to your friends.

Baby Shop: Closed for Business

I'm supposed to be creating baby shower invitations tonight but every time I sit down at the computer and start to think of cutesy wording to introduce the proud momma-to-be, I gag. I can't believe how far removed I feel from baby showers and all that goes along with it. The adorable diaper towers, the "how big is her belly?" toilet paper game, the forced "ohhs and ahhs" that must accompany each tiny outfit as its passed around the group. Seriously, gag me.

Right after the birth of my second, I was so positive I was over it, I closed up my own personal baby-making shop and burned it to the ground so it would never see the light of day. I wanted to ensure that no small egg would dare ever even try to covertly sneak its way down my fallopian tube towards my fertile uterus in search of the forbidden fruit. Two human beings calling me Mother was enough. I couldn't bear the thought of gaining another fifty pounds again. (My god, I had already put on enough weight to create a whole other person between the two and my stretch marks can prove it!)

No way, no how. No thank you.

My girlfriend, Callie, had a baby some months ago. I've held the baby once or twice, just to see what it would feel like again. I wondered if it would conjure back warm memories of my own two daughters whom I had each breastfed for almost a year. Or perhaps I'd associate that delicious baby smell with the early months of bonding with my girls. But it didn't.

Actually it had quite the opposite effect of been there, done that. It reinforced the fact that I'm so happy I do not have little babies anymore. The other day, a woman ten years my senior told me she would happily adopt a baby to save him or her from the perils of a depraved life in some third-world country. I thought she was stark-raving mad. I can't imagine starting over. Yes, I'd love to save all the starving, homeless children of the world, but I'd rather send my check to "save the children." I couldn't imagine the dirty diapers, the spitting up, the lack of sleep, the sopping wet breast pads, the nipple cream, the butt cream, the nasty diaper pail, did I mention the sleepless nights?

Some women are actually surprised by my somewhat vehement shudder of horror I uncontrollably exude when asked that infamous question of whether I'm going to have more kids. Maybe there's a short circuit in my motherly wiring, but I like having one hand for each kid and not being out numbered. I like having a life again.

Having babies was a joyful period in my life that is thankfully now over. I shut the door on the "Mom is a human pacifier" chapter. I don't want to relieve it nearly as much as I enjoyed reliving the salad days at my 20 year high school reunion. Not to mention the permanent wounds left on the landscape of my body. It's not a pretty sight...I lost the battle and the war with stretch marks and deflated boobs that looked like cold chicken cutlets. Whenever I get out of the shower and dismally see this body reflecting back at me, I thank the marvels of modern medicine that enabled me to ensure any more damage of this kind can never be inflicted again.

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids and am thrilled to be a mom. I just don't miss the first nine months of being pregnant along with the first six months of the newborn stage. I know some are horrified when they hear my diatribe. But for how many other women do I speak their deep-seeded truth? It doesn't make us any less of a woman to concede that one or two, or even no children at all are quite enough for any one of us.

So stop looking at me like I have two heads.

Sentimental junk

Every girlfriend holds on to things long past its expiration date. From a favorite pair of skinny jeans tucked away until it fits another day to that tube of pink lipstick we can’t stop wearing, sometimes it’s just so hard to say goodbye.

I’ve been chastised for this infamous “Brown Swimsuit” I used to love. It was the perfect combination—a well-fitted bottom that hid all that needed to be covered down below and an equally well-fitted top that accentuated the sisters. Apparently, it was well past its expiration date. Turned sour, really. I haven’t worn that swimsuit in more than a full year, but I’m still harassed to burn it. It’s the (I really liked it!)

The funny part is that I save not only the things I love but also the stuff that doesn’t make sense to keep. And I’m not sure why I’m such packrat, but most girls are. I’ve been known to stash a few things away in a drawer, waiting patiently to be resurrected.

Okay maybe a lot of things.

