This is the first song that came on as soon as I pulled away from home today. I can't get it out of my head or my heart facsimile. So, here's hoping I can exorcise the demons...
And So It Goes
Lyrics Artist (Band):Billy Joel
In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along
I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense
And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose
But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break
And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows
So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Mommy's Little Man
Allow me my Paul Reiser "Parenthood" moment, if you will...
Seriously, I have THE cutest kids on Earth. For real. And there's a reason God and my own personal body made them so friggin cute.... It's so I won't kill them.
From the 3 year old who REFUSES to actually poop in the potty as opposed to on himself, to the 12 year old who is convinced her 32 year old mother is a damn dinosaur and has no clue about anything. She rolls her eyes and slams doors and is convinced she is abused because she doesn't have a cell phone yet... In between is the 8 year old girl whose habits include habitually lying, sneaking food off and leaving the wrappers stashed around the house and screaming as if she's being beheaded at the drop of a hat. And then there is the 6 year old boy...
He is my third child but my first born boy so everything he does is pretty much new to me. I have never been a 6 year old boy so I truly don't get the obsession with dirt bikes and 4 wheelers. I don't understand how I can start the day with "Hi, Buddy, did you sleep well?" and get "Yeah, I'm hungry....could I ask Grandpa to buy me a dirt bike?"
Conversations take a turn like this all day long.
Q: "So Monkey, what do you want for dinner?"
A: "I could ride a four wheeler in the backyard, you know"
Q: "Want to go swimming today?"
A: "Jeff Gordon was 5 when he started to race go karts. I'm already 6!!!!"
Q: "Can we not talk about 4 wheelers and dirt bikes today?"
A: "If I promise to not go on sweet jumps until I'm 15, can I have a dirt bike?"
Six year old boy language is very random and very specific at the same time. And where the kid gets some of his material is questionable as well. An excerpt from a real conversation from this weekend:
Me: "Hey kiddo, I'll miss you tonight. Have fun with Daddy, okay?"
The Boy: "So I think Daddy and I should get our own monster truck."
Me: "Ummm...kay. Why?"
The Boy: "So we can ride around in it... Maybe pick up some hot chicks"
Me: "Some what?!?"
The Boy: "Hot chicks... to ride in the back"
Me: "Wha? Who?"
The Boy: "Ya know, GIRLS, Mommy? Hot chicks are girls."
Me: "So you want girls to ride in the monster truck?"
The Boy: "Yeah, hot chicks in the back."
Me: "Why do they have to ride in the back? Won't that be uncomfortable?"
The Boy: "They gotta ride in the back if me and Daddy are in the front. But I'll get 'em like a couch and a blanket and a microwave...."
Me: "Sounds like you're pimpin' your monster truck..."
The Boy: "What Mommy?"
Me: "Nothing, honey...Nothing."
So he's six and obviously thinking ahead to engines and hot chicks. Six!
I look at this boy and see the sweet face baby I so proudly marched out of the hospital with. He was swaddled in blue from the tiny baseball hat to the tiny booties. I wanted no one mistaking the fact that I- I was bringing home my son. Not that boys were preferred over girls, but after 2 beautiful pink daughters, this was a huge moment for me. I was puffed up like some Italian mafioso. -And not just from all the IV's and drugs from childbirth either. I used the word "son" like some women use the word "fiance" after just being engaged. As a new word that tingles on your tongue... a word that has a lot of meaning behind. When I said "son" what I meant was "HA!! I finally have a BOY! And we get to buy BLUE STUFF! And someday I will get to watch him play sports. And he is PERFECT and BIG and STRONG!"
And so now, this tiny boy, this sweet faced baby of mine says he wants to pick up hot chicks??? He wants to put his body (that I made!) on a four wheeler and drive it off "sweet jumps" so he can break his head (that I made too!!) open??
How do mothers do this? Girls are so much easier. Control the make make-up, keep boys away, take them shopping. Done. Slumber parties I can do. The most dangerous activity there is painting your toenails blue. Not being crushed by a dirt bike. Gah!
