I really like nice people. And sometimes I am not one.

I like to think those of you who have known me for years would say I've gotten nicer. Well, I'd like to think you found me kind and generous all along, but...anyhow, no need to leave a comment praising me for improvement. And if you think I'm an a-hole, well, what do you want me to do about it?

Anyhow, I do think that niceness begets niceness, so I try. The other day, I was thrilled to score a parking spot right in the very front of Target. I should have suspected some tragic fault with the empty space - a nearly invisible motorcycle, a sinkhole, maybe a chemical spill - because why else would it be free on a crowded day? I started to pull into the space when, lo and freaking behold, I noticed some a-hole had left a cart there. Never mind the grassy median right beside the space and don't consider for a moment the cart corral* two spots away from your fancy, front row space. Oh. No. You, phantom shopper, should not have to inconvenience yourself. After all, you probably drove around the lot waiting for just such a space, which was rightfully yours as a reward for your perseverance. I bet you like to kick old ladies, don't you?

Wanton Cart Abandoners are my second least favorite parkers; I really dislike the smug self-entitlement of drivers who park their cars across two spaces, so no one will scratch their precious truck. Anyhow, I decided to pull into the space anyway and take the cart inside (who's smug now?) As I was pulling in, a woman in the next car got out and held up her hand to stop me. Honestly? She looked a little bit mad and I thought she was going to tell me she was holding the spot for someone. I toyed with causing a scene. I've been part of a scene in the Target parking lot before. More than one, actually. I opted for a sigh and started to back out in search of another spot. But, no, I was wrong. Her apparent anger was due to a glare from the sun or righteous indignation towards the Wanton Cart Abandoner. She moved the cart and smiled at me. I felt happy. We even exchanged smug laughs over the hated WCAs. Thank you, nice lady, you made my day.

A few days later, I was walking the boys home from school. On the way home, we passed a Publix grocery store cart someone had abandonned in the nearby neighborhood. Publix was only a hair out of our way, so I asked O to push it back to the store, which he did, even though he is not even a boy scout**. As we approached Publix, I heard a huge crash and several loud pops. Just behind us, right in the intersection where we would have been had we not returned the cart, two cars had collided. One skidded through the intersection and the other was tossed onto the sidewalk. I really don't think there's any way one or more of us wouldn't have been hurt or even killed. Do you ever think about moments like that and get a huge lump in your throat because you aren't sure you deserve it? I do. If I think too hard about my children dying, I want to go ahead and die myself, so I won't have to worry about it anymore.

And the moral of this story is: Always return an abandonned cart. Spread the love, y'all!

Namasté, y'all!

P.S. Apropos of nothing, I have a new rule to live by: In a group conversation, never speak for more than thirty seconds at a time. Be quiet and wait until it's your turn again. Longer Than 30 Seconds = Boring. I'm working on it.

* What are those things called anyway?

** And won't be. We just can't get our heads around the fact that they discriminate against homosexuals. We have gay friends who are parents, at least as good of parents as we are. Please explain to me why they can't lead a boy scout troop. Never mind, don't. Frankly, the kids would be way worse off with me. What with the drinking and cussing. By the way, I don't think you're evil for letting your kid be a boy scout. Let's not talk about it anymore, m'kay?

In which the Tank proves to have an excellent sense of humor.

The Tank spends a lot of time in the car, accompanying me as I shuttle his brothers and their friends to soccer, piano, basketball, choir and whatever else it is they do. He looks forward to meeting their friends and knows them all by name. Most of them try to ignore him, but when some two year old is yelling, at the top of his ever-growing lungs,

"HI MY NAME IS J! HI MY NAME IS J! HI MY NAME IS J!"

it cannot be dismissed. They cave and introduce themselves, which silences the Tank for at least thirty seconds, before he starts making growling noises and yammering about farts, two things which have earned consistent laughs in the past.

The other day, we were on our way to pick up a carload of pre-adolescent stinkweeds young men in need of a ride from choir to soccer. The Tank knows the drill. As we drove, he chanted cheerily,

"How 'bout...Phillip! How 'bout...Caleb*!"

He continued, naming two of O's friends who share names with two members of the Tank's favorite band.

"How 'bout...John! How 'bout...Paul!" He paused dramatically. "How 'bout...YELLOW SUMMARINE!"

The Tank cracks himself up. He's more obsessed with his Beatles shirt than his keerus pants, if you can believe that. I purchased the shirt on a whim at Target for the low, low clearance price of $3.98. You never know what item of clothing will become an obsession, so choose wisely. I like the Beatles shirt. It looks a little ridiculous with the keerus pants, especially now that the Tank's rapid growth has turned it into a half-shirt, but I like it all the same. The Beatles shirt, when it was new, on a day when I managed to wrangle the Tank into an outfit that more or less matches:

Frankly, I think if the Tank can make sophisticated jokes, he can da*n well use the potty. He does not agree. It'll happen, right? Right?

Namasté, y'all!

* The Tank is not that smart. Caleb is a basketball friend, not soccer or choir.

Road Rage is so 1992.

I was driving through Five Points yesterday, looking for a parking spot. It was around lunch time, but the parking situation wasn't too bad. I didn't anticipate more than one loop around Saluda Avenue, maybe two, but I was listening to the radio, so what's a few more minutes?

I found a spot and pulled in. I didn't get far, because there was a rather intimidating woman standing in the space. I don't know why anyone would want to park in a parking space meant for a car, but she seemed determined, so I waved apologetically and moved on to a space a few yards away. As I was getting out, I saw her wave a friend into the space. I know they were friends, because they were wearing matching garnet shirts and khaki shorts, a combination far more unforgivable than parking space hogging. I mean, ew, the shorts had pleats! And grown women do not need to be wearing matching outfits. Twins shouldn't even wear matching outfits after the age of six or so.

