More mind wanderings on the car ride home from work.

God, it is fucking HOT today. Must be at least 90-95 degrees.

Glad to be going home, though. Long day. Julie brought raspberry logs to the staff lounge today and I had one. Feeling guilty.

Must remember to wear a blouse with a neckline tomorrow though.

(Bing has this sort of stupid little thing she does that...okay...makes me laugh. When I am crabby...like I was last night...she will eye me and tilt her head and then suddenly say, "I know what you need. You need a...a....HICKEY!" And then she chases me around and finally catches me and um..yeah..does this sucking thing on my neck while I am half mad but laughing because my neck is freaking ticklish. Last night, after she glommed on to my neck for a while with me shrieking, laughing, and struggling, she finally stopped and wiped her mouth, saying how um...moist...my neck was. When I sputtered that I had just walked SOCKS for fuck sakes, she grinned and said, "I like you all sweaty..." Well, I thought nothing of it. She NEVER leaves a mark. Well, never say never because this morning at work in the bathroom, I noticed a slight bruising. A HICKEY. Shit. Fuck. I was so embarrassed. I eventually made my co-worker, Julie give me her scarf to tie around my neck, but she spent the rest of the day making sucking sounds every single time she passed me. But, ick. Worse. I wondered how many people saw it. I know at of at least one person, but more about him later...)

Bing called after she picked up Liv and said that she seemed fine. I just said, "good" even though I was dying to make her tell me more details. I must work harder at acting all nonchalant. The last thing I want to do is get another lecture from her about how I am worrying for nothing. That I am one of THOSE mothers.

Cheese quiche will taste good tonight. That's what Bing is making, she said. I hope she doesn't heat up the house too much. Oh, well. Supposed to cool off again by Saturday. Maybe we can turn the a/c off again on Saturday. Really hate coming home and walking in and feeling that wall of chemically cool air.

Stop complaining. You could not have a/c. How fun would that be?

It will be fun going to see One Day with my sister on Saturday evening. I need a sister's night out. She said she did too.

God, I need to turn off that cd. I am really not a Jennifer Weiner fan. All of her books just sound so sappy to me. Let's see..quick, find a good cd while the light is red...hmmmm. Okay. Judas Priest. Yeah, I got another thing comin'. Alrighty. That's better.

I think I read somewhere that Judas Priest were gay. Wonder if it's true? I should check with Bing. She knows all that shit.

Maybe I will pick some tomatoes from the garden to go with dinner tonight. Taking Friday afternoon off to do all my canning. Pitiful harvest this year. Damn root rot. My own fault, really. I know better than to overwater when it is so fucking hot outside. Oh, well. Next year. And since Liv is staying home from school on Friday afternoon to help me, maybe we can really talk again. She opens up so much more when Bing isn't around. She loves her, but Bing is just..kind of hard on her. She doesn't make fun of her or act cruelly to her, but she doesn't invite openness either. Liv didn't want me to tell Bing that she was having trouble adjusting to school because she was afraid she would think she was "a wimp." I think I made the right decision by making Tinton Liv's legal guardian if something should happen to me. I think Liv would do better with Tinton if I wasn't around than if she was with Bing. I feel guilty thinking that, but it's the truth.

God, I'm thirsty. I'll make an icy glass of iced tea when I get home.

That guy in the elevator this morning was such a dick weed.

(I decided that I wanted a latte this morning instead of regular coffee at work, so I went up to the cafeteria to buy one. I bought it and got into the elevator to go back to my floor. There was one guy in the elevator with me. He had a tag but I couldn't read it. Not sure where he works. Anyway. As I was holding the cup, I noticed that a big drip was getting ready to drip down the side of my big Styrofoam cup, so without really thinking about it, I made a quick lick of my tongue to catch it. I heard a sharp intake of breath and looked to see that creepy guy staring at me with THAT look. You know the look. The look that men give women when they think they are doing something sexy. I realized immediately what it must have looked like when I was um...LICKING along the side and up of my cup. Fellatio anyone? But, God...did he have to stare like that and then fucking WINK at me, smile, and say, "Looks like you got that....DRIP." Moron. Pee Butt. I glared at him and then rolled my eyes. Looked away. And then I noticed that he was staring at my neck and SMILING again. Ick. STOP IT. What the hell was he looking at my neck like that for? The second my floor came, I jumped off and then turned around and looked at him tellingly up and down and then shook my head as if to say, "little fish...no interest there." But, I went to the bathroom to check out my neck and that was when I saw...yep, the HICKEY. Good hell. I must have looked like some aging, cup licking, sleazy cougar. That was when I nabbed Julie and practically tore the scarf off her neck. GIMME. NOW!)

Why are some men such dick weeds? You hardly ever see women acting like that. If I saw some guy lapping up something, I wouldn't leer at him and say something stupid.

Modern Family is on tonight. I love that show. I missed almost all of the episodes last season because I was busy watching Scotty McCreery win American Idol.

I wonder if Scotty will make it big in the Country world? I wish Lee DeWyze had done better for himself. The last time I checked his site, there was this ditzy photo of him hugging a puppy that he and his fiancee bought together.

C'mon, Lee. Don't do this shit. Don't ruin my daydream that you are sort of a bad seed with a good heart. Don't go all John Boy on me now. Get another tatt.

I wonder if I'll ever get another tattoo? I have that silly one on my shoulder. A coffee cup. It seemed so cool when I got it. I think I was drunk. Too many Tequila Sunrises. Funny, the things that seem so hot when you are 22 are the things that seem so stupid to you just a few years older.

I miss drinking sometimes. I miss weed. I rarely drink anymore and haven't lit up since Liv was born. Well, except for that one time when Jess and I got stoned when she was so nauseated from chemo and I knew that weed would take away the nausea. So, I had my other sister babysit Liv and Jess and I got totally wasted. First time for her. About the 200th time for me. I'll never forget Jess forcing me to listen to that Shooter Jennings cd and insisting that he was "a master singer." We laughed all night and then ate pbj's with Pringles all night.

I miss my other sisters. They're both coming in to see Jersey Boys next month.

God, tomorrow is the first day of September. Bing will be 53. I have no idea what to get her for her birthday, she always says she only needs me. Yeah, I'm such a prize. A booby prize, perhaps.

What the hell? WHY does the car in front of me keep insisting on riding his brakes? LEARN TO DRIVE, MOTHERFUCKER. I'm getting sick of Judas Priest too. At the next stop light, I'll find a better cd. Maybe Adele. God, she can sing. And she sings like she knows what heartache feels like too. She's so young, what like...22? What the hell does a 22 year old know about heartache?

I hope that Liv walked Socks. I don't feel like walking the dog tonight. I just want to put my shorts and tee on and watch Modern Family. Why is my skirt pooching out like that? Is that my STOMACH? God, it is. I am getting a little beer belly, aren't I? I need to stop eating things like raspberry logs. I wish I looked like I did when I was Adele's age.