I am in love with this boy. Would do anything to make him happy... He is a charmer, and funny as hell and smart and precious with his little glasses and blue eyes, but if anyone sees him, tell him girls don't like dudes who have monster trucks, dirt bikes, go karts or 4 wheelers, okay?
Seriously, I have THE cutest kids on Earth. For real. And there's a reason God and my own personal body made them so friggin cute.... It's so I won't kill them.
From the 3 year old who REFUSES to actually poop in the potty as opposed to on himself, to the 12 year old who is convinced her 32 year old mother is a damn dinosaur and has no clue about anything. She rolls her eyes and slams doors and is convinced she is abused because she doesn't have a cell phone yet... In between is the 8 year old girl whose habits include habitually lying, sneaking food off and leaving the wrappers stashed around the house and screaming as if she's being beheaded at the drop of a hat. And then there is the 6 year old boy...
He is my third child but my first born boy so everything he does is pretty much new to me. I have never been a 6 year old boy so I truly don't get the obsession with dirt bikes and 4 wheelers. I don't understand how I can start the day with "Hi, Buddy, did you sleep well?" and get "Yeah, I'm hungry....could I ask Grandpa to buy me a dirt bike?"
Conversations take a turn like this all day long.
Q: "So Monkey, what do you want for dinner?"
A: "I could ride a four wheeler in the backyard, you know"
Q: "Want to go swimming today?"
A: "Jeff Gordon was 5 when he started to race go karts. I'm already 6!!!!"
Q: "Can we not talk about 4 wheelers and dirt bikes today?"
A: "If I promise to not go on sweet jumps until I'm 15, can I have a dirt bike?"
Six year old boy language is very random and very specific at the same time. And where the kid gets some of his material is questionable as well. An excerpt from a real conversation from this weekend:
Me: "Hey kiddo, I'll miss you tonight. Have fun with Daddy, okay?"
The Boy: "So I think Daddy and I should get our own monster truck."
Me: "Ummm...kay. Why?"
The Boy: "So we can ride around in it... Maybe pick up some hot chicks"
Me: "Some what?!?"
The Boy: "Hot chicks... to ride in the back"
Me: "Wha? Who?"
The Boy: "Ya know, GIRLS, Mommy? Hot chicks are girls."
Me: "So you want girls to ride in the monster truck?"
The Boy: "Yeah, hot chicks in the back."
Me: "Why do they have to ride in the back? Won't that be uncomfortable?"
The Boy: "They gotta ride in the back if me and Daddy are in the front. But I'll get 'em like a couch and a blanket and a microwave...."
Me: "Sounds like you're pimpin' your monster truck..."
The Boy: "What Mommy?"
Me: "Nothing, honey...Nothing."
So he's six and obviously thinking ahead to engines and hot chicks. Six!
I look at this boy and see the sweet face baby I so proudly marched out of the hospital with. He was swaddled in blue from the tiny baseball hat to the tiny booties. I wanted no one mistaking the fact that I- I was bringing home my son. Not that boys were preferred over girls, but after 2 beautiful pink daughters, this was a huge moment for me. I was puffed up like some Italian mafioso. -And not just from all the IV's and drugs from childbirth either. I used the word "son" like some women use the word "fiance" after just being engaged. As a new word that tingles on your tongue... a word that has a lot of meaning behind. When I said "son" what I meant was "HA!! I finally have a BOY! And we get to buy BLUE STUFF! And someday I will get to watch him play sports. And he is PERFECT and BIG and STRONG!"
And so now, this tiny boy, this sweet faced baby of mine says he wants to pick up hot chicks??? He wants to put his body (that I made!) on a four wheeler and drive it off "sweet jumps" so he can break his head (that I made too!!) open??
How do mothers do this? Girls are so much easier. Control the make make-up, keep boys away, take them shopping. Done. Slumber parties I can do. The most dangerous activity there is painting your toenails blue. Not being crushed by a dirt bike. Gah!
I am in love with this boy. Would do anything to make him happy... He is a charmer, and funny as hell and smart and precious with his little glasses and blue eyes, but if anyone sees him, tell him girls don't like dudes who have monster trucks, dirt bikes, go karts or 4 wheelers, okay?
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Last Fling Before the Ring...