I have a drawer (or few) crammed with lip glosses, tampons, a recipe torn from a magazine, a notepad, pens in a rainbow of colors, Astroglide, several tubes of trial-sized lotions, a crayon, an appointment card from 2005, six ponytail holders, and some kids’ jewelry. Then there’s an overflowing drawer stuffed with belts and neck scarves (did anyone wear them outside of Dallas?); old costume jewelry that may come back in style in another decade or two, a scrap paper for a playdate with a mother I can’t remember, a dog collar (?), an exercise video, sparkly hair clips, at least a dozen gel inserts for my bras and oh, yeah, more tampons! (Does everyone stash them as strategically as I do around their bedrooms?) Not to mention the “Pocketbook Graveyard” cabinets either. I won’t even get into that!

Some items I’ve saved are ridiculous; it’s the lazy Tracy that forces me to save things such as the half-used tube of airline-sized toothpaste. For the flight I may take in the future, I’ll think “there’s no sense in tossing it.” Instead, I’ll stash away on my desk. It never made it back in the bathroom since the last trip. It’s here on my desk because when I put it there (laziness, remember?), I figured the next time I’d need it, I wouldn’t forget it because I so obviously left it on my desk. Of course, this was not the tube of toothpaste I brought on my last trip, because it got buried amongst all the other crap on my desk. (So it obviously wasn’t obvious!)

Some of the “junk” is worth saving because of its sentimental value. Such as the first Valentine my husband wrote or my kid’s first birthday card. Unfortunately, somewhere along the road of sentimentality, I swung far to the left of center and transformed into a pack rat. I started hording. It’s not just the cards from my husband that I’ve saved. Actually, it’s every card anyone has ever sent to me since my mid-twenties. (And that was quite awhile ago!) Yes, you heard me right. If you are my friend and have ever sent me a birthday card, invitation, birth announcement, holiday photo, postcard, get well card, flower arrangement, gift through the internet, or even a thank you note, I have it cataloged away for safekeeping.

My friend Indie is totally on board with this concept. She just spent an entire day, a completely kid-free Saturday (well, okay, she doesn’t have kids yet), a whole afternoon to conduct an archaeological dig in her guest bedroom closet which stores her troves of sentimental “junk”. I am not exaggerating when I use the term “archaeological dig.” Indie could reconstruct her entire past—every old boyfriend, every injury, and travel destination, she had experienced for a major portion of her early adulthood years—through the careful examination of her collection of junk.

And as an avid junk collector and professional archaeologist myself, I enjoyed our long conversation on the guided tour of Indie’s past. It was hilarious and some of the random stuff she had saved from me, I could actually remember it too. It was a trip down Indie’s memory lane.

Every so often, we all seem compelled to clean out our closets. I’m good for a spring cleaning (and full examination, of course) about every two to three years. But it seems we’re all doing that more often now as we start to approach our 40s. Forty isn’t here yet, but I just passed the exit ramp warning sign that read “40—2 miles.” So perhaps it’s that awareness that pushes us to clean out our memory closet, dust off our favorite things and reexamine both what it meant to us then and how it fits us now.

Indie, my soul sister, and I may be a bit extreme. Not just in the collecting part but the re-examining, inspecting, finding new meaning part. Some girls don’t save quite to that extent. And I know a few who have tossed out most of their junk. They were able to say, “that was then and this is now” and out it goes with the baby’s bath water.

Sometimes we save our junk because we want to hold on to our past. Sometimes we save it to remind ourselves how far we’ve come. Either way, sometimes you just need the closet space.

Jinx, buy me a coke! (or not)

During my girls' weekend away, a friend and I were strolling along a boardwalk that connected the Gulf of Mexico to our hotel. Strong afternoon sun, paired with even stronger afternoon cocktails, left us both more-than-slightly tipsy as we chatted along the path back to the hotel pool.