Being 53 sucks. Today, I was using white out on a report and accidentally spilled some and then somehow managed to also write on my face with my pen. Just a slash, but I had to go to bathroom and clean both my hands and face. As I scrubbed my hands, I noticed that the skin on my hands took a while to lay back down flat. Like an old woman's hands. And when I scrubbed the ink line off of my face, I kept wishing for my moisturizer since my facial skin is as dry as rice paper. I should probably keep moisturizer at work. Good idea. Since I am as old as the hills.

Almost home. I wish that guy would STOP RIDING HIS BRAKES. Loser. Pee Butt.

No road rage. Instead play that game with car license plates. Look at his plate. Hmm. It says SYS 239. Ok. Think of a word that has the letters SYS in it. System. Too easy. Try another one. SNK. Snake. BIR. Birthday. WOL. Withholding.

My sister calls this game: beating Alzheimer's.

We'll see. God, I hope I don't get Alzheimer's. I hope that I die in my sleep. I should really take better care of myself. Not that you can prevent Alzheimer's. By the time Liv is my age, there probably will be no cancer or Alzheimer's. That would be nice for her. She'll probably have a robot companion to do housework and such. That would sure be nice.

Adele's voice is perfect. God, so lovely.

And...home.

Time for quiche and Modern Family. Maybe I'll use all these thoughts for a blog. Naw. Probably bore the pants off everyone. Hell no. It's my blog. They don't HAVE to read it.

And there's Liv's face. Hmmm. She's her mother's daughter. Completely unreadable.

So...what did YOU think about on your drive home from work tonight?

My weird mind

Thought process when I got up this morning:

God, NO. Can't believe it is morning already.

I JUST WENT TO SLEEP.

And all those strange dreams involving cell phones, trying to call Bing and everything was screwed up and couldn't get my phone to work and then kept keying her number in wrong.

But, in one dream she was buying me a new car. One of those tiny little smart cars.

She'd never do that in real life. She says those things are wasteful because you can't even haul groceries around.

Must remember to put lunch boxes of chocolate milk for Liv on grocery list.

God, I hope she's doing better today. Bing keeps saying that I am sweating this out too much, that ALL kids hate junior high and that Liv can sense that I'm worried and to just let her figure this all out on her own.

I loved talking to Betsy yesterday. SO glad we hired her. We really needed an office manager and she is so it. She said that when her son started junior high last year that she and her husband were so worried about him that they began tentatively looking at other schools to transfer him to but then by Christmas, he had settled in.

I hope that is what happens with Liv.

Is Bing right? Should I have not let her pick her own junior high? Maybe we should have stuck with that Montessori out west that goes to 12th grade. But they were so...hoity toity. Not at all like Maria Montessori intended the method to work. The head mistress gave me the eebie jeebies with her stupid china tea service and that fake smile. Liv didn't like her either. Said she had a Nurse Ratched smile.

When did Liv see Cuckoo's Nest? I don't remember watching that with her.

It's my turn to pick the movie this weekend. I so want to see this:



Bing would hate it. Probably fall asleep in it. She doesn't even like Anne Hathaway. How can anyone NOT like Anne? She is such a great actress.

I should probably see that movie with my sister and pick out something that we would all like. Why do I do that? Deny my wishes? Did SHE think about ME when she picked that dumb ass movie about apes last week?

I should really call my sister to check in. It's been over a week. It's Labor Day weekend coming up, maybe we could go see that film together. But, no. If I call her, she'll invite us over for a Labor Day bbq or something and I don't really want to see her racist pee butt husband....

God, I love Anderson Cooper. He is so damn funny when he does that "ridiculous" ending on his show. He does have that girly laugh, though. I don't much care for that. Men with girly laughs. I wonder if I've heard a woman laugh like a man? I don't recall....

I hear Bing coming upstairs to kiss me goodbye. NO arguing today. You argued yesterday. I still think she's wrong about Liv, though. I do.

Ok, smile pretty. God, her breath kind of stinks. Should I tell her? I mean, she DID brush her teeth, didn't she? I should tell her.

Well, that went well.

Ok, time to go get Liv up.

Chin up. Tell her "chin up." God, no. That sounds all Mrs. Cleaver. Think of something better. Wiser. More hip.

What the fuck. I'll just say "chin up."

It's all my fault, you know, that she's unhappy at school. I should never have let her spend her grade school years in a Montessori. It didn't prepare her adequately for the real world. At least that is what Bing says.

Fuck her. I did the right thing for my daughter.

Ok...chin up. Go in and get her up.

I wonder if I can do pop tarts for breakfast. I just don't feel like cooking. I hate to cook...

So, how is YOUR morning going, dudes?

The Katniss in you...

Livvy,
Sweetie. I know. I'm glad you stopped pretending that you were okay.

Because I'm your mother. I saw right through that.

It's okay to be scared of new things, new people, new environments.

I know. Regular school must just seem....weird...after Montessori.

You've been in a school for six years (actually eight if you count pre-school and kindergarten...) that was basically an idyllic place to learn. If you didn't understand something, you just said, "I don't get this!" and one of your classmates, younger or older, didn't matter...stepped up to help explain.

Now, you say that it is all so regimented. That you hate that. The constant sitting in desks and listening. Not being able to skip ahead if you understand or linger if you don't.

"Everyone is expected to move as a group and that is just...so unfair!"

I agree. It is. It really is. You've been in a school where you had the extreme luxury of learning at your own pace. No desks. If you felt like pacing when you read, you paced. If you felt like sitting quietly, you went off to the side and studied quietly. Small groups learned together but every opinion was valued.

Now, you are in what is called a traditional school.

No circle time in the morning, where you all lounge lazily on a rug and ease into your days of learning.

Nope. Now it is stand to say the pledge of allegiance.

Say a morning prayer.

("Mama, this is CRAZY. WHY do I have to pray if I don't feel like it?")

The hard answer is that you don't have to honey, you just have to sort of look like you might be. I know. Just writing that sounds so idiotic, I could kick myself.

Learn lessons as a class. If you have a question, you can raise your hand but some stupid boy might make fun of you or a girl might titter. I know that wasn't tolerated at Montessori. Your class is WAY bigger now, darlin. The teacher isn't standing in a group of six. There are 36 in your class.

Some girls won't like you because they think your backpack is "so 2005."

That freckled kid in the glasses who keeps calling you "tree toad"?

He's a dick. I agree. But, most middle school boys are dicks, Liv. They just are. They grow out of it. That doesn't help now, but they do. And even weirder, the boy who calls you names is often the one who really likes you.

Even more of a puzzle, I know.

What I want you to do, honey, is this:

Remember when I told you that the girl in The Hunger Games reminded me of you?

I wasn't kidding or just saying that.

You remind me so much of Katniss.

You are strong and resilient and tough minded and practical.

And good and loving and a giver.

I'm always so proud to tell people that you are my child.

Honey, you are so much smarter, so much stronger, so much...MUCHIER than you think you are.

I am your mother and I promised you that I would never lie to you unless I absolutely had to.