Bachelorette Parties are interesting things men cannot understand. Much like women, periods and the difference in my 8 pairs of black shoes... Guys have bachelor parties and you don't see them stick a crown on the groom-to-be's head with a necklace covered in little plastic vaginas. They do not run around in packs downtown seeing who can be the loudest Woo-hooer, the sexiest dancer or blow whistles at hot men as they stagger down the street. The boys version?
Show me boobs. Give me beer. Done.
You gotta respect the simplicity of it, really. (I do want to give mad props to the bachelor party group I witnessed Saturday night who had taken a blow-up doll and handcuffed it to the groom... That. Was awesome.)
Women would be a bit less than satisfied if you handed a bride-to-be a box of wine and had some naked boys gyrate their wangs in her face.
(At least MY friends would've been anyway...)
So instead, we women plan days at the spa or dinner out dressed up with the girls... The we go out and get rowdy and drink. We stick a light up tiara on the chosen ones head, parade her all over town, making her as big a spectacle as humanly possible. For what? Free drinks? The attention? Maybe a bit of both. Maybe it is in the spirit of needing that connection with other women and feeling like we need to justify it with an occasion. Which is sad, really.
We shouldn't need an excuse to cram 8 girls together in one hotel room to giggle and talk about random things. We shouldn't need a reason to drink an obscene amount of liquor, dance our butts off and laugh at each other. And I'll be damned if we really need to have a reason to get all hopped up at 3 am to go get in the hotel pool in bras and panties. (Speaking of which, we should've sold tickets to THAT part of the night to pay for the alcohol portion! Duh! Why didn't I think of that before??? And there we were, a bunch of suckers, givin' that kind of show away for free?!? GAH!)
So I hereby second the motion for annual Bachelorette Party Night. Even if we don't pick a fake bride. I swear it's not to see the Hottest Boy I Have Ever Seen again... It's not for the free drinks being a group earned us... It's not even for the hilarity of seeing my drunk friend get on more than one stage with a crooked plastic tiara and veil on her head. It's to see you hot bitches all wet in your undies, dammit! ;-) No, I kid, I kid... It is our right- nay, our duty as women to get the hell away from the guys on occasion and do whatever the hell we want. And let them do whatever they want.
Even if it is boring old boobs and beer.
Show me boobs. Give me beer. Done.
You gotta respect the simplicity of it, really. (I do want to give mad props to the bachelor party group I witnessed Saturday night who had taken a blow-up doll and handcuffed it to the groom... That. Was awesome.)
Women would be a bit less than satisfied if you handed a bride-to-be a box of wine and had some naked boys gyrate their wangs in her face.
(At least MY friends would've been anyway...)
So instead, we women plan days at the spa or dinner out dressed up with the girls... The we go out and get rowdy and drink. We stick a light up tiara on the chosen ones head, parade her all over town, making her as big a spectacle as humanly possible. For what? Free drinks? The attention? Maybe a bit of both. Maybe it is in the spirit of needing that connection with other women and feeling like we need to justify it with an occasion. Which is sad, really.
We shouldn't need an excuse to cram 8 girls together in one hotel room to giggle and talk about random things. We shouldn't need a reason to drink an obscene amount of liquor, dance our butts off and laugh at each other. And I'll be damned if we really need to have a reason to get all hopped up at 3 am to go get in the hotel pool in bras and panties. (Speaking of which, we should've sold tickets to THAT part of the night to pay for the alcohol portion! Duh! Why didn't I think of that before??? And there we were, a bunch of suckers, givin' that kind of show away for free?!? GAH!)
So I hereby second the motion for annual Bachelorette Party Night. Even if we don't pick a fake bride. I swear it's not to see the Hottest Boy I Have Ever Seen again... It's not for the free drinks being a group earned us... It's not even for the hilarity of seeing my drunk friend get on more than one stage with a crooked plastic tiara and veil on her head. It's to see you hot bitches all wet in your undies, dammit! ;-) No, I kid, I kid... It is our right- nay, our duty as women to get the hell away from the guys on occasion and do whatever the hell we want. And let them do whatever they want.
Even if it is boring old boobs and beer.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Keepin' it Classy...
It happened...Again.
