Dog People

Over the weekend, I had the pleasure of some alone time with my dog. First we went to Starbucks together and then swimming. He didn’t point out that I probably shouldn’t have been wearing a bikini. But he also didn’t remind me to apply more sunscreen either.

I adore dogs but I’m extremely partial to big dogs. I’m not a fan of little tiny toy lap dogs that wear clothes and are schlepped around in doggie buggies. How humiliating for the dogs. Those people should just have cats or guinea pigs.

There are people who like dogs and then there are dog people. I am most definitely a dog person. People who like dogs pat your dog on the head if you happen to walk by. Dog people will cross the street to give your pooch a smooch.

People who like dogs usually don’t own one themselves. Or if they do, it’s only because their partner came with one. I feel badly for those people because they don’t have much choice in the matter. Like Samantha’s big, blubbery, sloppy-drooling bloodhound that came with her boyfriend. She likes dogs but definitely did not expect to inherit a dog that requires a towel to be strapped around the neck.

Maverick likes dogs. He had a German Sheppard once. That crazy dog ran loose in the neighborhood and terrorized the neighbors. When we moved away, Maverick willingly gave up his dog. Maverick insisted that was his last dog.

I informed him if he wanted to be with me, I was part of a human-dog package. I had to have a dog. Always. He thought after our first dog died, I’d be over it. Nice try.

We lucked out with another great Golden. Even my non-dog-loving friends like Casey because what’s not to like about an adorable, obedient, brown-eyed, blonde golden? He listens. He fetches. He finds my lost flip-flops. He curls up with me on the couch and keeps me company when I’m alone. He motivates me to exercise. He forces me to be regimented. He loves riding in the car with me. He’s got a wonderful big, black nose and a warm, pink tongue. He likes hugs. He’s my boy.

I often wonder if getting another Golden would double the pleasure or simply be an insane thing to do. I bet you can guess what Maverick thinks about that!

Thanks, friends.

Today, someone called me snobby and elitist in an anonymous comment to my Jealousy & Envy blog post. Wow, that stung…if only for a minute.

Actually, I’m thrilled to receive online feedback because it happens so infrequently. Usually I just get kudos or grief from my readers in person.

I’m not going to defend nor justify my position on this comment. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions both of me personally and my writing. Obviously, this reader has issues with me that have been passive-aggressively addressed anonymously. So even if I wanted to respond personally, I can’t.

But the comment did get me thinking about my group of friends. To be sure, they far surpass a “close knit group of 3”. I do have a circle of girlfriends, some live near by and others are far. Yes, these are “my girls”. My girls are my strength, my rocks, my go-to people. My life is fuller and richer with them in it. I’m positive you know who you are, girls.

You are my source of entertainment and comedy. I love it when you laugh with me. And laugh at me. I love when you poke fun of me and don’t take it too seriously when I tear you up too.

I consider myself very lucky to have a wonderful array of personalities. I love that you are each unique in your own way. I love that we’re very much alike and very different at the same time too.

I love when you agree with me. Sometimes I really need that. But I also love when you completely disagree with me and force me to see the other side.

I love it that even though you live far away, we can always pick right back up where we left off when we talk on the phone. I love that calling & texting enables me to feel like you’re right here.

I love it that we’ve been friends for years and years and our friendship is still very real and relevant.

I love that I can be myself with you. Not Mom or Mrs. Fives, just Tracy. Thanks for listening to me. Even if you’ve heard the same story twenty times. Thanks for going along on this roller coaster journey of life with me in the next seat.

I’m very thankful for all my amazing, wonderful, dynamic, sparkling, fabulous, smart, fun & funky friends. My life wouldn’t be the same without you. I’m fairly confident I tell you how much you mean to me, my friends. But just in case, I can’t say it enough: I love you dear friends.

And to my anonymous commenter, I apologize if I’ve unknowingly slighted you. It was not my intention. And thanks for your concern; I will keep my day job.

My new De-Friending Facebook App

So, now I’m on a tirade about envious girls. I heard a story over the weekend from my girlfriend, Anna, that got me fired up. Anna has a friend, we’ll call her Jane, whom she met through their mutual friend. Anna liked Jane very much, except for the fact that Jane doesn’t like Anna. Anna of course, cannot figure out for the life of her why Jane doesn’t like her. What’s not to like about Anna? She’s fun and kind and seems like a true, down-to-earth, Saturday-night worthy girlfriend. What else can a girl ask for?

After running through all the possible far-reaching scenarios of why Jane could possibly NOT like Anna, we came to the conclusion that Jane is very much envious of Anna. Either that or she’s just a total bitch. That very real possibility aside, envy, as I mentioned in my last post is a lethal green cocktail of wanting what someone else has for yourself.

In her envious state, Jane excluded Anna from a birthday party for their mutual friend. Anna was shocked. For one, she is very close to this mutual friend, much more so than Jane. For two, Anna thought she and Jane were friends too. However she was shunned. After the party, the mutual friend questioned Jane as to why Anna was not invited. Jane replied lamely that she wanted to keep the guest list small. KEEP THE GUEST LIST SMALL? What a bullshit excuse for excluding Anna. Obviously Jane drank from the green well of envy.

Rightly so, Anna was strongly advised to unload Jane as a friend. Because, really, with friends like that, who needs enemies? Jane sounds like a back-stabbing bitch, so why bother keeping her around? A good spring cleaning of crappy friends that bring you down is good for the soul periodically.

Over drinks, we deviously plotted how Anna can dump Jane. Anna asked my opinion of simply de-friending Jane on Facebook. I told her to de-friend Jane was not enough punishment and shame. When you de-friend someone, visibility to your Facebook page just disappears for them. It's not even obvious unless that person looks for you page or your updates. It's just too passive.