It was a rather hot day, and once we climbed the stairs that raised the boardwalk over the beach and into the lush foliage that lined the boardwalk, we were offered a pleasant reprieve from the sun. As soon as we hit the shady portion, our typically incessant banter slowed and for a few minutes we walked in silence. (Perhaps it was the delightful shade that got us to shut our yaps, or maybe it was the wooziness that accompanied the drinks mixed with the 90 degree temperature--I'm not sure.)

We continued to walk down the path completely alone, lost in our own private thoughts, until a family came upon us from the opposite direction. A young mother was leading her brood towards the beach. She was laden with floating devices and beach toys and other necessities to occupy her small children that were in tow. The older child, perhaps 6 or 7, followed behind her, then the husband (not surprisingly, his hands were empty) and finally bringing up the rear was a barefoot toddler crying.

My friend and I turned to watch as the family passed us by, and the mother called to her husband that the boardwalk was probably too hot to walk upon barefoot. (Ugh, ya think? I commented to my friend, as I stopped at that moment to put on my shoes....a dark wooden, splintery boardwalk that has a sign at the entrance that clearly states: Shoes are Recommended" must have been overlooked by the hapless mother...but I digress and that's not the point of my story....)

At the point at which the family with the shoeless child passed, two conversations were had between my friend and I. You know, it was one of those "Jinx, buy me a Coke" moments when we both turned to each other at the exact, same time to comment on what just happened. Except you usually only buy your friend a Coke when the same thought comes out of each others' mouths. In this case, it was not the same but still of interest to me...follow along.

So my friend's reaction to the family was to wonder what was happening at that very same time with her husband and kids at her home. She started to question if one kid would have a sunburn and if her other kid would be wearing any sunscreen at all. She wondered aloud if her husband would be smart enough to remember to apply a second application of sunscreen after the kids got out of the pool. Blah blah blah.

She essentially STOPPED being on a vacation and allowed herself to slip back into her role she played at home....the leading lady part of "Mother." I betcha if she had her cell phone handy, she would have made a call there and then to ensure the worrisome sunscreen was reapplied.

I, on the other hand, had this immediate and gratifying thought at the very same second within our "jinx, buy me a coke" moment. Here's what crossed my mind with glee: Thank god for girls' trips so I don't have to THINK about that for the next 72 hours!

I laugh at my friend. Why do you think about that now?, I rib her. This is your time, I remind. Truthfully, she's not very good at forgetting, even for a while, and truthfully, I can be very good at forgetting.

Once a year, I go away with my girlfriends and leave the worry, cleaning, shopping, cooking, preparing, planning, chicken nuggets, bathing, laundry, work, husband, stress, responsibilities, appointments, organizing, compromising, kids, and check-lists all home and take off for three days of me.

It's all about me... and sun, and me and drinks, and me and exercising (or not), and me and my friends. It's me, me, me. I smiled as I had that thought of carelessness regarding sunscreen on my kids. I know my husband will take care of it. The kids will be perfectly fine without me for three measly days. So, of course, I torment my poor friend and poke fun at her for not playing along as well as I.

But truthfully, later, soberly, I have to question if it IS okay to turn off my brain for a while. Am I being selfish? Should I call home more often than my once-daily check-in? Am I being a bad mother or wife? Maybe I should have a little guilt. I mean what would all this pleasure be for if not somehow counterbalanced with a little Jewish guilt, right?

Maybe. Maybe not. But not today for me.

Zen and the perfect Mojito

Today at a hotel pool bar, I ordered a mojito. A mojito is a tasty blend of freshly crushed mint and lime, mixed with real sugar cane, rum and soda. As I watched the bartender mix my cocktail, I realized I was mesmerized by the hypnotic effect the violent shaking of the mixing glass had upon me. I felt as if I could physically taste the drink already. I couldn't stand it--it was pure pleasure watching the cocktail being prepared and torturous at the same time because I had to wait--seconds even!--to taste it. By the time the concoction was poured into the glass--my mouth had started to froth at the sides in anticipation.