Was it really worth the bad karma incurred? Her friend would have found a spot within minutes, without interrupting the flow. And the ladies seemed to derive some great satisfaction from sticking it to the other would-be parkers. They were laughing and fist bumping, high fiving or whatever the kids are doing these days.

I used to have road rage, until I realized it was more effective to just change lanes. I'm too lazy for road rage. Unlike this lady I know, who shall remain nameless because of what I'm about to share. This energetic lady, we'll call her Ursula, which isn't even remotely similar to her real name, always seemed a bit off. It was hard to say how. She was nice enough and able to form sentences like a normal human. She didn't have freaky hair. But there was something. My husband calls it "snakes behind the eyes." My sister in law calls it "like that time in high school I tried to be enthusiastic."

Anyhow, I was driving to the gym one day and, while drinking coffee, putting on lipstick and talking on my cell phone, swerved ever so slightly into the lane beside me. Someone honked to let me know and, as they passed, I put my coffee and lipstick down before turning to do the sheepish wave of thanks. I know how small this town is, so there was a 98.2% chance I would know the honker. And, it was true, I had been driving like an a**hole and earned the honk. I turned to wave and saw the driver, hands on the wheel, foot to the accelerator, body flung across the passenger seat, eyes bulging. As I contemplated how someone could remain seated in the driver's seat, driving, and simultaneously press her face against the passenger window, I realized I knew her. Ursula! Now I had proof.

As soon as she was a safe distance away, I called a few choice friends to let them know what we hadn't been able to prove before. Ursula is a stone cold loon. There was still a slight chance she was normal, I guess. If she had called later or said something the next time I saw her like,

"I'm so embarrassed! I can't believe I lost my temper like that the other day. You must think I'm a nut!"

I could have responded, after politely pretending not to remember the incident, of course,

"Oh, my goodness. That was you? Oh, we all have days like that...bless your heart. Don't give it another thought!"

And she could have told me about the bad day that lead up to her acting like a raving lunatic. Maybe the dry cleaner lost her favorite shirt. Maybe she had to wait three hours at the doctor's office. Maybe the grocery store was out of olives. But that didn't happen. Every time I've seen her since, she's been about the same, maybe slightly more nervous. She doesn't need to be nervous around me, though, because public rage isn't my thing. Too tiring and not fun enough. I'm more into public hysteria and streaking.

Namasté, y'all!

Never fear, Billy Paul. Amy Winehouse has got your back. I think.

The thing I hate about having children is I can't rock out in the car anymore. I'm not exactly opera material (or even Karaoke), but I sound pretty good if the real music drowns out my voice. Rocking out in a moving car is my only option, because the neighbors complained when I tried it at home. As long as I keep moving, nobody has to listen for too long. My taste in music is questionable, according to my husband. He doesn't get the theme, though. As long as I can sing along, I like it. I do a great Kanye West, by the way.

This afternoon, we were listening to Me and Mrs. Jones, sunroof open, windows down. I was in rare form. And O. just had to tell me something. The more I'm rocking out, the more likely it is that one of my children will have to tell me something. Very important. Right now! Dutiful mother that I am, I ignore them as long as possible and, when I can't take it anymore, I turn down the music and groan,

"Whaaaaaaat?"

The answer varies, and it's never interesting. That's the thing about children. Most of what they have to say is very, very boring. I love them, with all my heart, but I just don't really care if Patrick (not, incidentally, one of my children) got a new soccer ball. That is so boring! In this case, O. wanted to tell me that Baby J was rocking out to Me and Mr. Jones, which I have to admit was pretty darn cute. But then they started telling me boring stuff again, so I turned the music back up. Unfortunately, I had lost my momentum and couldn't get back into the groove.

Until the next song on my iPod started. And I was Paula Abdul.

"Lost, in a dream, I don't know Which! Way! To! Turn!"

And along came Neneh Cherry, still hanging in a buffalo stance, whatever the heck that is. Next up, Save Tonight. I'll award ten Schrute Bucks to the first person who can tell me why those two songs are together on my iPod.

Then Amy Winehouse came on, Me and Mr. Jones. I've looked up the lyrics to that song and I still have no idea what they mean, but I like to think that Amy is consoling that poor cuckold, Mr. Jones. So Mrs. Jones and Billy Paul can be free to indulge their thing, which is, frankly, much too strong to let go now.

Namasté, y'all!

My motto.

I do not have road rage, I have mild road irritation. The worst I'll say is,

"Learn to drive."

Which I said tonight, in front of the X-Man, because some moron was blocking the way out of a parking lot in his big, dumb dualie.

"Is that your motto?"

The X-Man likes to know the score.

"I guess it is," I answered.

"SWEET! I have to learn to drive right NOW, because you have to obey your Mom's motto!"

"NOW!," growled Baby J.

I like my motto. Learn to drive. It has a nice ring to it, n'est-ce pas?

Namasté, y'all!

Oh, the Things That Make Me Happy.

I'm not even sure I should apologize for bragging, because this isn't all that impressive, but please accept my apology for the shameless brag.

My sister's been driving my uncle's well-loved (to the tune of 135,000 miles or so) Infiniti while she's in town. In case you didn't know, Infiniti is made by Nissan, which makes it a fine car in my book. And this one runs well, considering its age and mileage. It has some mad cool vintage touches, like an enormous phone, permanently mounted on the floor between the front seats, and a clock with actual hands. For some reason, you have to push a special button on the ignition to get the key out. I like that; it gives the car character.

Anyhow, the other day she came home and informed me she wouldn't be able to make her planned road trip to Charleston that night because there was something wrong with the Infiniti, which I could see, because the something wrong was hanging off the bottom. She hadn't planned on driving the antique car to Charleston, but my dad was planning on driving it all weekend and letting her take his (ever so slightly) newer Buick*. She didn't think it was fair to leave dad without a car, because he's a real estate agent and they make money by driving people around and looking at houses. If they can't drive, they can't work. Except for the time my workaholic dad had had a gastrointestinal "procedure" and decided to take my brother-in-law and sister-in-law out anyway. He couldn't drive, on account of the pain killers, so he made them drive while he drooled in the passenger seat. It was cool, though. My brother-in-law happens to be a gastroenterologist, so it didn't bother him in the least.

