Are you laughing with me?

Maverick and I celebrated our anniversary this weekend. After 11 years of marriage, 14 years of cohabitation and a history that began almost 20 years ago, I love how amazingly well Maverick really gets me. He understands me in a way no one else does. And when he doesn’t understand me, he laughs at me. I love that too. It’s just one of the many reasons that makes “us” work.

For example, about three years into our relationship, while in the car, I decided to entertain him with my Karaoke Queen singing. Reincarnated in the form of my Rock Band avatar, Bunni, with surfer-girl dreadlocks, Daisy Dukes, knee-hi socks and Chuck Taylors, I curled my hand into a microphone, thrashed my hair all over the passenger seat, shredded my air guitar and belted out every chorus of some Soundgarden tune with ear-curdling off-key half-correct lyrics. I may have truly sucked, but I owned my performance! Thank you for coming out tonight! I love you!

Maverick watched my entire music video with a semi-smirk lurking from behind his hands, resting on the steering wheel. When the song was over, he politely remarked: “You really think you’re good, don't you, Tracy?”

I was mortified—I couldn’t believe he thought I took myself seriously. I’m a jokester, a clown. I make funny faces, sometimes unintentionally, and I laugh at myself. Of all the things I’ve ever thought about myself, being a good singer was as far at the bottom of that list as becoming the smoking-hot, 6-foot-1, Hollywood-supermodel-starlet Mrs. John Travolta, I wanted to be when I was seven.

“What?” I screeched at Maverick in my high-pitched tone. “Good? Are you kidding? I was completely just trying to be funny!” I pleaded and begged him to believe me. I needed him to believe me. I stupidly thought I was amusing him being thy goofy self.

Red-faced, I turned my body towards my car door and sulked. Honestly, I’m pretty clear on which side of the recording contract I sit on. Of all my delusions, my singing well wasn’t one of them. I felt foolish. It’s one thing to be laughed with; quite another to be laughed at.

Maverick laughed anyhow and he laughed for a while. Then he slowly allowed the smile to fade and placated me with: “Okay. If that’s what you say.”

We sat in bloated silence. I peeked at him through the corner of my eye, arms still crossed stubbornly, and saw he was looking directly at me. He was smiling, holding in another burst of laughter. I recognized how hard he was trying to contain himself, muffling the sound that desperately wanted to come out.

I realized how much Maverick really loved me then and my anger faded. I saw the situation for what it was: He sat by quietly, day after day, song after song, and let me sing on the top of my lungs, acting out my silliness, because he knew I loved it. And even if he thought my singing stunk, which it absolutely does except to some neighborhood dogs, he was never going to tell me otherwise. He loved me enough to tolerate my lunacy.

I turned up the radio and belted out another song. We laughed for a long time about that one. And here I am eleven years later still laughing about it. Thanks Maverick, for all the laughs we’ve shared. Even if most of them are deservedly directed at me.

Hypocrisy: How it Plays Out

Setting: Saturday morning, my kitchen table

Maverick (grabbing his keys off the counter): I’m going to get Starbucks.
Me (folding a load of laundry): While you’re out, can you pick up some turkey to make sandwiches for lunch?
Maverick (sarcastically) : Why do you need to buy more food? You just went to Publix the other day and spent $300. We have plenty here.
Me (doubly sarcastic): Because I don’t feel like spending my entire day in this kitchen preparing breakfast, lunch, snacks, dinner and dessert. I thought turkey sandwiches would be fast and easy. Forget it. Just get me a iced quad grande non-fat three Equal extra-ice latte. Thanks.

About thirty minutes later.
Me (phone in hand, lounging on a pool chair, enjoying my 30 minutes of quiet-time): Where are you guys? I just made lunch.
Maverick: Just picking up ‘Bucks. Lunch? Camryn just had a yogurt here because she was hungry.
Me (jumping off my chair in amazement): What? You just spent money on yogurt? I have yogurt here from Publix! And you’d better not have ordered Maya chocolate milk because I have that here too! You kill me! (Click. Silence.)