Instead, I want to write a Facebook application that ANNOUNCES when you de-friend someone. God knows my Facebook inbox is filled with these mini apps of nonsense…What Color Are You on the Inside? What 90210 Character are You? Are You a Bitch or a Vixen? What Led Zeppelin Song Are You?

I can’t imagine it’s hard to create a mini app called “I’m De-friending You, Bitch!” (IDFYB). To use it, just enter a person’s name. The IDFYB app will announce on your network and theirs that the hussy has just been dropped not only from your Facebook friend status but also from your life (and good riddance!)

The message will then appear as a permanent wall post and be highlighted in the notifications section. IDFYB will also allow you to forward it to twenty of your Facebook friends so they can join the party and de-friend the person too.

To be clear on why you’re adding a scarlet letter to your de-friended friend’s chest, IDFYB will include several check boxes to choose from in which to explain your justification. For example: Hit on My Husband; Too High Maintenance; Not Saturday Night Worthy; Whiny & Annoying; Back-Stabber, etc.

Wouldn’t that be fun? I know as you're reading this, a girlfriend or two that could benefit from IDFYB has crossed your mind....

And in honor of Anna, I thought I’d add a justification especially for Jane. It would go a little something like this: “Anna de-friended Jane for being such a shallow, envious, backstabbing, write-a-check bitch. My Facebook friend list was getting long, and I wanted to KEEP IT SMALL. Goodbye.”

Jealousy and envy

When your close girlfriend shares some exciting news with you, let’s say she just returned from an extravagant vacation in Tahiti, I bet you do the same thing as I do. As I listen to her story, perhaps about details such as the in-room amenities or the expansive view from the balcony, I think how thrilled I am for my friend for having such a wonderful experience. It sounds like such an amazing trip, I wish I could go on that vacation and have that experience too. Damn it, I must admit, I'm a little bit jealous.

To be jealous in that nature is not the same as being envious. I know the two words are used mutually exclusive but I think envy is much worse. And being one of the seven deadly sins, it must be worse if God will kill you for it, right?

Envy is when you see something that someone else has, you don’t like the fact that they have it, you want it for yourself, and you don’t want them to have it anymore. The object of envy can be a material possession, a quality or talentd, an achievement or success, a relationship, or any number of things. In other words, envy is the bitch who doesn’t like you because you are more attractive, richer, smarter, with bigger or smaller boobs, or just have a better life than she does.

Friends can be jealous of each other. We can all admit it. We try not to show it but it’s human nature to desire something someone else has. The key word here being ALSO. When my friend has a wonderful experience, I sometimes want it ALSO. I don’t want it INSTEAD of her. I don’t think I should have it and she should not. I don’t think I deserve it any more than she does. Well maybe I think I deserve it just as much. But not more. Either way, these thoughts may be totally selfish, but it’s hard to control your thoughts.

With envy, the thoughts are usually negative and nasty and lead to bitchy, spiteful behavior. Like not inviting a friend to a party and rationalizing that you wanted to keep the invite list small. Bullshit! You were totally envious of your friend and purposely didn’t include her so she would miss out. So you could have fun INSTEAD of her.

Just the other day, I was told by a friend that she hated me when we first met. She said she was envious of me. That I got all the attention when in fact she wanted all the attention. Does that mean that now that we’re friends, she’s jealous and not envious? I really wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information. Either way, it was an uncomfortable conversation, even for me. My only answer is: don’t hate!

Maybe you disagree with how I use the words jealous and envy, but now you know what I think.

Crack in a cup

I’m addicted to Starbucks. I love my coffee but it absolutely kills me that I spend almost $4.50 every single day on my quad grande non-fat three equal latte. The fact remains that I can’t seem to give it up either.

Believe me, I’ve tried to like Dunkin’ Donuts or McDonald’s but they’re too weak. I also have tried to brew my own to no avail either. I’ve tried different coffee brands, different grinds and even different coffee pots. In my quest to either replicate my Starbucks or find a suitable alternative, I’ve picked up enough coffee makers to open Tracy’s Coffee Bar. I counted a Gevalia pot that came free with a trial subscription to their coffee of the month club. I also have both a Bodum electric French press and a manual French press. I have my original Mister Coffee 12-cup pot and a large party size 48-cup pot. I have a Kerieg single cup coffee maker and a Starbucks single to-go-cup coffee maker, and my Krups 12 cup coffee maker with a warming carafe. Not to mention the old espresso maker parked in the back of the pantry we got as a wedding gift. None of these seem to satisfy me.

For Hanukkah, our friend bought us an espresso maker. At first, I loved it. It does make perfect foam and is easy enough to use, but unless I invest in a espresso maker that very expensive, I’m never going to get the right amount of pressure to brew the perfect cup. That sits on the counter looking pretty and unused now.

Sometimes I wonder if Starbucks includes just the tiniest bit of crack in their blend. That would explain my addiction. It's like the yummiest tasting crack in a cup, every so slightly sweetened. It’s not the caffeine because I can drink four shots and go right to bed afterward. It’s just the flavor. I just love the dark, rich, almost burned taste. It wouldn’t be so bad if I at least limited myself to the morning commute cup. Now, however, in the afternoons, I’m driving over for a mid-day iced drink too.

I’ve even got Maverick hooked. The guy never even drank coffee until he shacked up with me. Plus, I think I’m creating a monster in my five-year old. Surprisingly, Camryn loves Starbucks too. Most of my adult friends can’t stomach my four-shot drink but Camryn would drink it all if I let her. For now, I only let her have her favorite vanilla milk. Between the three of us, we have a family fortune going down the drain to one benefactor. We stopped calling it Starbucks and refer to it lovingly as FourBucks. Maybe calling it more than three thousand a year bucks would be more appropriate.