When I was in high school, I drove a fine car, my Nana's 1981 Dodge St. Regis. It was such a great car that they only made them from 1979 to 1981, because the world just couldn't take that much awesomeness. The seats were like La-Z-Boy chairs, cushiony and velour. One day, I was coasting in the Dodge and I heard a loud clunk. I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a large piece of flat metal behind me that I knew had not been there a moment before. I pulled over, retrieved the piece of metal and drove directly to a gas station. One of the fine employees there asked me if I was "real attached to this thang," holding up the piece of metal. I said, "Um...no?" and he threw it in the trash can and told me to have a nice day, which I did. I might not have even told my parents, for fear that they would declare the car undriveable. Armed with this knowledge and a roll of duct tape, I felt sure I could fix my uncle's car.

As it turned out, I didn't have any duct tape, because my kids are always stealing whatever tape I buy. I don't know what they do with it, but I never see it again. So I called for some string, which the X-Man had in his room. While my sister explained to the X-Man who MacGyver was, I shimmied under the car, after checking to see if the emergency brake was on, of course. I used two pieces of string to re-affix the hanging metal thingy to the bottom of the car. I made my sister hum the theme to the A-Team, because neither of us could remember the MacGyver theme. When I was finished, I went inside and finished making enough coconut pecan bars** for all of my children's teachers, our neighbors and anyone who invites us over before Christmas. I am a woman of many talents. Ahem.

Today, my sister took the car in to be officially fixed, by an actual mechanic. It is with great (probably disproportionate) pride that I tell you this: He ended up performing the same repair, but with metallic twist ties. In my defense, I also wanted to use metal and briefly searched for picture-hanging wire, but I couldn't find any. And that is why I feel pretty darn clever today.

Namasté, y'all!

* By the way, y'all, my Dad's Buick Park Avenue is old and he wants a new one, but they don't make them and he doesn't like the replacement. He can't decide what to get, so he keeps trying to polish the old Buick. If you can suggest a new car for him, I know he would appreciate it.

** I apologize for not providing the recipe, because they're very good. In fact, they are the only thing that keeps my kids from getting thrown out of school, because the teachers look forward to them. I'm not ready to share the recipe, but I will tell you that it's from a book, which I didn't know when my friend gave me the recipe. She used to sell them in her restaurant, which closed, and I had to have the recipe. They are so yummy.

My New Rap Album Drops in February, Yo!

We're rollin' in the Prius!
Whoa!

Damn right you wish you could be us!
Whoa!

Did you ever get mileage like thee-us?
No!

Well you would if you had a Prius!
Whoa!

You can have your Beamer!
Yeah!

I'd rather have a broken femur!
Yeah!

Just go ask my man!
Who?

In your face-

Slam!

He used to be that jerk...
Yeah!

But now he has a car that works!

Now he has a car that'll take him far,

I'ma buy him a really cool shirt!

Hell yeah!

That may not sound like the greatest rap ever, but it's better live, when you can see the dance that goes with it. And, don't worry, that was the dirrrrrty version. I'll be droppin' a clean version, too, yo!

Good Car-ma!

It is the dawn of a new era in our household, an era in which all of our cars run and run well. May it last for a long, long time. I bought A. a used Prius today and we unloaded sold the decrepit BMW to a used car dealer who specializes in restored BMWs. As much as I resented that car, it's still a car with feelings and I'm happy that it's in a place where it'll be cared for properly and appreciated.

So, there are many cool things about the Prius, but the most interesting is that its (now previous) owners live in one of the houses my family lived in when I was little. We moved there when I was five or so and moved away after my second sister was born, when I was seven. I went there today to pick up the car and they let me look around. I haven't been there since we moved (a long, long time ago) and we didn't live there long, but I was amazed at the things I suddenly remembered. In no particular order, here you go.

• My mother was in a vegetable co-op. On co-op day, there would be a brown grocery bag on our side porch, filled with vegetables. I remember watching her shuck corn and snap beans from the bag. When it was her turn, she had to go to the Farmer's Market to buy all the vegetables. I don't remember if I ever went with her.


• My mother had a light blue polyester suit with brown pussy willows on the legs. It was a one piece thing, with cap sleeves and a long, tie belt and I thought it was very glamorous.


• We had a small, rectangular fish tank in the kitchen. My mom put snails in it to keep it clean. They would slime up the sides, try to get out and crash to their deaths on the kitchen floor. It was gross, but not very.


• We got goldfish at Woolworth's at Richland Mall. I held the bag on the way home and I was very careful.
  


• I used to play with a board, a hammer and some nails. I would hammer dots into the board with the nails to make pictures. I now realize that the board was a piece of paneling from the den that must have been removed at some point.


• I had a bad dream about Pinocchio chasing me through a castle. I can remember what his feet sounded like, clacking against the stone floor of the castle. Although it doesn't sound scary, it was.


• I had another bad dream that I was looking out of the window in the den, into the back yard. There was a (very typical looking) alien in the backyard and he was going to get me. I cried for my mother and she told me to hide under the record player, which was under the window. I did, but then realized that I was totally visible. I cried for her again, but she was hiding and didn't answer.


• We had a red, child-sized picnic table with green on it. I remember playing my mother's Supremes album on the aforementioned record player. I remember standing on the table and being Diana Ross and making my sisters stand a step down on the benches; they were Cindy Birdsong and the other one. I know this memory can't be true, because my second sister was born while we lived there and wasn't even two when we moved.


• I remember her playpen in the den.