Perhaps it was my excitement paired with a touch of impatience, but I had to dive right into the drink as soon as the bartender brought the drink to me. The ice had barely finished doing its first lap around the glass and I already had the straw to my lips within milliseconds. The mojito was like a drug I had to get coursing through my veins immediately. Do not pass go. Hell, don't even worry about my friends' drinks that needed to be delivered. Get mojito into self as quickly as possible.

And so I did. Just like that. Some went splashing down my arm in my carelessness to feed the need. I took one large, sloppy sip, tilted my head back and exhaled, letting out a perceptible "ahhhh." It was delicious. It tasted as good as it looked watching the bartender make it. I took another sip, much slower, longer, more deliberate. I closed my eyes to enjoy and allowed my tongue time to actually taste the refreshing mix of flavors. I breathed another long sigh. (Silently, this time because I got an odd look from the guy standing next to me the first time!)

I smiled and thought how something as simple as a deliciously cold drink on a brutally hot day at a hotel pool bar could make me feel so internally happy. Maybe my girls trip was not going to provide any sense of enlightenment but surely the zen of the perfect mojito could help me find inner peace through the enjoyment my beverage. Whatever it was--either the zen or the alcohol content--I was on vacation with the girls and I was feeling great. Girls' weekends rule.

Saturday Night Worthy

We all have different friends for different types of fun or activities. Some girlfriends are great to share a laugh over the National Inquirer's bathing suit issue. Some girlfriends are great listeners and some give good advice. Some can lament with you about your husband's last annoying argument and others you don't bother to share it with at all. Some are great shopping with because she can go at the same speed or has the same taste as you and enjoys spending hours in the dressing room with you, critiquing each other's outfit.

Each girlfriend serves her purpose as your friend (otherwise, we wouldn't bother with them) and some fulfill more than one need. Usually, the more your friends are "good" for, the better friends with them you become.

But then there's a friendship criteria that seems to rise above the rest. It's the final "test" question of how much you like your girlfriend--is she Saturday Night Worthy (SNW)? Though not many will admit it as readily as I, some of your girlfriends that you love Sunday through Thursday just do not cut it when it comes to girls night out on Saturday. And of course, you can't share with her the fact that you just don't deem her SNW. She may be a quality candidate for a Friday night happy hour or a Sunday afternoon film and lite bite. But SNW has much higher expectations.

But we all have girlfriends not SNW. Maybe it's her two-decades-behind hairstyle or outfit. Perhaps a bit superficial but that is a detractor for a good-looking group of girls looking to cut the rope line at a Saturday Night hotspot. But more importantly, it's probably her too-uptight attitude like when a man checks her out and she runs in the other direction. Most often, especially for the 30 and up crowd, the queen of the NOT SNW girlfriends is the one who corners their other friends in a bar to share a cute story about what their darling little child did on the toilet the other day.

I don't want to hear complaining about "what time are we going to get home" nor "How much did that drink cost?" or "I'm tired. I've got to get up with the kids at 6am." I don't want to go out for a "nice" dinner and have sweet conversations such as"Have you tried the wonderful new lean cuisine?" or "did you see that new time-out trick on SuperNanny last night?"and be home by 9:30. I do that Monday through Friday, thank you.

My point is that for whatever the reason, these girlfriends are best left at home. Maybe I'm just getting old and craggy but my Saturday nights out with my girlfriends are few and far between. They're precious girl-time for me. I don't want to talk about my own kids for a few hours, so you can expect I certainly don't want to talk about yours! I want to get dressed up, feel fabulous and young (ish); kick up my heels and hit the dance floor with my girlfriends. I want gritty girl talk and I want to be completely honest. I just can't do that with girls not SNW.

I want to be me for a few hours. Not a daughter or wife or mother. For a few blissful hours I want to be fun and fancy free Tracy. It's the girls that just don't know how to have fun that are not deemed SNW. We're all happy or happily married. We just want to have fun, let our hair down and party like it's 1999. It's not a big request. It seems rather simple.