I’d be much happier if my gym knew me by name instead of all the baristas who ask if I’m having “the usual” when I walk in. For Maverick, they special order his favorite yogurt. I even have my very own Starbucks Black card, which saves me 10% on every drink. The card makes me feel special, like my own American Express Black Card for coffee drinkers, though not as many perks. It would be great if it also had perks like my own personal concierge, or a home barista would be nice. I think I’ll submit that idea to Starbucks. Maybe I should run over there now and pitch my suggestion. While I’m at it, I might as well pick up an afternoon iced coffee too. And the vicious cycle of addiction continues…

Botox Virgins

I cracked up the other night watching my favorite summer show, So You Think You Can Dance, when one of the judges, Mary Murphy, admitted that she couldn’t make a particular expression because her face was stiff from too much Botox. Ahah! I knew something was off about her, but figured it was just her horse teeth. I spent the next hour fixated on Mary’s face and clearly, she had not only SOME Botox but LOTS of Botox, evidenced by her lack of any wrinkles on her forehead, plus her inability to move her eyebrows.

A few of my friends are already toying with the idea of Botox. Just a little needle above the eyebrow and another minor touch to the lip, they say. Just a small sip of the proverbial fountain of youth. Let’s just TRY it, I hear. But I think that once you try it you can never go back...because using Botox once is like losing your virginity.

I lost my virginity to a boy named Howard. Yes, sadly, he didn’t even have a better nickname, until afterwards when my friends would call him “Howwieee!” I had all the hopes and dreams of a young high school girl-- find true love and have that wonderfully tender moment when we cuddled in each other’s arms and he carefully deflowered me. But by the end of my junior year, I succumbed to hopelessness and hormones and gave it away to the boy who seemed to know what to do and could keep his mouth shut.

It wasn’t tender nor was it wonderful. It hurt like hell and then it was over. All the waiting and romanticizing vanished in under two minutes. And I realized rather quickly that I had just given up my one-and-only chance to ever have a first time again the way I had hoped.

It’s like my favorite saying about having children: Once you have a baby you can’t put it back. Same for popping your cherry and Botox. You only have one time to get it right because believe me, unless you have a bad reaction to sticking live botulism in your face (and that thought alone should disgust and dissuade anyone from doing it) you’re probably going to be hooked and now you’ve got the REST OF YOUR LIFE to continue sticking needles in your face with a nerve toxin produced by a bacteria.

Frankly, for my one friend in particular, I find your interest in Botox quite hypocritical considering what a germ freak you are. You insist on Purelling your hands twenty times a day, gag at a single crumb on the floor and have a medicine cabinet full of cleansing products to keep all those buggies off your counters, skin and children. However, you’re fully willing to inject living bacteria into your face in the name of beauty? Sheesh!

Sorry, I digress. My point is that we’re not old enough to give up our Botox virginities yet. Like my mom would tell me in high school, I have my whole life ahead of me for sex. We have our golden years ahead of us for Botox. Let’s face it: We’re not Hollywood stars (alas, Starr, you’re a star!). A few wrinkles on our faces only indicates a life well-lived. For full disclosure, I’ll admit readily that when my gobbler starts drooping to my boobs, I will be getting a neck lift. But I will stay away from the needles. So please don’t call me a hypocrite.

Top 10 Things NOT to Do on Your Girls Vacation

I just returned from a fabulous girls trip to Santa Fe. Lucky for me, I have another one mid-summer as well with another group. The more I talk to girlfriends who take vacations with their friends, the more I realize there’s a common thread of annoyances among us. Here’s the top 10 things to NOT do on your next girls trip (especially if you want to be invited back next year.)

1) Don’t be cheap. There’s a world of difference between frugal and cheap. When everyone else has bought a round of drinks, don’t decide you’re suddenly not thirsty when it’s your turn. Don’t try and nickel and dime the group either. If you eat out, just split the bill. If you don’t want to spend money on something, such as a massage, then don’t. Just don’t make it everyone else’s problem by complaining you have no one to hang out with while all your other girlfriends are relaxing at the spa.
2) Don’t sweat the small stuff. Whether your group consists of 3 girlfriends or 10, it’s hard for everyone to be happy with every decision the group makes. You may not love the restaurant chosen, you may not be thrilled with the spa times. Someone has made an effort to herd the flock into making a decision. It’s made, deal with it. Furthermore, when it comes to making a decision, don’t say you don’t care and then bitch once a decision is made.
3)Don’t come without cash. No one wants to stop at the bank five times because you’ve only extracted $40. Take out enough money for the entire trip so you don’t have to inconvenience the rest of us. Unless you’re lucky like me and can rely on your girlfriends to be your personal banker. (Thanks Indie & Jackie!)
4)Don’t be passive. No one wants to be in charge the entire time. Don’t be the lazy bitch who lays back waiting for everyone else to make decisions. Take ownership of one piece of the trip and work it out for the rest. Remember, this trip is for you to take a vacation from your real life and party with your friends. It’s not an excuse for you remove yourself from reality and rely on everyone else to take care of you.
5)Don’t talk about your husband and kids the whole time. These are a few of the top reasons we go away with our girlfriends in the first place: to forget about our families and responsibilities for just a little while and to think of nothing else but ourselves. If I have to listen to you yap about them the entire time, I rather stay home.
6)Don’t burden your friends. When I’m on my girls trip, I want to do what’s good for me, when it’s good for me. For as long as I feel like it, without strings attached. So if you’re fried at the pool and I want to catch more rays, just go off alone. Don’t try to convince me to leave with you. We don’t have to be attached at the hip. Thanks.
7)Don’t assume everyone would be potentially good girls-trip comrades. This point goes back to my “Saturday Night Worthy” post. It’s one thing to spend an evening with a girlfriend. It’s another thing to consider sharing a room with her. There’s only so many girls I can even imagine traveling with. If you're not sure if she's girls-trip worthy, include her on your next overnight trip. Don't kill your whole vacation to learn you were wrong.
8)Don’t judge. It’s amazing what you learn about your girlfriends while you’re away. One may hoard the bacon and another may flirt incessantly with cute boys. It’s all part of the experience but probably not what she does on a normal basis. No one needs to hear your critical catty comments. Let her have her fun. Letting loose is what it’s all about.
9) Don’t be high-maintenance. Stop asking what we’re doing next. Stop checking out your hair. Stop asking me if you have the right clothes on. Stop relying on me to help you make decisions. It doesn’t matter what time we finish what we’re doing nor do we need to plan every minute of the day. Relax. That’s the whole point. If you need a formal agenda, feel free to write that up yourself. Just don’t hold me to it.