• Once I looked in the fridge and saw store-bought chocolate milk, the kind that comes in a plastic gallon container. This was not the sort of thing we had in our fridge, ever. I was very excited, but my dad said I couldn't have any, because my mom was craving it. I'm guessing she was pregnant. I don't remember being upset when he said I couldn't have any.
  


• I remember being so hungry once before dinner that I was sobbing. My mother gave me a pear and it was very juicy. We usually just had apples and bananas.
  


• I had a paperback book about training poodles. I had a mutt named Sam that may have been somewhat of a poodle. I remember working with Sam for hours, trying to teach him tricks. I probably only did it once. I don't remember him knowing any tricks.
  


• I remember climbing the Dogwood in the front yard.


• My dad had two cars while we lived there, both Chevy Caprice Classics. The first was a flat, sky blue color and the second one was a flat tan. I preferred the blue one.


• Mushrooms grew behind the toilet in my bathroom. My mom got rid of them.


• My room was pale green.


• I got dressed in my room every morning. I sat on my bed and my dad helped me put on my socks. They were thin, white knee-highs and my mom bought them big, so I could wear them a long time. My dad folded the toes over and I could feel them in my shoes.


• My mom had her bridge club in the living room. When I looked at the living room today, it was completely unfamiliar to me. So was the dining room. I don't think I ever had occasion to enter them.
  


• After my sister was born, one of my mom's friends brought me a present, presumably so I wouldn't feel ignored. It was two pairs of underwear, one with blue flowers and one with brown flowers. They were interesting to me, because I only had white ones. They were not very comfortable, but I liked to look at them.


• I did not feel ignored when I had more siblings. I remember being very busy.


• I took a nap every day after school. My mom would wake me up to watch Tom and Jerry. My mom was a genius: I was in school, then I took a nap, then I zoned out in front of the television while she made dinner or took care of babies. And, no, I didn't feel ignored. I liked school, naps and Tom and Jerry.


• I had a swing set in the backyard. It was white. My dad mixed concrete in a wheelbarrow to put around the legs so it wouldn't tip over.


• My dad mixed concrete a lot, I don't know why. That memory doesn't strike me as particularly accurate.
  


• We did some science project in the laundry room that involved water tinted with food coloring in baby food jars. And string. I have no idea what that was all about.


• There was shaggy, royal blue carpet somewhere, maybe in my sister's room.


• We didn't have a couch. Um...I know that memory isn't accurate.


• I had a babysitter who wrote me stories about a purple cow. I had to go to bed on time, so the purple cow would leave a story for me to read when I woke up.
  


• I had a babysitter who took me to the park. She was friends with another one of our babysitters, but they got in a fight over a boy and stopped being friends. Maybe their names were Becky and Stacy. Maybe not.


• I had a babysitter named Della. I think she had braces.
  


• I used to dress up as the Easter Bunny and my mom would take me to visit kids in the neighborhood. The costume was homemade (by me) and involved a leotard, tights and cotton balls. That's embarrassing.


• I had a friend in the neighborhood who was a little older than I was. She lived near the park and I was invited to a sleepover there once. Her friends played a clapping game in a circle. They sang Rocking Robin and slapped each other's hands in a cool way. I had never seen that before.


• There was an old couple on our street who I was allowed to visit. They had candy and a lot of flower bushes.


• I had a puffy, white coat with stripes.


• I loved my mom's oatmeal cookies.


• I learned to ride my bike in the road in front of the house. The bike was red and I thought it looked like a boy bike.


• I remember my mom cooking dinner, but I don't remember where or what we ate. Now that I think about it, there may have been a table in the kitchen. The kitchen's been remodeled and is bigger now.
  


• I dug up worms in the backyard.


• I had a playhouse in the backyard. It had no back door, but there was a shady area behind it that I thought of as the playhouse's backyard.


• There was a girl who lived over the back fence named Heather. I played with her, but I don't remember if I liked her or not.


• I played with the girls down the street. We watched Sesame Street at their house.


• I found my dad eating baby food, pears or tapioca, and he let me try it. He told me he ate it sometimes because it tasted good.


• I had a dress that looked like a skirt and blouse: navy blue skirt and red plaid blouse. I think it had a belt.


• I wore an uncomfortable brace to sleep for a while. It went around my waist and had boots on the end of these rods attached to the waist. Can that possibly be true? If it isn't, I'm more of a freak that I imagined.


• I used to climb the built-in bookcases in the den and hide things in the German beer steins my parents kept there. One time, I hid two crayon stubs, mint green and burgundy, that I stole from school. That's the only time I've ever stolen anything and I still feel guilty. My teachers were Miss Sue and Miss Holiday. We had several communal buckets of crayons in our classroom and they were filled with "regular" colors: red, blue, yellow, green, orange and purple. The mint and burgundy were the only two special colors and there was always a race to get the bucket that held them. One day, unable to bear watching the other children waste them, I slipped them into my pocket. The crayons nearly burned a hole in my pocket; they were my Tell-Tale Heart. I couldn't even touch them. When I got home, I put them in the beer stein, wracked with guilt, but incapable of righting my wrong, terrified of getting caught. I remember the uproar in our classroom when it was discovered that the crayons were missing. I have no doubt some of my classmates remember it, too, and I hope this clears it up for them. It's the least I can do. More than a year later, when my mother was packing for our move, she found the crayons and tried to give them to me. I swore they weren't mine and refused to take them. Utterly confused and too tired to argue (she also had a three year old and a one year old!), she told me to just put them with my crayons. I refused to take them. She probably thought I was off my little rocker. Several years ago, I confessed my crime to her and she had no recollection whatsoever of a scene involving crayons in a beer stein. I felt better for finally telling the truth.
  
  

Okey-doke, I'll stop now, because I'm tired and I suspect no one is reading this, but what a strange day.

Namasté, y'all!