I will keep that promise. I swear it.

If I thought you were stupid, I might not say you were stupid, okay. But, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you that you were smart.

You are smart. And kind. And special.

As is.

Don't ever compare yourself to others because there is no one exactly like you.

No one in that classroom really knows you yet. They are still musing about you. That's fine. Some people need time. Others won't be worth your time. Especially if they make fun of your back pack.

People who have to make fun of others to make themselves feel better are pitiful, Liv. They are to be pitied because they value the wrong things in life. I know that doesn't make you feel better now but it will matter later. So keep that in the back of your head.

So what if you would rather eat a tuna salad sandwich than eat that pizza with the red sauce that makes you feel icky after you eat it? Eat that tuna salad and eat it with your head up. NEVER compromise or pretend to like something that you don't just to fit in. Easier said than done, I know. But, trust me. If you refuse to be a sheep, others who are like you will find you and take you in. I promise.

Liv, I know your stomach hurts and it will be hard to get up and go to school tomorrow. But, I am going to make you go anyway. You know that, don't you?

Honey, I can't let you give up when I know that there is a Katniss inside of you. Actually, I call it a LIV.

And let's remember what Christopher Robin said to Pooh:

"If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together, there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart, I'll always be with you."

And I will, honey. I swear it.

Trust me on this. It will get better. But, baby, you have to keep trying. You must not give in or give up.

Not my Livvy. Not my Katniss.

Sweet talk in the mornin'

It's just so lovey dovey around here in the mornings:

Set the stage: Maria is up and crabby because she fell asleep during the MTV awards and Bing didn't wake her up to see The Hunger Games premiere trailer.

Bing is late. Again.

Conversation:

B: Ok, so I'll pay the car taxes and you call the city about when they plan to tear up the street next week, deal?

We just got a note on our door from the city last week that they will be tearing up our street next week. We'd kind of like to know WHEN exactly so that our cars won't be trapped in the gargage...

M: Fine, whatever. I can't believe you didn't wake me up!

B: Honey, I'm SORRY. OK? It's on u tube now. Go watch it now. Hey, where is the windex? I need to clean my windows at school today.

M: Looks like you forgot to empty the dishwasher AGAIN. Oh, well..no big deal. MARIA will just do it, like she does EVERYTHING around here.

B: Talking about yourself in the third person is never a good sign....

Baleful look from Maria. Bing comes out of bedroom holding up a squirt bottle

B: What's this? I found it next to the bed on your side.

M: OH! That's bleach.

B: What's bleach doing in our bedroom? New really scary sex game tonight involving us being um...spanking clean?

She laughs at her pun. Maria scowls.

M: No...I put it there when you were in Berlin this summer. Protection.

Bing looks quizzical. Maria sighs. She is still majorly annoyed about The Hunger Games.

M: In case there was an...intruder. I planned to...you know...spray it in his/her eyes.

B: You won't let us have a gun in the house, but you think bleach is a good idea.

M: Well, yeah. You know, my plan was to blind them with bleach and then use the baseball bat to hit them in the knees and cripple them. I'm not a killer. No guns. But, I am a...a...maimer.

Bing grins. Gives Maria a quick kiss goodbye.

B: I'll see you tonight at Liv's game. 5:30, right?

M: Right.

Bing talks to herself as she goes out the door:

B: She's all mine, folks. All mine.....

A word for the pee butt stalker:

How's marriage treatin' you?

Excuse the snicker...but seriously, FIVE disgusting comments to moderate in one day is my limit. And I get so weary of them all sounding like you are some finger waggling talk to the hand sort of cougar in spandex pants.

Look in the mirror. I believe it is called a "liar, liar, pants on fire."

Since we are doin' the name calling thing and all that shit. And, you know...compared to the manure you've been shoveling at me, this is tame.

To other readers besides the pee butt blog stalker: I apologize for my foray into this kind of nonsense and the more polite Maria will return in the morning.

A reply to Anonymous who posted on the previous blog post.

Dear Anonymous,
First...thank you. I am 53 years old. I can't remember the last time anyone crushed on me. You know, when one is in their twenties, it happens a lot and you sort of smile and roll your eyes. When one is in their thirties, it happens sometimes and it is nice. When one is in their forties, it happens and is almost always associated with some sort of older woman fetish, so not so exciting.

But to be crushed upon when one is in their 50's is a gift.

But, here is the reality.

You don't know me. Not really. Maybe you know what I look like, many of my readers do. But, probably you don't.

I'm no huge beauty. I'm okay looking. I'm not particularly thin or fat, pretty or ugly. Just in the middle.

You know me through my writing. And you miss a lot of the not-so-fun aspects of me. Bing would be the first to tell you that I am hard to live with. I was dragged kicking and screaming into love and it has never been my strong suit. In fact, she just read what I wrote and whispered in my ear, "Tell the guy to listen to Matt Nathanson's song called Modern Love, it should tell the world just what life with you is like..."

I'm not all sunshine and roses.

Or caustic remarks and sparkly wit.

I can be very ordinarily obtuse and selfish. Every few months, I fight a bout of depression that can sometimes last for weeks. During that time, I only come out of my shell to go to work and do my job and to talk to Liv. Otherwise, I am out. Don't knock and expect me to answer. I won't.

I am addicted to reading. I take a book EVERYWHERE with me so that I can sneak in a paragraph or two whenever I can. I take a book to bed with me at night and try to read at least a chapter before I fall asleep. Bing usually stays up to watch the news and when she comes in, she takes the book off my chest, takes my glasses off and carefully puts them in their case on the bedside table and joins me. Sometimes she comes to bed early too and tries to engage me in some before sleep foreplay. I very seldom oblige her. I imagine that if she dies before me, I will regret not taking her up on that more.

Which leads me to sex. I am not particularly driven by it. In fact, I have been accused of being frigid by a few boyfriends and girlfriends before Bing. Bing is kinder. She just says that I usually have to be coaxed. A lot.

The truth is that I hardly ever think about sex. When I was younger, I was more sexual because I had this thing for bad boys and girls and since sex with those kinds is generally pretty explosive...I sought it out. But..comfortable, married sex? I tend to really enjoy it when I am having it but getting me to that place can be tricky.

I like to think that I am a kind person, basically, but I am not THAT kind. I detest bawl babies or whiners and thus I am not usually sought out by them. At work, I am thought of as the one who always has a snappy comeback line. I am not particularly warm or generous. Unless it is with my daughter. She broke through my Grinch heart at birth.

I think I am secretly softhearted. I feel things deeply inside, but seldom show it on the outside. Thus, I am often thought to be sort of...bristly...when I am actually more of a marshmallow on the inside.

I admit that I have a real problem with people who aren't educated. And by educated, I don't mean school educated, I mean educated in general. I get annoyed by people who have opinions but no facts to back their arguments up. (I am seeing my racist brother in law right now.) If you and I are debating, I will knock you flat if you are uneducated. This means that I will probably embarrass you in front of people and you will label me a bitch.