The last and golden rule is:
10)Don’t tell your other friends how great your girls trip was. Breaking this rule is a sure-fire way to alienate your friends who were not included. Furthermore, when they hear how much fun you had, they’ll expect to be included the next time. The same is true for husbands. Surely your man can live a long, happy life without knowing all the details. Plus, you’re friends probably don’t want you spilling the beans to your husband. I know it can be a hard rule to live by, but just remember the old adage “whatever happens in Vegas…”.

Anyone disagree?

Random Pea-Brained Thoughts

1. I refuse to spend $200 on a pair of jeans unless they make my ass sing.
2. Good news! Apparently, Starr & I are not alone. In times of crisis, women are more likely splurge on shopping sprees than in normal times.
3. Why do we stop being friends with our Maid of Honor? Weren’t these women supposed to be our closest friends when we got married?
4. I hope that Izzy and George are both dead.
5. Planning a girls trip shouldn’t be more stressful than the daily life stresses from which we’re trying to escape.
6. Why is it true that our most high maintenance friends can’t see themselves as that? Having to explain it all the more supports the theory.
7. I admit it, my Cougar blog post was not my best. I hear ya.
8. If I haven’t called in a few days it’s not because I’m mad at you. I just don’t have anything new to say.
9. Computer illiteracy is just as bad as reading illiteracy. Get with the times!
10. I acknowledge my Twittering is a narcissistic habit. Why wouldn’t the world be interested in following my every move?
11. If you have more than a few hundred “friends” on Facebook, you’re just a friend collector to placate your own insecurities.

Wishing you a safe & sunny Memorial Day weekend!

Fight for dominance

Friday night, my kids and their cousins were enjoying some night swimming. Casey wanted to swim too. He’s almost five months old now, and getting big. He just learned how to swim, and being a water dog, wants to be in the pool at all times.

Swimming with the kids, however, is a bit of a problem. Whenever one jumps in, he jumps in after them. As he doggie-paddles around, his sharp claws extend and he often scratches the kids. They have yet to learn how to grab him underneath his belly and hold him. When I do this trick, he relaxes in my arms. He likes this position and even rolls over so I can scratch his belly at the same time, like a big, hairy baby.

So in my effort to control my dog, keep him out of the pool and thus save the children, I tried to coax Casey of the water. He ignored me. I called him sternly, in my deepest I’M SERIOUS NOW! tone, to no avail. Finally, I dragged him out by the back of his neck.

Once out of the pool, he decided to play-bite me. He chews at my ankles like a juicy rawhide and it’s painful. I yell again, No biting, DAMN DOG! Not surprisingly, he ignores me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maverick and Doc J laughing at me, knowing that the battle of wits, woman vs. canine, has begun.

Now, I’ve tried all the Dog Whisper BS to establishing dominance. I’ve bit Casey’s ear, thumped his rump with a magazine, tried positive reinforcement with a treat….all to no avail. He sees Maverick as the alpha-male and I’m just another litter mate. However, I’m sick of this household position and want to win. So this time, I try to get down on Casey’s level.

I bent down, threw him on his back and stuck my face into his muzzle while holding his jaw closed. NO BITING, I growled. Casey squirmed beneath me, trying to get back to his feet. I hear Maverick and Doc J coaching me. Growl louder. Holder tighter. Don’t give in.

Casey wriggled. I growled as low as my vocal chords will allow, GRRRRR…. I dug my fingers deeper in his muzzle. Casey squirmed harder and I felt like I was losing control. I threw my whole body’s weight on top of him. I’m going to BEAT HIM, damn it. I’m not going to let him win. I laid on top of him for several minutes, until he stopped moving and gave in to my domination.

AH-HA! I won! You stopped struggling, pup, and I am your MASTER! You WILL listen to me! You will OBEY me! You will… Oops.

I must have given an extra inch of room while doing my mental celebration lap. Not sure what happened but the next second, Casey was standing right next to me, while I was on all fours, and we were practically nose to nose. For a very long pause, we looked each other square in the eye. I questioned silently, have I won? Is he going to listen? Did I teach him a lesson of who’s boss? Is he going to stay where he is?

He responded in returned silence by making a mad dash straight back into the pool with a big jump and huge splash ending. Maverick and Doc J. laughed their asses off. I sulked back into the house, knowing that I’d lost again.

Cougars on the prowl

I've got a cute doctor. He's much older and very good looking. I see him every now and again, and we have pleasant conversations and talk about medical things. But in the back of my mind, I wonder, is he flirting with me just the tiniest bit?

I have another cute doctor. He's much younger and very good looking. I see him every now and again, and we have pleasant conversations and talk about medical things. But in the back of my mind, I wonder, is he flirting with me just the tiniest bit?

When you read my story the second time, do you think differently about me when you now know my cute doctor is much younger than I? Does that make me a Cougar? And at what age does that term come into play? Actually, where did that term even come from?

I looked it up on Urban Dictionary. I found the most highly rated definition was hilarious and probably right on the money:

"An older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man...can be anyone from an overly surgically altered wind tunnel victim, to an absolute sad and bloated old horn-meister, to a real hottie or milf. Cougars are gaining in popularity -- particularly the true hotties -- as young men find not only a sexual high, but many times a chick with her shit together."