You Might Not Want to Lend Us Your Car

We are not having the greatest time with cars recently. As I have mentioned, we are currently down one BMW*. Now we are down one old, but still running Acura Integra. It didn't even have 150,000 miles on it (149 and change, in case you were curious) and we've managed to destroy it. The car belonged to my mother-in-law, who's in France for a long visit with her family.

My husband, who I love very much, was driving on a two lane highway in St. Matthews, South Carolina yesterday, on his way to a hearing. As he crested a hill, actually going the speed limit, he barely had time to see a pickup truck driving down the middle of the road, headed for him. He swerved to avoid the truck, saw that he was going to go down an embankment, and swerved back across the road, lost control of the car and flipped. That's right, flipped. As he's been instructed to do, he called me and said,

"I'm totally fine. I had a really bad wreck, though."

I like to hear the "I'm fine" part right away, because car wrecks scare me. Several years ago, Nana, my mother's mother, died in a car wreck and I've been really skittish about cars since then, although I have to admit I wasn't exactly laid back before. I remember my Dad calling me and telling me about the wreck. My husband was at tennis and I was home with O and the X-Man, who were about five and two years old. I had had a glass of wine (that's why I had kids, by the way, so I would never have to drink alone) and I was afraid to drive, because of the wine (I have a very low tolerance, in spite of all the practice) and how upset I was. I was in shock; at the end of the conversation, I remember asking Dad if I had understood correctly that Nana was dead.

I called my friend Julie because I really didn't know what to do. She's the kind of person you need as a friend. She told me to get dressed and that she would come get me and the kids. My kids weren't wearing shoes or shirts and she told me not to worry about it. When she got there, I still didn't know what to do and I couldn't reach my husband or my parents. Julie put the kids and me in her car and she dropped the kids off at her house with her parents, who were there to visit their three grandsons. Her parents, who are as kind as Julie, found them some clothes and played with them while Julie and I drove to different hospitals, trying to find my family. Julie's husband Tom drove out to the tennis club to get my husband.

Nana is the only dead person I've ever touched. I never felt a need to touch the other dead people I knew because I was more prepared. I laid my head on her chest and I wanted to stay longer. I wanted to curl up in the hospital bed with her, for just a little while, but my mom and one of our priests were there, so I just put my head down for a few seconds and touched her hand. It was so sudden. She and her husband had just moved from their home in Winnsboro to a nursing home here in town. She was in good health and we were so excited to have her nearby; I had already taken the boys to see her and we were looking forward to seeing her a lot more. I really needed those few seconds with Nana and I wouldn't have had them if Julie hadn't taken charge. She lives in Mississippi now and I really miss her, but I have no doubt that she would drive here if I really needed her and I hope she knows I would come to her if she needed me.

Anyhow, after my conversation with my husband, he sent me this picture, taken with his camera phone.


The accompanying text read, "This is how I went." I have to admit that my heart stopped and I thought I had talked to a ghost. It seemed like one of those things you read about, where the widow swears her husband came home for dinner, even though he had been dead two hours already. But I called him back and he was fine, just not terribly articulate. The truck that almost hit him never stopped. Luckily, a nice couple came along right after it happened and they were able to describe the truck to the police; they remembered seeing it swerving right before the accident.

I can't stop thinking about what might have happened and I feel very, very blessed right now. His only injury is a little scratch on his hand, which is hard to imagine when I look at the pictures. My mother-in-law had a very sweet picture of our two older children on her dashboard; A. saw it as the car flipped and thought about them and Baby J. He said a lot of people stopped to help and he got a lot of hugs. I get a pit in my stomach if I think too much about what could have happened and I know he does, too.

We do feel a little bit like bad high school kids, though. I mean, his mom goes out of town, we use her car without asking and flip it into a ditch. Yikes. I bet we're gonna' be in, like, major trouble. I mean, that car was worth, like, almost a thousand dollars. It's worth a lot more to us, though, because it kept A. safe.

Namasté, y'all, and please don't forget to wear your seatbelts.



* Still for sale, by the way. Email Me! Please!

Is Your Husband Irritating Like This?

As you may remember, my husband and I are trying to unload sell a used BMW*. Recently, he resigned from the Car Buying Committee. He claims to be done with it; he wants me to be the sole member and has pledged to happily drive whatever I get for him. That's cool, because I love haggling for used cars. If you thought I was being sarcastic, you were wrong. I really think it's fun. It's easy for us ladies, too, because we can always invoke the absent, controlling husband. When I bought my van, in the rain while pregnant, I kept going out to my car and calling my friends.

"What are you doing?," I'd ask.

"Nothing much. How about you?"

"Buying a car."

"Cool. You coming to Bunco this week?"

"Yeah. Later!"

Then I'd go back into the car office, looking as tired and pregnant as possible and sigh,

"I just love that van, but my husband says no. Waaaaaahhh!"

Eventually they gave in, but I think I'm blackballed from that place.

A. also resigned from the committees for Party Planning, Environmental Services and Youth Management. He claims that between his position as head of the Fund Raising Committee and occasional volunteering for Youth Management, he has no time for those other commitments. Which is fine by me, because I'm all about control.

In spite of having tendered his resignations to these committees, he can't resist the occasional meddling input. Like he wanted to know if we should put a tub of beer on the front porch at our party**. And he wanted to know if we should donate the car, rather than trying to sell it. I told him I thought the laws had changed regarding tax deductions on donated cars. He gave examples of people he knew who had donated their junkers to both NPR and some other place he couldn't remember. I told him that was a while ago and I thought the rules changed this year. He told me selling it was the same as donating and donating was less of a hassle. I explained, for the millionth time, that a tax deduction isn't a tax credit. I'm tired of explaining that. To a lawyer. Yes, I know he does mostly criminal defense, but he pays taxes and he passed the Bar exam, which has a section on tax law or something similar, right? Once and for all:

A TAX CREDIT REDUCES THE AMOUNT OF TAX YOU PAY, IN THE EXACT AMOUNT OF THE CREDIT. A TAX DEDUCTION REDUCES THE AMOUNT OF TAX YOU PAY BY AN AMOUNT BASED ON YOUR TAX BRACKET.

