The other night, I was talking to an old friend of mine when the thing I have always known would happen, happened.    Get ready for it…

I turned into my mother.

I’ve seen her parenting style creep out every once in a while with my kids and I’ve even been known to throw out some of her Jerry’isms.   Here’s a fave:  “If if’s and but’s were candies and nuts, we’d all have a Merry Christmas.” Does that make sense to you?   Me either but it doesn’t stop me from saying it.

The sayings were cute enough and only slightly annoying.    The really annoying stuff happened when she’d misuse a word.   As an example, one time I had a zit the size of Pluto (when it was still a planet) going on.   Back in her day, they called them “hickies”.   You can imagine my shock and dismay to hear her lighting up the phones with her friends, who BTW were the Moms of my friends, proclaiming, “Oh Dear Lord, you should see the size of the hickey on The Stiletto Teen today!!!” And then I’d go to school and everyone would stare at my neck, and most especially my boyfriend who had heard through the grapevine about this monsterous hickey that he didn’t give me, and I’d just be all “Awesome, Mom…thanks for this.”

Then there was the period when my Dad was ill.   Not an easy time and many unsuspecting people would check in with her to see how he was doing.   “How’s Hugh?” they’d ask which seems like an easy enough question to answer because no one really wants to know, they just want you to say “fine”.   My Mother would have them pinned against a wall until their eyes glazed recounting date by date how his condition was deteriorating.    And  then she’d list her own ailments just to round it out.  And then their eyes would roll back in their heads and they would mouth a silent “help!” as they slid to the floor while my Mother continued to talk.

Knowing all that you do now after suffering through this much of my post, I’m sure you can imagine my horror when I found myself doing the same thing.

My transformation started with an eqally innocent question, “How are you?” during a conversation with said old friend the other day.    That single question caused me to morph seamlessly into my mother…I phased really…almost like Jacob in Twilight but a whole lot less sexy.   And I kept my top on.   Thank God.

TSM:   “Well I’m good, all things being considered.   I went to the doctor for my physical the other day and found out I”m statin resistant.   I take Trilipix to control my cholesterol, had I told you that before?  No? Well, I do.    Anyway, it worked the first three months, my levels went down to 206 but then this visit, poof!   They were up to 411 again even though I’ve been taking my medicine.    It’s so bad I have to go to an internist now, have you ever been to an internist?   No? Well apparently this guy is the best according to my doctor and since both my parents died of heart related diseases I’m a little worried.   He says I’m genetically screwed.   Did I tell you both my parents died of heart related diseases before?   No? Well, they did.    Anyway, I’m sure it will be just fine…I’ll probably have to give up red meat which I love but it’s a small price to pay to not to have it get any worse.   Also, my knees have been giving me a positive fit lately.  I may need to go to an orthopedic surgeon to check that out since I’m sure the internist is going to insist that I take up running a few times a week to help with my statin resistant cholesterol.   ::sigh:: Anyway, how are you?”

The good thing here is that my friend is also falling apart  because I got the full run down on a compressed disc and some really nasty headaches he’s been suffering.     Keep in mind here that both of us are in our forties, can you imagine us in our fifties?   Well, I mean if my statin resitant cholesterol doesn’t kill me by then and he’s not paralyzed.   So we have that to look forward to.

Anyway, HOW ARE YOU?

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Dear Emmy’s;

Every year I have watched you.   I have enjoyed seeing some of my favorite shows and actors win awards.   I endured the bad music and the long acceptance speeches.   It wasn’t always easy, but I stayed with you…if for no other reason than out of habit.

But tonight Emmy’s?   Oh dear Lord did you cross a line.    That pirate number with Michael Bolton almost sent this good ‘ol Catholic girl right around the bend.

It wasn’t just that the singing was awful.  And it was awful.   I even tried to look the other way at his crooked moustache.    I did.   It wasn’t that freaky guy standing next to him dressed up like a wave….making waves with his ummm, nether regions.   I even almost made it past the crotch thrusting in front of Bill Macy….almost.   No, it was the line that kept getting repeated over and over again while my 12 year old son watched “It’s not gay if it’s a Thr** W*y” (and for those of you wondering about the odd spelling, you don’t even want to know the type of google hits I’d get if I spelled it out all the way, that’s why.)

Here’s the thing Emmy’s.    I’m pretty open with my son about sex.   I was the one who had to have “the talk” with him.   I”m the one that has to answer questions that quite frankly make me want to spork my eyes out and stick them in my ears because I am so not ready for this.    I do this because my own Catholic  Mom’s answer to my questions about sex was a pat answer, “You’ll burn in hell if you ever do that before you get married” just doesn’t seem right, but God bless her, it’s all she could say before she ran off to do eleventy million rosaries on my behalf.    I’ve taught him to be open and accepting of all types of people, especially gay people, because it’s not his job or mine to sit in judgement of how two people love eachother.

What I did not teach him about, nor did I ever intend to was a thr** w*y.

So you can imagine, Dear Emmy’s, when your tawdry little skit came on at around 8 fucking o’clock when both my kids were still up that it might have caused a little bit of havoc in my normally quiet, yet slightly crazy, home.   Really?   I mean REALLY???   Because most kids in the central time zone aren’t asleep by then, let alone west coast.