I wondered, could I possibly be old enough to be considered a Cougar? To me a Cougar is at least in her forties, I convince myself. Then I realize I'm just about there. No, no. I'm still too young. A Cougar must be in her mid to late forties, right? Now I have to look up the answer:

“An attractive woman in her 30's or 40's who is on the hunt once again. She will not play the usual B.S. games that women in their early twenties participate in.”
I have to laugh. Online, you can find tons of websites devoted to hooking up with a Cougar and a Cougar communities for women over 40. Cougars seem to be a pretty hot topic lately. There’s even a TV reality show about a Cougar and a viral video about Cougar Barbie.

So I wonder, when my friends and I check out the cute college boy at the hotel pool, does that make us Cougars? Is it the same thing to look and think, but not act? Or does the woman actually have to pounce and devour her prey to earn the title? I hope so. Then again, I have several Cougars I’m quite close to. So I’m, really not judging, are you?

A new pea-brained feature

I’ve tried desperately to get you, my readers, to comment and engage with me on my pea-brained thoughts. Apparently, you’re either not reading, not thinking, don’t care to comment or just don’t know how.

Now, I’ve made it even easier for you give me your feedback. At the end of every post is a checkbox for you to gauge your reaction: Love this post! Like this post! Don’t really like it.

Let me know what you think. I’m interested in your feedback, more than ever. I hope you enjoy what I’m writing, but even if you hate it, I want to know that too. Now go get to it!

PS. I'm also releasing my new Pea-Brained look to my blog. Be sure to check back soon to see it.

Tired from mother's day

I had a wonderful Mother’s Day. My goal was to not do much but relax. I had breakfast and Starbucks served to me, and spent some quality time in the pool with Maya and Casey. Then I had the family over for dinner. It was lovely.

Later that night, I checked my Facebook to see that Maverick had updated his status. It read: I love to spoil my wife, mom, sister, mom-in-law…for mothers day! But, it is one tiring damn day!!

I wrinkled my nose in despair at that last part “one tiring damn day!” I have to laugh and at the sake of killing the good place Maverick and I are in right now, I have to give a very loud HARRUMPH to this notion that spoiling me on this day could be so tiring.

First, the bagel and egg breakfast paired with Starbucks arrived after 11am. Maverick slept in with me and then, when he was ready to head out to get my breakfast, also informed me that he was going to run an errand to Home Depot too. I did ask him to go to Home Depot, but I kinda expected him to bring me breakfast first!

So, instead of having my nice, warm breakfast served to me on a tray, in bed, I had to wait for him to run his errand. I should not have to wait, stomach growling. Breakfast should have been prepared and anticipating my beck and call, preferably from a bell placed on my nightstand. I’m a fantastic mother. I deserved it on my day.

Afterwards, Maverick had to run yet another errand. He was not home all afternoon while gallivanting around town doing stuff. I didn’t get to hang out with him, nor was he around to fetch me a drink when I got hot. I had to do that myself on MY mother’s day. Plus, if he didn’t leave his errands for the last minute, I wouldn’t have had to suffer. So if he was tired, this was completely his own doing.

Meanwhile, I still had to make lunch for Maya, and listen to her incessant whining about how I wasn’t playing with her in the pool. Finally, I informed her that his was my day, and all I wanted to do was float quietly on my raft. If she wanted to join me in doing what I wanted, I would like it. But on my day, I didn’t want to play mermaid. I wanted to do nothing.

At three, I had to get out of the pool and prepare for the troops to arrive. So I straightened up the house, cut up the veggies and assembled the appetizers, washed the dog, prepared the kitchen for dinner and vacuumed the floor. I bathed the kids and myself. All in an hour. On yet another errand, Brian left to pick up the to-go food.

Everyone arrived, and I served the appetizers and made sure everyone had a drink. I heated and served the food. I made plates for my kids. I fed the dog. Maverick, along with Doc and the other men watched golf. Finally, someone shouted that the women were going to sit down and leave the men to handle the rest.

Afterwards, I helped clean up dinner, pack up the leftovers, serve five (5!) cakes, clean up dessert and usher everyone out the door. Once the company left, I got the house back in order, vacuumed again and walked the dog. So much for me not having to do anything on this day.

All in all, Mother’s Day was not much different than every other day. It was a very nice day but I’m not sure what constituted “so much work” for Maverick. Nor am I sure I accomplished my goal of rest and relaxation either. I guess I can take another shot at it come Father’s Day.

SuperNanny coming to Palm Beach

In my obiligation to pass on relevant information to my readers, I just found the following on Sun-Sentinel website:

Is your family messed up? Are you willing to expose their bad behavior to the nation? The Supernanny would like to talk to you. The reality show is in the Palm Beach area through Thursday, seeking candidates for next season. If you think your family is sufficiently out of control, call 877-626-6984 or e-mail supernanny@shedmediaus.com.

I know of several families "sufficiently out of control". I'd be happy to suggest them to you personally, or you can just make the call yourself.

facebook conversations

I’m having fun with Facebook again. Tonight I had the best conversation with a bunch of my friends, who collectively don't know each other. They read my Facebook update and began a dialog, a virtual conversation with strangers they wouldn't recognize on the street but all connected through me.

Backstory: 7:45 pm. Kids are fed and bathed. Casey's back from his playdate with Rhodie, his canine girlfriend. I realize there is nothing edible in my refrigerator. Decide to order in. Look at take-out menus. Realize there's nothing good because the five restaurants in my area that deliver suck (my favorite Italian joint aside!)

How many times can a girl eat the same five places? I hate it. It's not fair. I wish I lived somewhere that had more selection and better food. I have this thought and decide to update my Facebook status.

At 7:52, I write:
Tracy Friezer Fives: One of those nights I wished I lived in NYC so I could have delicious food delivered.