Or something like that. Any tax lawyer or CPA out there is more than welcome to explain that more clearly, because the way I'm saying it isn't getting through. I'm not a tax lawyer or CPA. In fact, I failed Accounting I in college. I'm not saying that to be funny, I really did; frankly, it was over my head and verrah, verrah boring. But I do vaguely understand the difference between a tax credit and a tax deduction. Just sayin'.

In an attempt to convince me that donating the car really was a good idea, he said,

"But those people donated them to, like, an actual place."

What? You mean, as opposed to donating it to the universe, like this guy, who left his car at Douglas International Airport in Charlotte, North Carolina***:

Although that was a very kind thing to do, I don't think he can count on a tax deduction. My husband admitted that the police report from an abandoned car probably wouldn't suffice as documentation for the IRS.

What my husband clearly doesn't understand is that, in resigning from all those committees, he relinquished all control. He is not the CEO, so individual committee heads don't answer to him. I'm the CEO, and I couldn't even pass Accounting I, but I do throw a decent party.

All that being said, I might try to donate the car anyway, because I'm lazy. Also, I spend a lot of time on my other committees, so the Car Buying Committee is low priority; shortcuts are welcome. Now all I have to do is convince "an actual, like, place" to take it. So I need to create a PR committee, which I'll lead. And I'll be the only person on it, unless I can get a college intern to work for free. Hmmm...

Namasté, y'all!

*Email Me if you're interested. Make an offer.

**Answer: Good idea, and we've done it before, but decided against it this time, because we didn't want beer drinkers to miss out on liquor in their hurry to get a drink. And you have to be stupid to put unguarded liquor on your front porch in my neighborhood.

***True story, by the way; my sister snapped that picture on her way to Haiti last week.

In Which My Husband and I Spend Our First Night Away from the Baby, With Another Man (Alternate Title: The Sanest Days Are Mad)

My husband has a BMW. We've invested so much money in it that it should be worth a lot by now, right? And we're about to make some more improvements, because it died just as we reached Greenville, South Carolina last night for the Morrissey show.

About ten minutes before we arrived in Greenville, that scary little light came on, the one that warns you your car is about to overheat, leaving you stranded in the middle of the road with smoke coming out from under the hood. We made it just off the highway and almost into the city before the car died. I leapt out of the car, grabbing my bag of course, and scooted across four lanes of traffic to get to the sidewalk. My outfit, which looked totally awesome for a concert, made me look like a drunk hooker running from her pimp.

Especially given that I was tottering across four lanes of traffic, trying to get away from an old guy in a BMW. And yelling. I was yelling at my husband because, in an effort to go down with the ship, he was calling the auto club on his cell phone, standing beside the car in the middle of the highway. Brilliant. As luck would have it, we were meeting our friends George and Blan at the concert and they just happened to pull up right behind us. I stood on the side of the road looking scraggly while they pushed the car into a parking lot. I am only sorry that I no longer smoke, because that would have made the scene better.

The auto club couldn't send a tow truck until morning and we had no ride home. You know what that meant...we got to stay in a hotel and everyone got to drink, because the designated driver had been rendered obsolete. Wheeeeeeeeee! There were a few non-rock starish details to attend to, like calling my dad and convincing him to go relieve our babysitter and spend the night with the kids. Baby J was a tough sell, because we've never left him overnight and he still won't say no to a midnight snack. But, what can you do? I love situations that are completely beyond my control, because no one can get mad at you for having fun.

Nervous husband in tow, we parked Blan's car and tottered* to the show. As we were walking, I saw a familiar sight. At first I thought it was a mirage, but, no! It was a Westin Hotel! My absolute favorite campground! I just love the Heavenly Bed. And the Heavenly Shower. And the Heavenly Television and Room Service. We stumbled into the hotel, less than thirty minutes before the start of the show, and were thrilled to find out that we could get a great rate on a room. The rate was not so great, however, that we could afford a second room for our friend George, who had already warned us about his snoring, but that didn't matter. A simple night out to see a concert had turned into a glamorous adventure. And this particular Westin was built in the 1920's, which totally matched my jacket. I couldn't have been more pleased.

The show was excellent. My favorite part was in the lobby, when I was using the box office phone book to get the number to leave a message asking the parking lot owners not to tow our soon to be towed car. A dashing, young man with a fabulous British accent came up to me and said, "Would you like to see the show for free? You're beautiful." Yes, folks, for an old, married mama like myself, this sort of thing does more for the ego than a million compliments from my husband, bless his heart. And it totally confirmed that I had picked the right outfit. And that my hair looked pretty good.

We sat in a box, one of those opera hall type boxes, which made it a more grownup sort of night, as did the bar in the lobby. I liked the box, because it was so clean that I could take my shoes off and dance. We could see everyone, including the fans who ran up on the stage to try to touch Morrissey and the bouncers who tackled them. I had forgotten how much I loved Morrissey, too. During Old Lang Syne, he rested in some kind of shoulder stand with his legs in full Lotus while the band played and y'all know I love me some Yoga, so that was hot.

After the show, we went to a bar (yay!) By then, my husband had given up and was pretty relaxed. In the bathroom of the bar, I found this notice:

So, if you are seeking employment as a professional waiter or as a waiters position, let me know. And do not worry if you have very little knowledge of international beers and liquors, because they had those, but not any more. Now they just have Bud and Bud Light.

After the bar, we tottered* back to the hotel, ready to crash. But not before my husband and George went across the street to a restaurant to get beer and bubbly, which I drank out of the bottle after jumping on the Heavenly Bed in my husband's tennis clothes, which he conveniently had in his car. I fell asleep to the sounds of Sports Center and George's snoring. My husband, for once, didn't snore. It was a perfect night.