So, I'm nobody's dream girl. Believe me.

You didn't say if you are female or male, but I am guessing that you are male. Just a guess. Your remark about wishing it was me next to you in bed, other than your wife is telling. Most women (including lesbian women) aren't initially attracted by sex. Women generally go for personality.

I think crushes are okay as long as they don't go anywhere. Because that is what they are: a crush. I have a celebrity crush on Lee DeWyze but I would wager money that he is not anything the way I imagine him to be. (And his choice of a fiancee proves my point. The Lee I imagine would NEVER marry the insipid, daft woman that he is in love with.) The Lee in my imagination goes for a smart mouthed Chicago girl who would never pick out a wedding dress that looks like an eclair or think that Disneyland is "my dream honeymoon." See? He is nothing like I thought he was. But, I will still enjoy his music.

Just like I hope you will still enjoy my writing. Now, I am not saying that I am a celebrity or anything like Lee. (And actually when Bing leaned over my shoulder to read what I had written about him, she snorted and said, "Honey, Lee DeWyze is NOT a celebrity. He is a so-so coffee house singer.")

I guess what I want you to come away with is this: your wife is probably a very interesting person. You just don't see it that much anymore. Proximity takes away a lot of illusions. But, I would be willing to bet that she is still just as fascinating as she was before you got married.

Think about it. Part of the crush on me is that you don't have to see me all growly in the morning before I've had my coffee. Or sniping at you because you left your briefcase on the kitchen table AGAIN. Or pouting because it's your turn to pick a movie and you picked that stupid new planet of the apes one. (Yeah, Bing...that would be YOU!) Or giving you the silent treatment because you promised to hook up those new computers you bought a MONTH ago and they are still sitting OUT OF THE BOXES on the dining room floor. (Ditto, Bing.) You don't have to hear me tell you about the crazy dream that I had last night when you are late for work and really need to get going. You don't have to see me glare you at you across a dining table because you are chewing with your mouth open and I HATE THAT. You don't have to see me bringing home new Ferragamo high heeled shoes that I should not be wearing in the first place and that cost 400 bucks and we really should be putting that money into our IRA. And the reason WHY I shouldn't be wearing high heels is because I have a HAMMER TOE, which I got because I have been wearing high heels my whole adult life. Hammer toes are not sexy, by the way. This is what my hammer toe looks like. And get this: I expect Bing to massage it every night. And better: She DOES IT. LOVINGLY. She has even kissed my hammer toe on occasion. Okay, backing off now. I have wandered into gross couple territory, I know.

I am not all that healthy. I have type 1 diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis, have pre-lupus, a bad back and I'm losing my eyelashes. This upsets me more than I can say. I used to have these long, thick, curly black eyelashes. Now, they look like eyelashes belonging to a 53 year old women. Ugh. Aging isn't for pansies. But, hey..I take many, many prescription medications. When I travel, they have their own little traveling case. That's how many there are.

Am I losing my allure yet?

Truth can be tough.

And I must warn you that I am very, very leery of blog stalkers, so I truly hope you are harmless.

I have a blog stalker. She is the number one reason that I never post pictures and hardly ever meet blog friends. I am skeered.

This woman started reading my blog years ago. She piqued my interest by making a few very witty, urbane remarks on my blog. We exchanged e-mails. I never thought I was all that close to her, but apparently she thought I returned her attraction. She became furious when I um...spurned her amorous attempts. So, she sent me an e-mail with the blueprints of my home (with my bedroom circled....EWWW!), letting me know that she knew where I lived. She also let me know that she knew where I worked, what school Bing taught at and what school Liv attended.

I was terrified. What the hell did she need all of this for? I contacted the police and was sort of politely laughed out of the office. They told me that unless she physically threatened either me or a member of my family, that their hands were tied. Nothing they could do about someone who looked but didn't touch. They DID allow me to put her down as a person of interest in case anything happened to me. But, that was it.

So, Bing and I took steps. Bing is a computer geek, so she and her geek friends put an enormous firewall around my account. They also took my google analytics and enhanced them, so that we could know each and every time she visited my blog. (And she stunned us by visiting up to 15 times a day on several different computers.) We alerted our workplaces about her in case she decided to lurk. She had sent me a photo of herself in e-mail and her ugly face is still on the bulletin board of the security office in my building.

Worse, I had to go to Liv's then Montessori school and reiterate to the head mistress that NO ONE other than Bing or I was to ever pick up Liv. I also gave them a photo of the blog stalker and told them that if they should see this person lurking, to notify the police.

So, I guess what I am saying, Anonymous...is that while I find it kind of flattering that you are crushing on me...if you are a sicko blog stalker, beware.

Capisce?

Ok. I am just going to assume that you have a garden variety crush, so hey...I'm flattered. Really.

But, do me a favor, okay?

Today, take a long hard look at your wife. Her face. The way she laughs, smiles, thinks. And remember how you felt when you looked at her on your wedding day or the first day that you realized you loved her.

She's still in there, you know.

Just sayin'......

Triple Dog Dare

Ok...I have close to 400 hits per day, but very few comments. So...what's the deal, Lucille? Are you all just shy?

I triple dog dare you to finish this sentence. C'mon...it will only take like a few lazy moments of your time:

The best part of my day was.....

I'll go first.

The best part of my day was having dinner with my sister at the pizza joint and laughing about the words "tubal ligation." (I think you had to be there.) Your turn.

Don't be a douche. Step up to the plate...

If you could....

1) live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

We vacationed in Louisiana this year and I took to it like nobody's business. Bing and I have long talked about moving away from these frigid winters on the prairie and if we moved to New Orleans we could do that. Housing is cheap down there too because everyone is leery about moving there. I'd love it.

2) change anything about your body, what would it be?

I'd like to not have diabetes. I've had it since I was a kid and I can hardly imagine a world where I didn't have to be constantly careful about what I eat. But, then...I'm pretty much convinced that without diabetes I would weigh like 400 pounds because I love to eat, so maybe it is a blessing in disguise?

3) go to your perfect job, what would it be?

I always wanted to be a high school English teacher. I didn't go in that direction because I wanted to make money and I knew that teachers make squat, so I went into medicine instead. I think that I made a mistake.

4) change anything about your partner, what would it be?

I would make her a neater, tidier person. But that is about it. I pretty much like most everything else about her. When we argue, it is almost always about her sloppiness or what she thinks is my lack of financial savvy.

5) have dinner with a celebrity, who would you choose?

Okay, you are all thinking that I will say (altogether now) LEE DEWYZE, aren't you? Wellll, you know...I am re-thinking him. I used to think that I loved his music and his personality, but now I am not so crazy about his personality. He is engaged to this model/actress and I've read her twitter and believe me, she seems sort of....stupid and vain. So, if he could fall in love with someone like that, he must be sort of...ok....um...not so smart. Or not as smart as I wanted him to be. So, I will just enjoy his music and ignore his personality. I will say Anderson Cooper. He's not really a celebrity, but I think we could have a kick ass dinner conversation.