However, I found myself getting bogged down, weighted down actually, when I had to drag along a friend-of-a-friend or one of my own not SNW friends on my Saturday night who quite frankly, is a bore. Boring may be too strong a word so perhaps "pleasant" is more succinct. After enough times of having a pleasant time out, I decided to call it quits. I only want to go out with my girlfriends that I've deemed SNW. Everyone else will have to try to book me the other six nights of the week.

Not that there's actually a list of criteria one must pass to be on my SNW "list". It's just one of those known things. I know I'm not the only gal who feels this way either. My friend Julie calls it the "edge factor". She doesn't want to be friends with just "nice." People have to have some "edge" to them. We always laugh that even though we really can't define that word ourselves, we just know it when we see it in someone. It must exist because whenever we've met a new person who had "edge", we both would recognize it immediately. The same can be said about SNW. My friend Andrea gets that too and we're almost always on the same page about it

I'm not saying I'll never do anything with those girls ever on a Saturday night. Of course I will. But when it comes to planning my girls night out, I'm pretty strict on reviewing my SNW list and checking it twice. I know some girls think I'm a bitch about it. Maybe it's not one of my best personality traits but I'm okay with that.

Here I go

So. I've decided I'm kinda "over" Facebook. After connecting with most of my past I've ever cared about...everyone from elementary school to sleepaway camp to my neighbors down the block, what am I going to do on there next?

I didn't have any interest in it until I had to do a ton of research about the Millenial Generation for work....ya know, how to motivate the 20 somethings in today's work environment. Afterwards, I felt old. It pained me that I had to read about this new technology/web thing rather than just be "in the know."

It reminded me too much of when my parents brought home our first microwave in the early 80s (or was it 70s?). They were afraid of it because they didn't know how to use it, so of course, I wasn't allowed to touch it. Even though, I inherently knew to just push the buttons...it frustrated me that my parents could be so out of the loop...So that's where I found myself a few months ago...feeling old and out of the loop.

So I joined Facebook and instantly reconnected with my past. It seems as if everyone my age has been joining the Facebook wave. It's been interesting because I got addicted to it for awhile, as it seems many before me have done as well. My friend Doug and I were talking about it both when we reconnected on Facebook and then again in person at our 20th high school reunion. There seems to be a few phases to facebook. The first is denial. Many people I told about it swear they don't want to go on there. Ever. No time...not interested in finding old friends...they give you 10 reasons why they don't want to join. Then phase two kicks in after receiving sixteen requests to join: okay, I'll give it a shot but only to see who's on here. So people create an account, maybe add a photo and some profile information. That's all they intend to really do.

Next thing you know, phase three, the addiction phase kicks in. The new facebooker finds 65 people he/she forgot mattered in his/her distant past. They start sending shots, plants, Manolo shoes, and such. They become obsessed with movie trivia, music trivia, sending booty slaps and little green men. You can always tell the newbies because in one sitting, they've shared six new applets with their friends. Those in stage three tell everyone they know they must get on Facebook too!

Then finally, after the shiny newness wears off and you've said hello to everyone and their friends and so on and so on...and I'm done. Stage 4: boredom on Facebook.

I started to get so picky with it, I even criticized my friend Andrea for accepting friendship requests from people I know she didn't care about. I called her a Fakebooker. I'm mean. :)
But even if I'm in stage four, I still have to admit I check my status a few times a week. It still is a trip to see people's updates and photos. I love that I can tag friends and then they can see it on their page. I love that everyone I know from one place is some how interconnected with friends I know from somewhere else. It makes life so much easier to upload photos and then share them with everyone.The application is genius. And I now feel a little more "with it."

So does anyone have any idea what's going to be the next big idea? I'd love to know.

First Blog Post

So, here I am....embarking upon my first blog post. I'm a journaler, so I thought it would be an interesting experiment to see how much I enjoy blogging. I fear this may just become "another thing" I have to add to my daily mental to-do list but I'm going to give it a try. So join me on my trip...