Then the following conversation occurred responding to my post:
Larry at 8:02pm: But then you'd have to take out a 2nd mortgage - do you how crazy food is in manhattan today? Trust me, stick with the 4:30 early bird dinner specials...

Brian at 8:15pm: It's a little more expensive but it's worth it for the convenience. The food in Manhattan is incredible. You can always have it Fed-exed to you. LOL.

Christopher at 8:22pm: there is no food like Manhattan food. Also you get $ 400 per night for a 2 diamond hotel, $57.00 for a bagel, $70.00 per day to park car.......Having the hotdog vendor serve you from water that has been sitting all day wondering where he /she goes to the bathroom or washes his hands......priceless

Brian at 9:35pm: I just had Filet Mignon, King Crab legs, crab cakes and creme brulee. Mmmmmmm. In Reston, Va. Lora at 10:12pm See you make the best of where you are! Although NY would be a fun trip with you Tray!

Patricia at 10:22pm: I had an awesome meal in NYC just this past weekend - French - funky Lower East Side restaurant. Can't think of a place in South Florida I could get duck for <$20 and an oversized NY strip for $22. Got a slice in Little Italy for $2.50. You can eat cheap and well in NY if you look in the right places. Brian at 10:26pm: Pat, that place across the street from you in the Keys was awesome!! Key Largo Coffee house or something. They loved Casey.

Patricia at 10:40pm: I love that place. Key Largo Conch House. Good to hear you all had a good time down there. Next time we'll go together so we can take the boat out!

Tracy Friezer Fives at 10:42: Had to settle for Chili’s. Next time I’m cooking for myself.

I love this web 2.0 stuff. Fascinated by the fact that now we’re all somehow interconnected to everyone else. Very Kevin Bacon, six degrees and all that. Hope you're having as much fun with it and all the other social media tools creeping into our lives.

Viagra Handshakes

Tonight I read a blog post about Viagra Handshakes. (ed. note. Click the words Viagra Handshakes and read the post I'm referring to...)I laughed at the concept, but as I contemplated my Viagra handshake, I suddenly felt pissed off.

Every woman should learn to have a Viagra handshake. Whether it's for the sake of a job interview or for an introduction to a mutual friend, women should shake hands as strongly as a penis on Viagra. Like men. It signals to men that we can make decisions, be firm, go toe-to-toe with them. It shows we have strength and determination. The will to kick ass. And it's way sexier than a soft, delicate handshake, anyhow.

Much of my early career was spent working in the timeshare and banking industries. Both extremely well known for being boys clubs. Where women could never quite get promoted above her male boss. These boys ran the show and women were just not allowed in the sandbox. Sure one or two with breasts had a big toe dangling over the edge, but those women were still sat at the kiddie table on Thanksgiving.

The men may be smart, but the women were often smarter and savvier. Women knew that to even keep up, a Viagra handshake was critical, even if it seemingly made no difference in title or pay levels. Truth be told, behind every powerful man was a workhorse wonder of a woman.

I worked for several of those men. One guy asked me to do the impossible and then when I pulled it off, he took all the credit. Another schmuck hired me because he thought I was cute, which I disappointingly learned after trusting his as my mentor.

Then there was the little Napoleon-man who snorted. I had to suffer through Monday morning updates with his other direct report, who also happened to be his best friend. They bickered like a sex-deprived married couple. Seriously, it was that bad. My accomplishments were never rewarded like Napoleon's "wife" was, even though I kicked ass and exceeded my goals, unlike the little woman. And why should I have been? Just because I earned it? Wrong. I still didn't have the merchandise between the legs to justify recognition.

I had the BIG boss who I was required to refer to as "Mr. So & So. " He was so big and important, I was prohibited to call him by his first name. He once scolded me that if I wanted to be a "big girl", Tracy, I'm just going to have to learn how to "play with the big boys" and "sit quietly" while the "MEN" made decisions of this "Magnitude". Seriously.

So, if a man asks if a woman needs to have a Viagra handshake, my response is absa-fucking-lutely. I'll pump your hand, Viagra-style, because I'm just as good as you, man. Not to earn your respect, but just because if I wanted, I bet I could kick your ass, too.

PS. One insanely interesting fact: The active ingredient in Viagra can be found naturally in walnuts.

Baby no more

Last week, I had to drop Maya off at school by herself. Typically, I carpool with a friend and drop the girls off at the light by the school;. Maya and her friend walk to the corner, cross with the crossing guard and make their way into the building by themselves.

On this day, the friend was sick, so I planned to park the car and walk her in. I pulled into a standing spot, turned off the ignition and opened my car door. Maya asked me where I was going and I explained.

She said, verbatim: "Now, Mom, I love being with you and like that you want to walk me in, but only the babies in kindergarten have their moms walk them in. I can go alone."

With my mouth agape, I slowly closed my door and mumbled, "Of course, honey, I know you can." And off my baby went. I sat in parked silence and watched her walk to the corner, wait for the crossing guard and run across the street. That day, my daughter was just a step ahead of me.

It was one more sign that my little girl was moving ever closer to young adulthood and farther away from being the babe in my arms she once was. I'm not surprised by this change, as growth and development is obviously expected. I just didn't realize it would happen so fast and made me a little sad.

Playing the Game

Maverick and I have a pretty good system for managing two full-time careers and raising two young daughters. We split the morning routine, each taking care of one kid; and in the afternoons, he gets the girls from school, entertains them for a while and then feeds them. When I get home from work, I finish up the nighttime routine of homework, baths, books and bed.

I do the laundry, he takes the dry cleaning. I do the lunches, he does dinner. He manages the finances, the house maintenance, pest control, the landscaper and the pool. I do the shopping, miscellaneous errands, and daily house straightening. I do the scheduling of doctor’s appointments, vet visits, dental cleanings, babysitter and weekend plans. He does all the “daytime” things that I can’t get to and I do all the other things he deems is “my job.” We share the dog responsibilities and taking out the trash. …And so on…and it works for us, usually.