6) be invisible for a week, what would you do?

This is so petty, but I would eavesdrop on people. I would also do silly things like go into men's rooms just to see how men act in there. I mean, do they peek? I would also (and I am SO embarrassed to admit this, but I have to be honest...I promised myself that I would always be honest on this blog...) scare the bejesus out of people whom I dislike, like make objects move around on their desks, etc. and um....touch them on the arm and make them jump out of their pants. I would also go to Liv's school and see if she is telling the truth about everything being "JUST FINE, MOTHER!"

7) tell someone the absolute truth what would you say?

I would tell my sisters that they broke my heart when they went along with my mother when she disowned me for being a lesbian. She threatened to disown them too if they even spoke to me and I do understand not wanting to lose out on a hefty inheritance, but the truth is that I truly don't think that I could have just abandoned them the way they abandoned me. I've forgiven them, but I haven't forgotten. Not really.

8) have a talent that you don't have now, what would it be?

I would love to be good at sports. I was never good at anything involving sports, from bowling to soccer to volleyball. I would like to see what it's like to really excel at sports.

9) see someone who has died just for an hour, just to talk, who would you want to see?

My Da. I miss him every single day. Every parenting decision I make is a WWDD. (What would Da do?)

10) be the opposite sex, who would you want to look like?

Joe Manganiello.

11) take one thing back that you've said to someone, what would it be?

Ugh. A hard one. I have so many things that I've said that I wish I could take back. The one thing that comes to mind, though, was when I broke up with Bing the first time we got together, I said, "I'm just not attracted to you THAT way. I'm sorry." It hurt her so badly that to this day she has doubts about me being attracted to her even though I've told her a million times that I was SO stupid back then and that now, I am unbelievably attracted to her. And it is the truth. Back then, I was all about falling for dangerous men and women, the kind who could take my breath away physically, but never had my back. Now, I am older and wiser and I take incredible comfort in our life together. Her loyalty and commitment to me turn me on in a way that is hard for me to put into words. And she still makes me go all shivery in bed. Even after all these years and now that I am um...elderly.

12) pick the time of your death, when would you want it to be?

I would want to die before I had to depend on others to help me, before I was a burden on my family. And I would want to die painlessly, in my sleep, in Bing's arms. I feel safe there and adored. Everyone needs that.

13) pick an actress to play you in the movie of your life, who is closest to what you really look like and could play your personality well?

You mean, I can't pick Catherine Zeta Jones? Sighing. When I was younger, I think Jessica Chastain would have looked similar, if she dowdied herself up a little. She has that white skin like I do. But, now that I am older, I think that Helen Mirren would be okay. Ok. Maybe she is just a little older than I am. But, I can't think of anyone in between. The truth is that I was always middle of the road. I was never a great beauty, but I wasn't NOT pretty, either. I was just...average...like most people. I had lots more to work with when I was younger. Now, I look in the mirror sometimes and am just shocked to see how OLD I am. I guess that I always expect to look like I did when I looked my best, which was in my late twenties. I just asked Bing and she said, "How about Vanessa Redgrave in CAMELOT?" Oh, boy. She is going to get some sugar tonight....

14) change your name to any other, what would it be?

I always liked the name Chloe.

Ok, your turn. Pick a question or two or three. Tell.

I Dare you....

I just bought the new Matt Nathanson album, Modern Love

I dare you to listen to this and not want to go jump in bed with someone and get free and loose limbed and sizzly.

"It's like a lap dance for our car......"

Today is the day before Liv goes back to school.

And, of course, after two weeks of glorious summer weather and no air conditioning, it is now hot enough to have to turn it back on. Big deal, it IS August on the prairie, right?

Liv's uniform is laying on the chair in her room with the white sort-of-polo looking shirt that goes with it. White bobby socks. Loafers. She is all set. She isn't one of those girls who will fuss with her hair, so no worries there. She can braid her own hair now, but often asks me to do it when she is nervous, so I will probably be the one to braid her hair down her back tomorrow.

Still...the house feels tense. Socks seems to know that something is up with her. He shadows her around the house and wherever she sits, he sits with her. Preferably on her lap. He is almost too big for her lap but she indulges him.

Todays to-do list was pretty easy:

1) Take the new shredder we bought back to Office Max because it doesn't enjoy shredding.

2) Stop at Goodwill to look for frames. I have several new photos that need to be framed and set out. Goodwill sometimes has incredible prices on really beautiful frames. My theory is that when old people die and their relatives pack up their houses, no one thinks about those gorgeous old frames. Well, they fit our Victorian style house perfectly. We also like to stop at garage sales, if we see any on the way to Goodwill.

3) The hedges all need to be trimmed. This is Bing's job. I will weed the garden while she does this, although I will probably finish before she does since my bounty is pretty slim this year from the garden. Root rot set in after we went through the hottest, muggiest July on record and I overwatered. I can during the last week of August and this year, it won't be a two day job, but a half day one.

Liv is going to see a movie with a few friends from her old school (Montessori.) They are all going to different junior high schools, so this may be their last outing together for a while...well maybe forever. They will swear to keep in touch, but they all will make new friends, move on.

So, I am feeling very melancholy today. I had terrible nightmares last night. One about being a student in one of Bing's classes and she gave the instruction to make a video and I kept fucking it up. The other one was a classic one that I always have when I am worried about Liv. She is with me and then suddenly lost. We are at a fair (or a mall, a swimming pool, a concert, the setting changes a lot) and I see some burly man carrying a burlap bag over his shoulder and I can see one of her bright neon green sandals coming out of the bottom of it. I am running, screaming, trying to get to her and you know how those dreams go, there are obstacles, huge areas of thick weeds that I try to plow through. I keep losing sight of him and am nearly hysterical.

I woke up at 4:30, crying, struggling to breathe. Sat up panting until my heart stopped racing. Went into Liv's room to make sure she was okay and then came back to bed to huddle against Bing's back until she sleepily turned over and took me in her arms, half asleep.

"S'okay, s'okay," she said. We both fell back asleep.

I hoped the day would go by quickly.

Bing and I set off for Office Max and then on to Goodwill.

As we were driving home, we saw a man on a busy intersection holding up a sign that said:

MARINE CAR WASH. HELP US GET DECORATION MONEY FOR THE MARINE BALL IN SEPTEMBER!

Bing and I looked at each other.

"Jesus," she muttered. "It really sucks that MARINES have to have a car wash to earn money for decorations for their ball. I mean, you'd think it would be the LEAST we could do for them, you know, throw them a nice party..."