I worked all day, ran around the hotel for 7 hours in heels making every detail for someone's event perfect down to the last carrot stick. They left, I cleaned up and then went immediately over to a friends house for a cocktail party I was hosting as a couple's wedding shower.
I had spent weeks planning the food, the decorations, the festivites. No detail went unattended. I bought dozens of pieces of glassware so there were no paper cups, I fought a hard battle over plastic anything. I wanted it beautiful and classy and perfect. So I'm cooking, and cleaning and setting up, I throw on my little black cocktail dress, have people lighting candles... I'm making drinks, people are oohing over the food- I am aware of a drink in my hand, but too busy to be concerned with it.
Things are rolling along, everything is on schedule, Sinatra is playing and all is right with the world. Until I realize I have downed 2 cosmos and 2 lemon drop martinis without even noticing...until my head is in the toilet. Nice.
Way to keep it classy...
Gah! Why does this always happen to me? It seems no matter how hard I try I cannot ever time it right. Nothing ever goes as planned. What am I doing wrong???
I worked all day, ran around the hotel for 7 hours in heels making every detail for someone's event perfect down to the last carrot stick. They left, I cleaned up and then went immediately over to a friends house for a cocktail party I was hosting as a couple's wedding shower.
I had spent weeks planning the food, the decorations, the festivites. No detail went unattended. I bought dozens of pieces of glassware so there were no paper cups, I fought a hard battle over plastic anything. I wanted it beautiful and classy and perfect. So I'm cooking, and cleaning and setting up, I throw on my little black cocktail dress, have people lighting candles... I'm making drinks, people are oohing over the food- I am aware of a drink in my hand, but too busy to be concerned with it.
Things are rolling along, everything is on schedule, Sinatra is playing and all is right with the world. Until I realize I have downed 2 cosmos and 2 lemon drop martinis without even noticing...until my head is in the toilet. Nice.
Way to keep it classy...
Gah! Why does this always happen to me? It seems no matter how hard I try I cannot ever time it right. Nothing ever goes as planned. What am I doing wrong???
Monday, July 16, 2007
Boys who talk funny....
As a rule, I think most women like men with accents. Some chicks love the English lilt, or Aussie ruggedness, maybe a Scottish brogue. Some women are ready to drop their panties for men who speak any of the Love Languages. We all have some imaginary Pretend Boyfriend who whispers something romantic and foreign...maybe in French or Italian. But no. Not me.
I am a sucker for boys who drop their R's.
So no, it's not 'foreign' so to speak.... certainly not fancy or rugged. But what is it with those boys from the northeast and their sexy letter skipping accents that makes me crazy?
One of my very best friends always tells people when I finally do get to Boston I'd probably be happy to just listen to random men speak- read the phone book even. It's true, too. I'm afraid to take myself to Boston for fear of pouncing on dark haired boys who happen to say hi or ask me how I am. ("How ah ya?") Just thinking about it makes me giggly and beside myself. Some sweet waiter will want to take my order and I will kiss him... A gentleman will ask me if I want a beer and I will practically dry hump him. Gah!
I will be out of control. I will get my ass beat by some local chick for drooling over her boyfriend while I listen to him on his cell phone! But it's not even the young ones. Old guys talkng like that is the cutest damn thing ever. And the more they cuss, the better. I can't wait to go to a bar and hear a whole crowd of them yelling, "FAHK!"
That shit doesn't get old for me either. I have had one friend who drops his R's and three years later, I'm still begging him to say "clam chowder" one more time. Is he annoyed by it? Probably. Tells me I've got to learn to play it cool, but I swear this is some kind of sickness.
But at least I know any man who speaks like that could kick the shit out of your English Pretend Boyfriend...
I am a sucker for boys who drop their R's.
So no, it's not 'foreign' so to speak.... certainly not fancy or rugged. But what is it with those boys from the northeast and their sexy letter skipping accents that makes me crazy?
One of my very best friends always tells people when I finally do get to Boston I'd probably be happy to just listen to random men speak- read the phone book even. It's true, too. I'm afraid to take myself to Boston for fear of pouncing on dark haired boys who happen to say hi or ask me how I am. ("How ah ya?") Just thinking about it makes me giggly and beside myself. Some sweet waiter will want to take my order and I will kiss him... A gentleman will ask me if I want a beer and I will practically dry hump him. Gah!