Every so often we get into a pissing match of my least-favorite game, called “Who does more?” Every married or cohabitating couple plays. All you need to get started is to pick out something in your relationship that feels uneven and you want acknowledgement for. There’s no minimum to how small the uneven “thing” can feel. It can be as insignificant as who cleans the orange juice ring left in the sink.

One player goes first and calls out, “I do everything around here! I did X today and Y and Z!” The other person counters with, “What? I did A, B and C! Not to mention that yesterday, I also did X and Y and Z!” The game continues until one player “wins” by beating the other player down to beg for mercy, ask for forgiveness or thank the winner profusely for all he or she has done.

As competitive as I am, for the first twelve years of my relationship, I always went for the win. Sometimes, I’d even continue “playing” long after my Maverick left the game. Now, I’m just tired of playing it and often accept defeat for peace.

The last few days, Maverick has been grumbling about me under his breath. We're playing the "Who does more?" game in silent mode. I know what he's thinking but I didn't engage him in the conversation. I didn't want to. I'm tired. I'm busy. I've been dizzy. I'm just not in the mood to play.

Finally this morning, Maverick started round one. However, instead of the opening line, he began by uncovering a new strategy to the game. He jumped right in without the usual banter and went right for the kill with the "Martyr" card. The martyr card played out like this:

Me: “I’m going in late to the office so I can register Camryn for kindergarten today.”
Him: “Why didn’t you just ask me to do that?”
Me: “Because I can do it. I thought I'd take care of it first so I don't have to bother you with doing it.”
Him: “Why not? I do everything else around here.”

So now, instead of trying to make me feel guilty and/or thankful for how much he does, he’s offered to willingly “do it all” to play his martyr trump card. And of course, the martyr is an automatic win.

The truth is we both have to do what we have to do to keep our family and house running. We have to stop keeping track and just get it done. Sometimes I do more, sometimes he does more. I hear the same game being played daily with all my friends. And we’re all tired of it, yet we can’t seem to find a way to stop the pattern.

Next time, I’m going to try ending the game before it begins. I’ll say: Maverick, you can pass go, and collect your $200. Thanks for playing. Oh, and can you pick up my prescription while you’re out?

Shopping frenzy

Maverick called me at the office to say he was taking away my credit card. Apparently, he said, I don’t know how to control myself when it comes to shopping. As I pleaded and explained and poorly attempted to keep control of my plastic, in the back of my mind, I know he can be right, sometimes.

Not too long ago, Starr and I were doing some out-of-town shopping. We hit a stretch of unique shops and the two of us started salivating. My saliva was caused by hunger. It was mid-afternoon and neither of us had anything to eat all day, but Starr was drooling over the clothes she saw displayed in the window.

After promising her that the stores would remain open afterwards, we grabbed a bite to eat and drank a bottle of champagne over lunch. Feeling warm and bubbly from the cold bubbly, we hit the boutiques.

We looked like two kids in a candy store. We practically ransacked the first shop, throwing things around and stock piling clothes in the dressing room. Tops and skirts and dresses flew out of the curtain while my poor friend, Jenny, carefully hung up the discarded clothes for us. While Starr paid for her finds, I scoured the jewelry counter and strung several necklaces around my wrist and tossed them on the checkout counter for a last-minute photo finish of a clothes horse-race.

And that was the first shop.

By the third or forth…or maybe the fifth or sixth boutique…I think I lost count….I realized I also had lost my head. I walked into this store, still rearing to go on the high that everything was on sale, everything was in my size and everything looked great. (And how often do the stars align that perfectly?)

I stood over a pile of beautiful 50% off scarves and was trying to pick out one or two to buy. But I had found six that all looked great and agonized over which ones to put down. So I moved over to the sweater table and picked up three or four cute things. Next, I found another necklace, so I made my way over to the cashier but couldn’t bypass the shoe section and saw my weakness…crystal studded flip flops and found several pairs I wanted…I looked at all the stuff in my hand and started to hyperventilate.

I realized I wanted everything in the store, right now. I’d hit a bonanza. A magic treasure chest filled with beautiful clothes, and shoes, and accessories just for me. I looked down at the packages I was carrying…I added up what I had spent already (justifying to myself I had just bought my own birthday present, Mother’s Day and Hanukkah presents at this rate and it was only March). My pulse was racing and I started hyperventilating.

I realized I was in a full-fledged shopping frenzy and had to walk myself right out of the store to catch my breath. As I stood outside in the cold air, my breathing finally slowed and my blood pressure returned to normal. Jenny, not knowing anything was wrong, came outside to comment that she had never seen two girls do as much damage as Starr and I had. In two hours, she said, we’d spent what she’d spend in a year on clothes. She said she was fascinated by us. But I felt disgusted and ashamed.

I didn’t spend a dime afterwards that day. I did however, continue to enjoy shopping vicariously through Starr, who even managed to find something fabulous at an airport boutique on the way back into town. I’ve been trying to be better since then and not buy whatever strikes my fancy when I see it. It’s hard still sometimes, especially when I see cute $5 t-shirts for the girls at Target. Okay, I admit, I still get them the cute $5 t-shirts when I see them at Target. Now, I just try to pick out one or two instead of one of every kind.

With all the recession talk, I know I should tighten my belt and do better with less. I can cut back on another pair of flip flops or another pair of earrings for a while. I’m good with less shopping for now, just as long as Maverick doesn’t ask me to cut out my daily Starbucks. I have a feeling that request is coming soon too. Especially since we just got a new espresso maker.

What should I wear?