I agreed, so we got in line. It was, hands down, the BEST and most...well....militaristic car wash that I have been in. Four marines soaped us up (and watching them work was a privilege, let me tell you, those three men and one woman were BUILT) and then three more scrubbed difficult areas, ie the tires, windows, side mirrors. One man in particular looked like he should be in an ad for the military. He was easily in his 40's but had biceps that rippled and six pack abs that showed under his tight, wet white tee shirt. He had an insignia that Bing told me represented a command sarge. He looked like he could hit the deck and do fifty if we asked him to and then some. After we were all scrubbed up, two young men rinsed us off with a high powered hose and then used these ingenious squeegees to get all the remaining excess off. Bing was so intrigued with those squeegees that she actually got out of the car to ask them what sort of brand they used and to also compliment on the soft chamois cloths they used to dry us off. She got back in the car, grinning.

"The squeegee they use is silicon based," she said, happily. "I'll get to the hardware store this week to buy some for us to use in the shower!"

I rolled my eyes. God, more work. Now, I am expected to use a special silicon squeegee in the shower? Will she also buy us some chamois cloths?

After the car was spiffy clean, she handed one of the men a ten dollar bill and thanked them for their service to our country. On the way home we talked about what perfect service we had received.

Bing is a HUGE believer in taking the cars to be cleaned at neighborhood car washes. We regularly have our cars washed by the nearby high school's cheerleading squad and swing choir. We had our cars washed by more boy scout troops than we could name until I took a stand and refused to go there until they stopped with this nonsense about not allowing gay troop leaders in.

They always do a lackadaisical job.

But, the marine car washers were not only fast and efficient, they made our car sparkle.

"It's like we are so used to going to these car washes where they throw a thimble of soap on the car and then sprinkle it with a hose," she remarked. "Oh, and then you get a dancing, wet girl too. Sort of like a lap dance for your car", she drawled.

I looked over at her and burst out laughing.

A LAP DANCE FOR YOUR CAR?

I loved that. So, yes, I had throw back my head and belt out a laugh.

When I looked back over at her, she gave me a long look and then pulled quickly into a parking lot and pulled me over for a long sweet kiss.

"I love it when you laugh like that," she said. "I don't think you've laughed all week, sugarfoot. You've been worried about our Livvy, I know.."

I didn't say anything, just held her hand, running my fingers over hers.

She sighed and put the car in gear, said something about some hedges that weren't going to trim themselves. When we stopped at a light, she looked over at me again and said, "How about I take you and Liv out for a steak dinner before True Blood tonight? Sort of a last supper before junior high..."

I cut my eyes over at her and when she winked, just had to take her hand off the steering wheel to kiss it.

She's pretty much a vegetarian and gets almost queasy when she has to watch me eat steak because I like mine...bloody. Liv is more of a well done sort of girl, so it isn't so hard to watch her.

So, she must really, really love us.

We'll go tonight and Liv and I will order our steak while Bing orders tuna or salmon or her favorite: crab cakes.

She will politely avert her eyes whilst I devour my rare meal and try not to gag when the blood runs into my mashers.

Maybe I will order the chicken just this once. Or the Chicken Alfredo.

She is my giving tree, my one true love, the one who always has my back and makes me laugh on days when I don't think I can.

Tomorrow, we will start the school routine again. I will take Liv to school (she starts at 7:35 a.m!) and Bing will pick her up at 3:00. Life will get very hectic with homework, soccer practice, violin lessons and whatnot.

But, through it all, Bing will be there to hold me when I have bad dreams and make me laugh when I feel like crying.

But, um...boy howdy...I do love my bloody steaks....

The kid's all right.

Last night was Liv's first soccer game with her new team, the St. Peter Bees.

She has played soccer since she was 4, starting with a pee wee group, always with the Y. I've discovered that the Catholic League is a whole other ball game. I mean, these kids...play. The game. It isn't just some dad who volunteers because there isn't anyone else and where the emphasis isn't much on strategy but more about everyone playing and having a good time. This league is all about team playing and getting 'er done.

Liv was 9 before she really understood the game and the junior high team she plays with now? Well, it was obvious when we showed up for practice that this was a real team with a coach who had coached the girls since they had no front teeth. Liv was in the Catholic league now. The big girl league. Their outfits uniforms were clean, crisp and bright yellow and black with matching yellow socks and black cleats. No jewelry was allowed and all hair was pulled back tightly.

After the first practice, on the way home Liv was ecstatic.

"I am FINALLY playing with a team who understands the game. I'm FINALLY playing left midfielder!" she chirped.

I have been watching this game for 8 years now and I still have no idea what positions are in the game. Apparently, Liv has known this for years but on her Y team, they didn't bother with positions.

She seemed happy, so I was happy. To be honest, at her Tuesday night practices, I often sat in my lawn chair reading my book, oblivious to what was going on in the field. I watched a little more closely with this team, because these were going to be Liv's classmates at her new school.

We had made the decision to let her play soccer for the school when we went to Parent's night and took our tour of the school, saw Liv's homeroom desk (she was enthralled...at her Montessori school there were no desks, just work tables that were shared by all) and then sat listening as each extracurricular teacher or coach took the floor. We found out that St. Pete's had a band but no orchestra. So..Liv's violin and piano skills would not be needed. She decided to stay with her weekly lessons with Ms. Florence. Liv wasn't sure if she wanted to be in any of the clubs but was positive about playing sports.

This kid couldn't be more different than me if she tried. I have never been good at sports or much interested in them. Well, unless it is WATCHING, not PLAYING football. I love my Huskers. But, I was the girl who was scared of getting hit by the ball at volleyball, which was the only sport a girl could be in when I was her age. And I was fine with that. You couldn't have paid me to be on a sports team.

But, Liv was interested and had us sign her up to play soccer. This was different from the Y right from the start. First, she had to TRY OUT for the team. They only accepted 20 players and over 30 applied. Liv made the cut. Then we had to spring for the pricey outfit uniform, socks and special black cleats. Also shin guards. Elbow guards were optional. Practices were at 6 sharp on Tuesday night and YOU WERE NOT TO BE LATE. We learned this the hard way by showing up 4 minutes late and getting the stink eye from several players, parents and the coaches. We were 15 minutes early from that moment on.

I watched as Liv slowly passed muster. Her coach tried her at several positions and then during the last practice held out the team roster with positions. When Liv saw that she had not only made first string, but also was a left midfielder, she threw her arm in the air and was promptly hugged by her new friend, Miggs. Miggs had also made first string but was in a position called a stringer.

I am so glad that Liv will now start school at least knowing a few girls, her team mates and Miggs, in particular, seems to have taken a shine to Liv. But, all on her team are a friendly lot of back slapping, high fiving girls.

Bing and I went to the practices together, scoping out the other parents and making sure that Liv fit in okay. She was fine, sports are a great conversation starter. Bing, being far more gregarious than I am, now knows almost all the parents and is particularly friendly with the assistant coach. Yes, the ASSISTANT coach. This is one dedicated group. Miggs' parents are your typical Catholic fare: the father works in insurance, the mom is a stay-at-home mom. They have SEVEN children. Miggs is in the middle with three older siblings and three younger. They seem a friendly family and Miggs has gone to St. Pete's since kindergarten and volunteered to let Liv be her "shadow" when she spent the day there observing last year.