I will be out of control. I will get my ass beat by some local chick for drooling over her boyfriend while I listen to him on his cell phone! But it's not even the young ones. Old guys talkng like that is the cutest damn thing ever. And the more they cuss, the better. I can't wait to go to a bar and hear a whole crowd of them yelling, "FAHK!"
That shit doesn't get old for me either. I have had one friend who drops his R's and three years later, I'm still begging him to say "clam chowder" one more time. Is he annoyed by it? Probably. Tells me I've got to learn to play it cool, but I swear this is some kind of sickness.
But at least I know any man who speaks like that could kick the shit out of your English Pretend Boyfriend...
Friday, July 13, 2007
Bad Mommy!
So I was dropping the oldest girl off for a slumber party and the mommy of the friend comes out to chat. She tells me she and her husband are going out for a few hours, something they do every Thursday. "It's a spiritual group."
I immediately am sent into a panic- as any kind of conversation teetering on religious beliefs makes me do. So I am off kilter when she says,
"Do YOU belong to a Spiritual Group?"
My immediate, no thought process involved reply?
"Sure do- but it's a different kind of spiritual. It's the one that comes from a bottle!"
She did a double take and my 12 year old yelped in embarrassment, "Mommy!"
Yep. I'm tellin' you... Mommy of the Year for that one.
I immediately am sent into a panic- as any kind of conversation teetering on religious beliefs makes me do. So I am off kilter when she says,
"Do YOU belong to a Spiritual Group?"
My immediate, no thought process involved reply?
"Sure do- but it's a different kind of spiritual. It's the one that comes from a bottle!"
She did a double take and my 12 year old yelped in embarrassment, "Mommy!"
Yep. I'm tellin' you... Mommy of the Year for that one.
Friday, July 6, 2007
The Way I See It...
So NASCAR has decided to make a venture into other worlds and one team has even teamed up with my very own RED SOX as owners. Formerly Roush Racing, now Roush-Fenway Racing. They even had a special paint scheme this past weekend at New Hampshire to commemorate the joining of the two.If you know me, you'd think I'd be a little more excited about this marriage of my two very favorite things on Earth. But the problem is this: I cannot stand Jack Roush.
I love NASCAR. It has been a sports staple of mine for years. I fell in love during a 1996 Rockingham race and have never looked back. (Anyone else remember Rockingham?) I love the drivers, the drama, the intricacies of these three dollar parts determining million dollar paydays. Silly season, crew chief swapping, rivalry making, bump drafting, road course, super speedway, short track, engines blowing, tire rubbing, I LOVE it.
I adore Carl Edwards- he is truly a genuine, happy, grateful, enthusiastic driver. He is talented, he is funny and personable. He does BACKFLIPS off of his car when he wins for gawd's sake! He's fabulous.
Jack Roush? Total a-hole. And I can't endorse or become enthusiastic about anything that furthers his bid to become a dominant owner. Anything that adds credibility to his company. He spent a good portion of the late 90's calling Ray Evrenham a liar and a cheat because he truly couldn't catch up. Screamed that Ray soaked the tires or expanded the gas bladder! Even NASCAR went over those cars with fine toothed combs. They took samples to labs. Ya know what was in those tires? "Air, Jack."
He could not concede that Ray was an amazingly brilliant man who was a genius with those cars at the time. To this day I say Ray and Jeff Gordon were such a dominant force because they were so far ahead of the competition at the time and the competition just finally caught up and leveled the playing field.
It was a feeling among most people in NASCAR that yes, we all loved Mark Martin, but not his owner. He was a whiney baby who cried when his cars didn't win.
But then he got in the airplane accident and almost died and all of a sudden he's a damn saint. Whatever. Kenseth wins a championship and it's supposed to look like a Cinderella story. Screw that. I'm not buying.
So yes, I love the Sox. I should be beside myself with glee that my sports 'had a baby' so to speak. I should be able to take my eyes off that 24 car for 2 seconds to check on my Red Sox car. But I can't. The wrong dude owns it. But that's just the way I see it....
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