I’m going to a bar mitzvah. What should I wear?
I’m going to Santa Fe. What should I wear?
I’m going to a BBQ. What should I wear?
I’m going bar-hopping for Friday night happy hour. What should I wear?
I’m going dancing on a Saturday night. What should I wear?
My house is burning and I need to leave immediately. What should I wear?

It seems like the “What should I wear” game is one of the most overplayed, exhausting, and intoxicatingly addicting games my friends and I participate in. Every event seems to require at least one of us asking what we should wear. Or what are you wearing? Is jeans okay for a Friday night? Do we have to get dressed up for dinner in at your house? Is sweats acceptable on a Sunday afternoon? Do I have to come to your pool party wearing an actual swimsuit?

When I was a kid, I didn’t care what I wore. As long as it was comfortable. I probably took that mantra to an extreme, and actually got into trouble for wearing my pajamas to school. But it was so much easier then than it seems to be now. Even with a full closet of clothes, I’m in a constant struggle to find the right thing to wear.

Styles change. My size changes. My tastes change. Styles change again. My closet is an ever-evolving rotating door of clothes that comes and goes before I’ve had the chance to get my wear out of any particular item. The absolutely right-now perfect top doesn’t seem to hold up two months from now. The pink cargos went the way of pink flamingos in our front yard. The overalls I loved so much have been donated after eight years of hoping to make a comeback. It’s very frustrating how often fashion changes ever-so-slightly that last year’s version looks so much like this year’s, but not enough to pull it off. I’d rather just chuck it than worry about who’s noticed that I’m wearing “so last years”. And honestly, I care about this stuff as much as the average girl yet it still eats me up.

Plus, I never can seem to get ahead of the fashion and actually have the right thing to wear, so I’m constantly at the mall looking for perfection. Of course, I never find it when I’m looking for it. Only when I’m in a rush or shopping for a gift for someone else.

I try not to kill myself with keeping up with the styles and stick to my tried-and-true favorites. Most of my clothes are my staple favorites that you’ve probably seen me wear a thousand times. They’re like the PJs of my childhood. Three kinds of items are my standard-issue uniform. I can wear strikingly similar black or white t-shirts and never get tired of wearing them. I have twenty variations of the same t-shirt shirt: v-neck, deep v-neck, scoop neck, boat neck, three-quarter sleeve, long sleeve, gathered, cap sleeve…. I should buy an additional color or two when I refresh the uniforms but I wind up moving those to the back of the closet and focusing on my favorites.

I also have my standard issue sweats. They’re shoved in a drawer with eight other pairs, but I always seem to reach for the same gray pair over and over. Now they have a hole right below the knee, thanks to Casey. But instead of tossing them, I’ve decided to roll them up, hip-hop style.

Flip flops round out my third standard-issue uniform. Pink, white, black, red and every color in between. I have flips with rhinestones and flops with bows. I have crystal ones and stone ones and plain ones and denim ones and high heels and low heels and some I have multiple pairs of the same kind. I have a whole basket of flip flops and can wear a pair every day for over a month with out duplication.

What's your standard issue uniform?

The terrible twos of puppyhood

At 4am this morning, I was standing in my driveway, staring up at the full moon and the bright night sky. No, I didn’t sleepwalk my way outside nor awake from a bad dream. I was watching my new puppy, Casey, pee. Even at that ungodly hour, he was so awake and chipper. He sniffed in endless circles until he found just the right blade of grass with the right scent to leave his mark. Then he followed it up with a healthy poop. Of course, I have to watch each poop to ensure it’s the right consistency, much like a new mother inspects her newborn’s poop.

And that got me thinking about how much a new puppy is like having a new baby. For the longest time I had a magnet on my fridge that read, “Once you have a baby, you can’t give it back.” Unfortunately, at times, I wish this weren’t also true for dogs.

I love my dog, don’t get me wrong. I love that he still looks like a large, fluffy cream-colored marshmallow. He’s a love bug. He loves me to scratch his belly. He’s fun to watch as he chases a bug or can’t maneuver going down the stairs and falls. I love his silly antics. I love watching him run: his back legs run almost perpendicular to his front legs, his ears flop and he has a lopsided smile on his face with his long tongue hanging to one side. Often, when he’s running directly to me, he can’t slow down fast enough and crashes into my legs. He’s hilarious.

I love how eager he is to please me. How I can train him to sit or come when I call. I love how he loves to hang out with me all the time. He’s great company. He doesn’t talk back. He’s a great listener. He keeps a good secret. I love watching him have fun with an empty paper towel tube. If only I could find such joy in something so simple.

On the other hand, I’m tired of getting up to walk him every night. Damn it, pee in your crate or hold it, I think when he wakes me. He also likes to dig in the dirt and bury things. Usually as I’m walking out the door, dressed for work, I have to stop and clean muddy paws and then my own muddy pants. He finds everything I don’t want him to find and eats it, like my dirty panties in the laundry basket. He’s like a Mexican jumping bean now, jumping up on my couch too. Each time I push him off. Then he jumps back on like a broken record. On, “Casey off!”. On, “Casey off!” On, “Casey off!” You get my drift…

Casey chews everything. My baseboards, my rugs, the girls’ stuffed animals, my robe, my pants legs, my shoes, and most deliciously, my arms and hands. Apparently, I’m a delicacy. Maverick and the girls are tasty treats but not so much as his favorite person, me. And when he gets fixated on teething on me, I have a hard time keeping my cool with him…it hurts! When I reprimand him, he thinks it’s a game, which leads to more human chewing. So much so that I toss him outside for a reprieve, which leads to freedom in the back yard and digging and dirty paws again. It’s a nasty cycle.

It’s reminiscent of all my new-mother suffering I had to endure when Maya came, especially the first few months. Luckily, one human year is equivalent to seven dog years. So this stage should be end much more quickly than with a human baby. However, that also means Casey is almost two human-years old. A toddler. Great. Now I’m beginning the terrible two’s. I’m in trouble.