I have a gut feeling about Miggs. Bing does too. In fact, right after we met her, Bing and I exchanged a long glance that said this one may be "family." "Family" for us means...gay.

The first thing she said to us was, "Hi, I'm Miggs. I know it's a silly name, my Christian name is Amelia, but my baby brother couldn't say Amelia, so he called me Miggs and it stuck!"

She's about 4 inches shorter than our tall drink of a daughter and is huskier, thicker wasted and solid looking. She has a sprinkling of freckles, a perpetually sunburned nose from outdoor sports and short curly brown hair.

She is in most of Liv's classes and I have a suspicion that they will form a friendship. Or, I hope so. I like her. A lot. She seems much like Liv in many ways. She's sports minded, a science and math lover and has a dog named Snowy, a Scottie like Socks, who just happens to be a female. I have never heard her utter a word about loving Justin Bieber or The Jonas Brothers.

So, Liv will not be starting at her new school not knowing anyone. I think this eases her fears a little bit. We were wise, I think, to start her in soccer.

So, anyway, they won their first game. Actually, the game was called three fourths of the way through because of lightning. Not rain, lightning. We found out that these die hard Catholics play in the rain as long as it isn't lightning.

We sat in our lawn chairs huddled together under our umbrella. Bing watched the game. I watched my Liv. When we got home after it was over, I went through my box of photos and found the ones that I had taken of her first soccer game. She was all of five years old and missing her front teeth. She looked tiny, holding that big soccer ball.

Who'da figured? I sat on that soccer field watching her fierce Katniss face as she went after the ball with an intensity born of sheer love of competing.

And I thought of her when she was that colicky, squalling infant. I remember walking the floor with her, looking down at her screaming red face and wondering what the hell I had done to make her hate me so much when she was only two months old. I remember fearing that she would be one of those whiny, annoying children who stamped their feet when angry and cried over everything all the time.

When she was four months old, she literally changed overnight into this smiling, cheerful baby. I wondered if she was a changeling. How could one horrid screaming baby turn overnight into this delightful little angel pie?

It is called COLIC and I will never see it as just a medical term again.

I remembered the first year that I let her out with me when I worked in my garden. She was a wobbly one year old who staggered around like the town drunk in the back yard, careening into tomato plants that were taller than she and sitting down next to me as I weeded, contentedly gumming a carrot, looking like a little Bugs Bunny. By the time she was three, she could point out the difference between a weed and a plant and I let her help me weed occasionally. She loved it, was born to be a gardener like her mother. At five, we were singing to our vegetable garden at night, laying in the grass in the humid twilight, fireflies lighting up to tease us.

I remembered how she was so clingy as a toddler. She hated to be apart from me for even a moment and I indulged her. I had taken time off from work to stay home and raise her up and I thought Why not? It wasn't as if she was going to be like this forever, was it? I started doubting myself when she was two and hated for me to go to the bathroom by myself. I didn't wish to have to explain what a tampon was, so I insisted that she let me go to the bathroom by myself, with the door shut. She would sit outside the door, her fingers splayed under the door, wiggling for me while I sat on the toilet singing

The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout! Down came the rain and washed the spider out! Out came the sun and dried up all the rain and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again!

while she sang along with me, keeping us as close as she could until she could be in my lap again, or riding on my hip, holding my hand across the kitchen table as we shared peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.

Those were somnolent days, her baby/toddlerhood, washed with Kermit singing about it not being easy being green and The Wiggles making her shriek with laughter and me blanch with boredom. She started school, I went back to work and Bing became not just a sometime guest in our lives, but a permanent fixture. Bing became her other mother. Life was sometimes insanely busy but we stayed connected with our reading of the Harry Potter books and Liv's interest in playing sports for the Y. She played soccer in the fall and spring, basketball in the winter, and swam on a swim team in the summer. As long as she was playing a sport, she was happy.

Or playing her violin or the piano.

Or learning about string theory in math.

Each year, she became more herself and less an extension of me. I was astonished at how much she was like me and how totally different she was at the same time. Her father came back into our lives when she was about three years old and he and I would sometimes look at each other in wonder. How had we created this miracle of a child?

She hit sixth grade and lost her bff who had been with her since kindergarten. Constance, the bff, discovered boys and Justin Bieber and became boy crazy. I watched and waited to see if Liv would jump on that bandwagon and was relieved to see her step away. Not ready yet. She was just beginning to need a bra, but not interested in giggling incessantly over boys yet.

The highlight of her summer this year was when she met Lady Gaga. Gaga has a boyfriend from Nebraska and was in our city working on a video for her song that she wrote about him ("You And I") and was at a radio station that is a few blocks from our house. Liv had a few friends over and Bing called me at work to see if I thought it was okay if they went to the radio station to try to get a peek at her. I gave my okay and Liv greeted me when I got home by running down the driveway to meet my car, holding out a piece of paper.

"Her autograph!" she yelled. "Mama, I got her autograph!"

She grabbed me as I got out of the car and practically pinned me against the door, so excited. And there it was, a scrawled signature saying Lady Gaga. Liv explained that she had managed to get up close to her as she came out and asked her for her autograph and Gaga had smiled at her and said, "Aren't you a sweet little monster" and signed away. That autograph sits on her dresser now and I smile every time I see it.

She's growing up. Soon, she will discover boys. And I think it will be boys and not girls. I can tell. It will happen in a year or so, hopefully longer. I was a late bloomer and I suspect that she might be too.

But, right now she is 12 and will be starting school on Monday. She is a proud St. Peter's Bee, a dedicated left midfielder, whatever the hell that is.

There might be some mean girls. Wait. There WILL be some mean girls. There always are. We will just have to wait and see how this journey plays out.

She's a long, long way from the little girl whose fingers would slide under the bathroom door, searching for me...but yet, not so far away really. She's grown a lot from the penciled marks on our kitchen doorway marking her growth each year, but she's still the one who tucks into bed with me some nights, her toes seeking mine as she hands me her old Shel Silverstein book, The Giving Tree to read again.

Everything I learned about parenting, I learned from that book. You have to be willing to give without expecting anything in return and to rejoice when they find their legs and leave you.

But, if you're lucky, they always come back to you.

I badly want this new school to work for her. Badly want her to have a good experience, but I also know that it is often the pain that teaches us the best lessons, so I have to stand there and allow it to come in too.

Watching her on that soccer field, I thought to myself that maybe she would be okay. That maybe I had done okay with the parenting gig so far. Now, I just have to find the strength to keep pushing that boulder up the hill even though I am a little afraid that it will fall back and crush me or....worse...go careening over the hill and rolling down without me.

The kid's all right.

I keep saying it like a mantra.

Please let it be so.

True Love

I was checking my e-mail tonight and Bing came in smiling, hand behind her back.

"I have a little surprise for you!" she said.

I smiled back. What could it be?

Did she FINALLY get the next Dexter DVDs?

A perfect rose? (Stupid guess since she doesn't believe in giving flowers, has NEVER given me flowers, but has planted some for me...)