Five minutes later.
Maverick (kneeling at my lounge chair): What? Are you mad at me?
Me: Yes, unless you admit you’re a hypocrite!
Maverick (with a wink and a smile and knowing full well I’m completely right): I’ll never admit that…

Setting: Evening, in my living room
Group: We’re getting hungry! What’s for dinner?
Me to Maverick: Want to bring in sushi for us? I can make the kids homemade tacos.
Maverick (repeating himself): What? Why do you want to bring in? We have tons of food in the fridge to make. You just spent hundreds of dollars…(fade to black. Discontinue listening.)
Me (red-faced from frustration): That’s right. We do have food to make, but I don’t feel like cooking! I work all week and you hang out with the kids. Then I come home and spend so much time making everyone delicious, healthy, home cooked meals, while you hang out with them. I’d rather spend less time in the kitchen and more time with my kids.
Maverick: Well, we have mahi-mahi filets in the fridge. I’ll make dinner then!
Me (smiling): Great, I love that idea! I’m going to shower. Just call me whenever dinner is ready!

Thirty minutes later.
Me (walking into the kitchen, fresh, relaxed and dressed): How long until dinner is ready?
Maverick: How about we order in from Park Avenue BBQ?

New Schooltime Routines

I’m already dreading the first day of school, which is just around the corner, because that means my kids will be relying upon me to get them there on time, every day. At 7:15am. I’m hosed.

I’m sweating the thought of trying to add a “Routine” to my day. I’m terrible at routines. All that same-old, same-old every day routine goes against my grain. I’m great at formulating a routine. I suck at the follow-through. I realize that “routine” must become my new BFF and fast. Because who else do you think Maya will blame when she sees the tardy count on her report card? (“No, honey, those tardies don’t count against your grades. Really, I promise. What?...No, I will not call your Principal to double check!”)

At least in past years, I had a carpool. So that meant I didn’t need a routine, I just needed to focus on getting my act together on time a few days a week. That’s a manageable task. That’s not the same thing as every day, all five days, every single week, for an entire school year. I figure while I’m working out my new “be-on-time” routine, I’d be best served adding a few more to the super-working-mom list:

Routine #1: Remove my make-up nightly. I’m not sure why after 30+ years, I still struggle with this simple act. I’ll brush my teeth before I go to bed, but makeup removal is a hassle. Those darn little pads take an extra thirty seconds. At this point in my life, I should get over this one and drop it from my routine “wish-list”….accept the raccoon eyes… but its simplicity still taunts me. This has nothing to do with my new school routine, but it’s always the first one that comes to mind.

Routine #2: Pack lunches the night before: I’m embarrassed how simple this task is and how I still need to push myself to create a routine around it. Seriously, I’m just lazy. I’d like to do it at night but with the eight thousand other things I do when I walk in the door after work, it just falls really low on the priority list. It kills me because this routine could clearly save me ten precious minutes I so desperately need in the morning. I wish I could pack lunches for a week—make Maya five PB&J sandwiches and store them in the freezer and then pull one out each day….Oh yeah, it’s called Uncrustables and she hates those…

Routine #3: Get up at 5am to exercise. Really, do I need to explain why I can’t make this a routine? I’ve been doing well this past month, getting out by 6-6:30. But 5am seems unfathomable. Please don’t email me to say you get out to spin class at the gym by 5am. I already have a friend that does that. One’s enough, thank you.

Routine #4: Twenty minutes of reading. This is required by our elementary school and I totally agree with setting aside time each day to read. I’m an avid reader, so this should be a no-brainer. However, I’ve got two kids at two very different levels, with two very different interests in books and only one of whom can read. This presents a problem every time we sit down to do this routine.

Sometimes Maya wants to read on her own near me, but can’t concentrate as I’m reading aloud to Camryn. Half the time I’m raising my voice at Camryn because we can’t read one page without thirty-six interruptions about nonsense that has nothing to do with the story at hand. I suggest Maya read in her room, but she wants to be with me. (Who can argue with this logic?)