I’d really like to thank you for the line of questioning that came next.   Let me give you some insight here:

TSM:   Did you see that?   Do I need to bleach your eyes and ears dear?

Mr. C:   Yeah I did, but didn’t you tell me something about this once?

TSM:  No sir, I most certainly did not.

Mr. C:  But they said “It’s not gay if it’s a thr** w*y and you always said gay was okay?

TSM:   Yes I did, but I never spoke to you about a thr** w*y nor do I ever intend to.

Mr. C:  ::scratches head, wanders off::

TSM: ::flies through house to locate computers before a disasterous google search can be completed, hoping he will forget before the morning::

So yeah, Emmy’s….thanks for that.    Some families watch your show because they expect it to be at least slightly acceptable and entertaining.

Not mine anymore.

PS:  I’m sending you the bill from my shrink that I will no doubt incur as I try to struggle through explaining this to my son who will likely figure it out on his own and then ask me about it forever just to watch me squirm.    You guys are all sorts of awesome this year.

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Ten years ago today, this tiny little person entered my world…

Amidst a world filled with fear and uncertainty during those days following 9/11, Miss G arrived to give everyone around her a sense of the future, a little bit of hope, and a whole bunch of smiles.    The timing of her birth gave our family something to look forward to when the entire country was dark and sad.   She changed things.   She was a light.   She represented the future at a time when it was hard to imagine it.

I think the timing of her birth also signifies something.   She’s a little fighter because she came to us when the world was in chaos.   She’s joy in that she arrived when our family and friends were  sad because of the events that preceded her birth.    She’s the future because she was proof of all the goodness that the world has to offer.

I’m so proud of my little 10 year old daughter…to this day she brings light, humor and love to all that have the chance to know her.   And maybe just a little (a lot, let’s be honest here) of mischief…but that?   Is what makes her special.

I love you my baby, stay sweet, always be yourself, and be proud of who you are….because you are really amazing.

Love and thousands of kisses,

Mama

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At some point, it had to happen.    One of you, outside of my normal circle of bloggers that crash at my house, had to be a witness to the antics of Miss G.     This weekend, it happened.    Halle-freakin’-lujah!!!!

As always, you need the back story first, don’t you always?   (Just play along with me, nod your heads and roll your eyes when I can’t see you….mmmkay?   Thanks.)

The weekend started off with much promise.   I was off on Friday as well as Monday making for a glorious four day weekend.   The Man and I had plans.   We were going to have a date!    That’s when Hobby Lobby came into the picture.

(Seriously, act like you are still interested….I’m going somewhere with this and it doesn’t involve craft glue, I swear.)

On Saturday, I made the kids go with me to Hobby Lobby to get some things for the remake of Miss G’s room.   She’s tired of the “baby stuff”  (this being hearts, stripes and small furry creatures painted on her wall) and I had found some great ideas on Pinterest.     It was all going so well….Mr. C had his cell phone so I allowed them to roam the store together while I patiently waited for someone to help me in the spray paint isle.      Then I heard it.   The screams.   The endless, sickening screams of a broken bone.   Or in this case a fake injury as the case would have it.

I ran out into the main isle to find one Miss G splayed out on the floor clutching her (unbroken) ankle.   Seriously, it wasn’t even bruised.     Immediately blame was laid upon Mr. C who was standing there looking every bit as confused as the customers who had assembled for what I can only assume was a presentation of  “Worst Mother In The History Of Ever” award for my lack of sympathy.

So I did what any caring frazzled Mother would do.  I assessed the situation, determined there was not a life threatening injury in place, and dragged her butt to the cash register.

But it didn’t stop there.   Oh no, she was just getting fired up.   So much to the point that a woman who appeared to be in her 70′s clutched my arm and said, “You know, it was so much easier raising them in my generation because then you could BEAT THEM IN PUBLIC”.

Yes, people…it was that bad.    And she?  Was grounded for a week.

So this weekend, when one of my bloggy friends, Bobbi in La La Land was in town and I had the chance to sit down with her for a lovely lunch, Miss G was in attendance because she had no choice but to go with me or get sent to live with the mean old lady who wanted to beat her, that’s why.     It started out with the usual squeals of being so happy to see each other and then the introductions ensued.

“Bobbi, meet Miss G….Miss G, meet Bobbi  and Oh. My. God!!!  Why are you wearing my Mother’s antique watch?????”

To be clear here, Miss G was wearing the watch, not Bobbi.   Totally understand my wheels off approach sometimes leaves your head spinning and thankyouverymuch for staying with me this long.   Onward….

The evidence:

See what I deal with?    In her defense, she had no idea how much the watch meant to me and promptly forked it over and spent the remainder of the lunch charming Miss Bobbi.    And it worked.   Her charm knows no bounds…

Bobbi is a sweetheart and apparently a sucker, but at least she knows what I’m dealing with now.  Right, Bobbi?   Anyway, had a great time on our “girls day out” and loved seeing Bobbi.    Look at how we are pretending there isn’t a 9 year old diva in our presence!

The 9 year old Diva in question took that picture by the way.    The good news here is that finally, FINALLY, someone has seen Miss G in action and can be my witness to what I deal with on a daily if not hourly basis.    Maybe someday if any of you are in Dallas you can meet my little Diva too.

Just check your jewelry if she shakes your hand.

I love that little stinker of mine,

TSM

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