The next morning, while husband supervised the towing of the car and George slept, I sat in the hotel restaurant, reading the New York Times and taking advantage of the all you can eat breakfast buffet. I had an omelet (asparagus, broccoli, peppers and cheese), bacon, sausage, cheese blinis, fruit and about four shiny pitchers of coffee. I grabbed a bunch of those tiny jelly and syrup jars for the kids. As it turned out, there were no rental cars available, so my husband had his assistant drive up to get us. Our heroes, the staff of the Westin, comped our breakfast out of pity. We had to wait a couple of hours, so I kept hitting the breakfast buffet. I skipped lunch.

Speaking of lunch, I had my brother take lunch to the kids at school. I didn't want to ask my dad, who had gotten very little sleep, or my mom, who was spending the morning entertaining the winsome, but high maintenance, Baby J. I'm very proud of my baby brother, who managed to come up with a well balanced lunch: peanut butter and jelly, apples, Cape Cod chips and V8. So...the big kids were fine, Baby J was pleased with all of the attention and didn't seem to care that we were gone and Morrissey was superb. Best! Night! Ever!

Namasté, y'all!

* I tottered. My three dates walked. I was feeling pretty glamorous, with three dates and all. Granted, two of the dates were married, one of them to me, but I take what I can get.

In Which I Learn That My Sister Thinks I'm a Crazy Drunk Housewife

I was on the phone with my sister this morning, on the way to the Fancy Mart to drink coffee and blog (yeah, babe, I have a blog.) In the middle of our conversation, I yelled,

"Don't hit me, Lizard's Thicket!"

"Oh my God! You almost hit a Lizard's Thicket?!"

Did she really think that I a) was about to hit an actual Lizard's Thicket and b) was convinced that said Lizard's Thicket was actually moving towards me? In a word, yes.

In fact, 'twas the Lizard's Thicket van driver that may have been drinking at 9 am and subsequently plowed through a red light. I was merely demonstrating that I am my mother's daughter by talking to cars, even though neither they, nor their intrepid drivers can hear me. My mother talks to cars and it makes me crazy. For that matter, it makes her crazy. When she wants to change lanes, she doesn't use her blinker, an excellent communication tool, like they taught us in driver's ed. I don't think she ever took driver's ed. I'm pretty sure she learned to drive with her father, who was blind. Really. She would sit on his lap and tell him which way to turn the wheel while he worked the pedals. I'm serious. They lived in a very small town, so it's not as bad as it sounds, but still.

"Oooh! Blue car! Let me over! Jerk!"

The hapless Blue Car has no idea she wants to turn. He can't see her hunched over the steering wheel and straining towards the dashboard in an attempt to propel the car forward, because she has tinted windows. And he can't hear her objections to his cold refusal to let her into his lane. I feel sorry for the Blue Car, because he doesn't have a clue that he's the target of all this anger.

Maybe it's a good thing he can't hear her, because my mom can be scary in the car. When she's driving through her neighborhood and passes someone she knows, she waves and says (out loud, even though the windows are closed),

"Heeeeeeeeyyyyyy! Heh, heh, heh..."

It sounds like she's planning to toilet paper their house later. Or that she already has and they don't know yet. Or that she kidnapped their dog and is holding it hostage in the basement. My mom's weird, but not that weird and, frankly, not that energetic.

Whoa! Did you see that Hardee's that just flew by? This is making me nervous. I think I need to make another pitcher of Vodka Stingers*.

Namasté, y'all!

* Just so you know, a Vodka Stinger is made of equal parts White Crème de Menthe and vodka. Shake them together with ice and strain into a cocktail glass, or pitcher. Shaken, not stirred, please.

I Am So Cool! I'm Totally, Like, a BLOGGER!

And I know this because I got tagged by Meagan, whose blog, Equilibrium, I love. She also writes some great articles about parenting for national magazines and has a column in her own local paper, so I'm feeling smart by association.

So here it is:

First, the Rules:

1) Post these rules before you give your facts

2) List 8 random facts about yourself

3) At the end of your post, choose (tag) people and list their names, linking to them

4) Leave a comment on their blog, letting them know they’ve been tagged

And now… my facts:

1) I was born in Bad Kreuznach, Germany, when my Dad was in the army.

2) I drive my dream car. I know this because my kids asked me what my dream car was and I couldn't think of anything I'd rather drive than my Toyota Highlander Hybrid. I still can't. That car is perfect.

3) I would love to have seven or eight kids, but only if we had at least two people working for us full time, a nanny and a housekeeper.

4) I had really easy recoveries from my C-sections, but I don't like to tell people that because I don't want to encourage them.

5) I'd like to have a surprise fortieth birthday party for my husband, but he has so many friends through work and tennis that I wouldn't know who to invite. It makes me feel like a bad wife that I haven't met a lot of his friends and I couldn't even tell you all of their names.

6) I have fantasies about having a beautiful and functional yard, entirely cared for by someone else. We have a much smaller yard than we used to, which is great. Much less guilt!

7) As you may have read on this blog, I see Botox as a step on the path to spiritual enlightenment.

8) I was able to blog as soon as I let go of the idea that what I wrote had to be interesting to read.

And I tag you:

Lisa

and

Robin

I'm an introvert. No, that doesn't mean that I don't like people (well, I often don't, but it's not because I'm an introvert). It doesn't mean I'm socially inept (keep your opinions to yourself, please!) It doesn't mean I'm agoraphobic (is that that fear of public places and crowds thing? Oh well, you know what I mean.) It does mean that I need to be alone on a regular basis to avoid going "bat shit crazy," as my brother in law likes to describe his...never mind.