Other times, Maya wants to read together. That usually begins with a half-hour argument between the girls over which book to read. Once that’s agreed upon, we all snuggle up for our story. Maya-the-director, interrupts regularly to advise me of exactly how I should read the book. She’s my over-the-shoulder editor. (“You pronounced that word wrong!”) I can’t skip irrelevant passages to speed up the story. (“Wait a minute, you didn’t read this part!”) I didn’t spend enough time analyzing the pictures. (“You’re turning too fast! I didn’t see”) I can’t read in my “voices”. (“Don’t give that girl an Indian accent mom! Stop using French words!”) It’s an exhausting 20 minutes, as you can now clearly imagine why doing this task on a daily basis is painful.

All this is in an effort to get six bazillion things done before I walk out the door. I’ve got to exercise myself & Casey; shower & dress; throw up a load of towels; wake, dress and wash/brush two sleepy, cranky kids; run upstairs for something I will forget; feed two kids (different breakfasts because of course they can’t agree) and one dog (who luckily eats the same thing every day, so no thinking on my part); pack two backpacks; raise my voice to settle a random squabble; sign permission slips; locate homework; prepare three lunches; run through spelling words one more time; find my keys; run back upstairs for something one of the girls forgot; hustle everyone into the car (and settle a disagreement over who is sitting where); run into the house for the keys I left in the laundry room; drive the kids to school, stop at Starbucks, drive to work and start my day.

Whew—tired just writing what my routine will encompass. Must enjoy this last week before the chaos ensues. Hope everyone else’s back to school is less stressful.

I’m aggravated

Maybe it’s the moon cycle. Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s the economy. Whatever it is, I’m feeling cranky, aggravated, annoyed, irritated. In no order:

Stop telling me to be funny. I don’t try intentionally to be funny, so when I am funny, it’s funny. I can’t try to be more funny. It’s aggravating when I hear that my blog “isn’t as funny as it used to be.”

Helplessness is really annoying. It’s aggravating when people sit back and wait for others to help them do what they’re quite capable of doing themselves. Get off your lazy ass and do it! Please stop waiting for me to take charge.

If I ask you a lot of questions, it’s because I’m interested in what you have to say. Why is that so F’ing hard to understand?

Excuses are aggravating. Say yes if you want; or just say no. Don’t give me your BS excuses. You’re in or you’re out. Yes or no. It’s not that difficult. I don’t care either way, really.

Reciprocity is key. I’m not talking tit-for-tat or dollar-for-dollar but reciprocating in-kind, as my mother always says. It’s tiring when I’m doing all the giving and you’re doing all the taking. You don’t have to be able to whip up a sit-down dinner for ten like I can. But you surely can reciprocate with drinks and Costco hors d’ouvres once in a while. And damn it, buy me the good vodka.

Leave me alone. Yes, it’s flattering if you want my opinion on everything (even the stuff I have no idea about). It’s aggravating when you can’t make your own decisions without me weighing in either. Go for it! Make your own decision! You can do it!

Leash police, go away! Yes, I let my dog run around without a leash. I know you don’t like it but frankly I just don’t give a damn. It’s not like my dog’s going to eat your face off, Plus, I’ve never heard of a rabid Golden Retriever anyway. If you don’t like it, walk the other direction.

Yak, yak, yak! There’s lots of things people tell me that I really don’t need to hear. Seriously. I’m better off not knowing. If I don’t need to know about the cheating spouse, please keep it to yourself. Unless it was Maverick, of course, then please do tell as soon as possible.

Enough is enough. No matter what I promise my kids, two more minutes…one more cookie…yes, you can do it one more time…it’s never enough. It never appeases the whining for even more. It’s totally aggravating when I try to set a fair limit and then have to argue with them on why one more minute (or cookie, lap, chance, turn) is not an option.

That’s all the civilized grievances I have for today. The rest are utterly unsuitable to write. Thanks for letting me vent. Feel free to share your own. Aggravation loves company.