Before Yoga the other night, I was telling the class about my need for space (huh. maybe I am socially inept. They can't possibly have been interested. But it did come up in a natural way, when the teacher asked me to move my mat closer to the student next to me. I made a joke about being introverted.) Another mother asked, "But, HOW do you do that with three kids?" Although the class was spared the answer because it was time to start, I thought about it (in my head, not out loud) for a couple of days. My pursuit of solo down time has evolved over the last nine years. Before kids and husband, it was so easy. My whole life was solo and I saw my friends when I wanted to.

My husband is not an introvert. He's one of those
assholespeople who can talk in complete sentences first thing in the morning. My dad is one of those too. In fact, thanks to my introversion's clash with Dad's (I say extreme) extroversion, I got a car when I was 15 years old, a pre-owned luxury four door 1981 Dodge St.Regis. It was a fine car. My parents bought it from my Grandmother and it was in excellent condition; it was like driving a La-Z-Boy couch. Enough about the car, back to me. The summer I was 15, I worked for my Dad, answering phones in his real estate office and listening to the real secretary sing show tunes (I could have DAAAAAAAAnced all NIIIIIGHT...) In retrospect, it was probably worse for her, having to sit next to her sullen boss' 15 year old daughter all summer, but I felt pretty sorry for myself. Now that I think about it, she might have been nervously singing to avoid thinking about whether or not she should tell her boss that she had caught his sullen 15 year old daughter standing on the toilet blowing cigarette smoke out the tiny window up by the ceiling.

Anyhow...my self-pity-party began bright and early every morning, when I would come downstairs to eat breakfast and Dad would be sitting at the table with his cereal and the newspaper, just rarin' to go. He couldn't wait to make some inane remark about something in the paper or his day or my breakfast or the freaking couch. I took this as a deliberate attempt to ruin my life; that is how painful an early morning conversational assault is to me. And, by the way, Dad happens to be an intelligent, kind and interesting person who is well-liked by everyone, even me, but I don't like anyone before coffee. And after the breakfast assault, I would be forced to ride in the car with him, ALL THE WAY TO THE OFFICE, at least a ten minute
torture sessionride!

Apparently, what was torture for me was worse for Dad. My Dad is a guy who never complains; he seems immune to annoyance. I, however, pushed him over the edge that summer in a matter of days. He couldn't stand riding with me in the morning. He told Mom that my presence in the morning ruined his day. So, they bought me a car. They didn't tell me I was getting a car because I was such an asshole, they just bought it. This is one of the qualities I admire in my parents - they usually don't over think things. They didn't worry that buying me a car might be a reward for bad behavior. They didn't shop around (I think they asked all of the grandparents who was sick of their car.) They had a problem and they solved it. And the St. Regis was an excellent car.

Where was I? Oh yeah, down time. So this is how I get it, in spite of three loving boys and a husband (also loving, I think, but one never knows for sure, does one?) I try to anticipate opportunities and I try to create them. I can guess what time Baby J might nap, for example, and I can play with him and act goofy and happy in the morning so he skips the morning nap and takes a nice long one in the middle of the day. One down, two to go. I have a few options for the two to go: I can try to pawn them off on someone else (I think I once convinced my husband that my perfect Dad used to sometimes come home from work and take us out to lunch. Lies, all lies. But he did take us to breakfast at McDonald's every so often), I can make them play outside and threaten them with all sorts of heinous things if they come back inside, I can let them watch a movie on the computer (not optimal, since I have to hear it). The best case is pawning them off on someone else. Sometimes this is easy, sometimes not so much. This summer, I've managed to time it so Baby J takes a nap at the pool, where the big kids are easily distracted by sugary snacks (the potential fallout of the sugar is offset by the swimming), other kids and Marco Polo (or Shark or whatever the kids are playing these days.) If I don't allow them to come within ten feet of the sleeping baby, he'll sleep for a while and I can read, which is alone enough. Unless one of my friends is there, with her kids, who I can't threaten ("If you wake him up, YOU HAVE PLAY WITH HIM FOR AN HOUR AND I will EAT YOUR GAMEBOY FOR SUPPER!)

Another way to get solo time is to be willing to pay for it. According to my sister in law, it's worth taking out a second mortgage if you have a house, or getting a cash advance on a credit card if you don't, to pay for childcare. The single most best thing ever about this summer has been the discovery that our very mature and enthusiastic fourteen year old neighbor is willing to keep the kids - AT A MOMENT'S NOTICE. The moment's notice is extremely important (but, you knew that, because I put it in all caps. But maybe I also used the caps because this is my first attempt at drinkin' and bloggin' - with a bottle of Pommery Brut Royale, if you were curious.) Having The Glorious S next door has made my life almost as convenient as it was pre-family. Tout d'un coup, I can go to the gym without loading anyone into or out of the car and I can take my time there, because I don't have to pick anyone up out of the childcare room. I haven't had that luxury for nine years (Sing it, Joan Baez!). When The Glorious S has children of her own, I want to write her a letter explaining exactly how she saved my life. I may even offer to babysit her kids. Then again, maybe not, because by that age, I intend to be tooling around town in a vintage baby blue Jaguar, smoking cigarettes and wearing huge sunglasses. And these shoes,












which I bought recently. I told the saleswoman that I planned on wearing them on my outings from the nursing home and I don't think she quite got that I was serious. By the way, I did get those shoes at a massive discount while The Glorious S was keeping the boys.
For me, solo time can also happen in a crowd. Taking a Yoga or aerobics class can be just as great as being totally alone. So can shopping out of town. The downside to public alone time in a small town is that you almost always see someone you know (or someone your mom knows or someone who knows your sister or someone who dated your uncle.) As I get older (more desperate for alone time??), I've gotten better at brushing those people off when I need to. I do love, though, when I'm out of town, sitting in a coffee shop or restaurant or going shopping on my own and not knowing anyone. I think I actually breathe deeper when there isn't any threat of unwanted social recognition.
Anyhow, I keep rambling and this is going no where and Baby J is fussing and Extroverted Husband is hovering, so this is the end!