A crisp 100 dollar bill? (Another stupid guess. Bing can pinch a penny until it bleeds.She doesn't just hand out money.)

A restaurant coupon? (MUCH more up her alley. She pretty much refuses to dine out unless we have a gift card or a coupon for at least 5$ off...Don't smirk. I'm dead ass serious, dudes.)

A sweet card? (She IS good at getting me cards, but tends to put them on my pillow or tape them to the bathroom mirror or on the dashboard of my car.)

A perfect rock that she found on her walk?

Jewelry? (I repeat, she doesn't bandy around money loosely, but she has given me a gorgeous amethyst ring, a jade bracelet and a necklace with a tiny ruby on it.)

"What???" I asked, smiling flirtatiously.

She set a card on the table next to me. At first I thought it was a new credit card. But...no. It was, it was, it was....

An AARP card.

"I thought we could both use them to get really good health and insurance deals," she said, happily.

"I mean, they have incredible deals. Hotel rooms, airfare, you name it. And all because we are over age 50!"

She noticed my face fall and because she is Bing, she just didn't get it.

"Honey, let me get my catalog," she went on. "I'll show you all the great deals we are eligible for now!"

That's my Bing. A romantic to the core. So hot blooded and full of adoration.

Did I tell you about the time that she got me a bed bug wrap for our mattress on one of our anniversaries? (Actually, I was pretty into it. A friend of ours had recently been to hell and back when her son brought home bed bugs from a boy scout camp out when he shared a room with 20 other boys and their sleeping bags. It took them thousands and thousands of dollars and THREE months to rid their home of those pests, so I was grateful for a giant baggie to put our mattress in since we both developed a terror of bed bugs that was truly obsessive.)

And one year, she got me a foot massager for Christmas. Plus a very special pan to make omelets. Except, I had never made an omelet, nor wanted to make one.

Bing is not romantic, but she is mine.

And now we get 5 bucks off our dinners if we go for the early bird special at IHOP.

If that isn't true love, I just don't know what is.....

I always wanted to do this and finally did....

I work in a large building in the downtown area of my city.

I work on the fourth floor.

Every morning, I do the same thing: I park my car in my reserved space, grab my briefcase and join the throngs of people going inside the building. We all have to go through a metal detector and then show our building badges to a police officer. If you forget to wear your badge (and I have done this only twice in over a year), there is this long process where you have to have the designated person in your office called and they come down and identify you and then you get your picture taken (and you usually look horrid because they don't warn you when they are going to snap it, so you look surprised and/or hostile)and have to wear a big yellow badge with said photo on it..(unless you are like me and tear that sucker off once you get to your office!)

We all wait for the elevators and ride up in groups.

I was one of the last ones on the elevator yesterday.

Instead of turning to face the elevator doors, I turned to face the group and said:

"I suppose you're all wondering why I've gathered you all here...."

I KNOW it is silly. But, I've always wanted to do this, so I just took a leap and did it.

Which is why everyone burst out laughing and everyone checked out my badge. Several of them sent me inter-building office e-mails to tell me that I made their day. So now I know that the woman who always wears the grooviest earrings is actually a secretary for that dentist with the strange name (Fangman...for a dentist!) and that the sad looking man who always wears a blue tie is Dr. Fangman. I know that the older woman who wears her gray hair up in a severe bun is one of the cooks in the cafeteria and the overly perfumed young woman with the beautiful red hair is an audiologist.

Humor helps the day pass. And now, we were able to start the day smiling.

At least I was...

Sure beats the usual fare:

It sure is hot out there this morning!
Lovely morning. Too bad it's a weekday.
Good morning!
Have a good day, everyone.

Or in my case:

Stay completely silent because you are kind of crabby until you get your coffee.

I dare you to try this the next time you are in an elevator.

And those jitters begin.

I knew she was having them. She just wasn't voicing them. Liv looks nothing like me, is a tall, willowy blond with legs that are coltish and the olive colored skin of her Native American father.

But, on the inside, she is very much like me. She doesn't like to talk about her feelings, her worries. When she cries, it is often when she's alone in her bed. I knew that she was feeling nervous about starting junior high next week at a new school but she refused to talk about it, so I let her be.

Figured that she knew how to find me.

She found me (a little) last night. I went to bed early with my book and when I heard a knock, I looked up and there she was, apple in hand, book in the other and a worried expression. I opened up my covers and told her to hop in.

We didn't talk at first. She was warming up to it and I let her, setting my book down to let her know that I was right here and willing to listen, but not prodding her. I watched out the window, loving the soft summer breeze that we have now that the steaming hot weather is gone and summer is actually playing her tune again.

Finally, it came.

"Mama?"

I looked over at her. Gave her a coaxing smile.

"Mama, do you think that there will be a lot of mean girls at my new school?"

I was quiet. I try to never lie to Liv if I can help it. Okay, I did lie about Santa and the Easter bunny but she has long since forgiven me for that.

So, I told her the truth.

Mean girls are everywhere, I told her. No way to escape them. And in junior high, well...that is where they often cut their teeth. I told her that they are pretty easy to spot, though, and if she stayed away from them, she'd do okay.

"Tell me about mean girls when you were a 7th grader," she requested.

I took a deep breath.

Elsa and Heather. I have a theory about Heathers. Either they are totally cool or they are they are totally mean. No inbetweens.

I told Liv about the time that we were all walking home from a football game one Friday night. I was with my friend, Nora and Nora was occasionally friends with Heather, one of the popular girls.

"You weren't one of the popular girls?" she asked.

No, I told her and someday you will find out that, as a rule, usually the most popular kids in junior high and high school turn out to be the least interesting. But, unfortunately, no one seems to see that when you are in junior high and high school. You just see the hot football player, the head cheerleader, the girl with the father who owns the car dealership so drives the swankiest car.

Anyway, I went on...I was spending the night at Nora's house that night, so was staying in town. I was not a town kid but a country kid. My family were farmers. I told her how we were all cutting across an old corn field to go to Heather's house to call boys. Suddenly, as if on cue, Elsa, Heather and three others just shot ahead running away from us. Nora and I stood bewildered until it dawned on us. We had just been ditched.

Nora, who wanted to be popular so badly was upset but we both tried to be nonchalant about it. I was more confused than hurt. Why had they ditched us? What was wrong with us?

We talked about it on the long walk back to Nora's house but neither one of us got it really. It seemed to be random. Nora confessed that once when she was staying over at Heather's house, she had been one of those that ditched 2 other girls.

"I felt bad about it all night," she said. "But, it was kind of nice to be included, you know? And we all laughed about how easily we ditched we them. Guess, I'm one of the ditchees now," she said sadly.

We went to her house and listened to her David Cassidy album for a while and then fell asleep. The next day, I went home and thought about the ditching for the rest of the weekend. I decided that the only way to win was not to play.

So, instead of acting all hurt and suck uppy to the popular girls the next week, I basically ignored them. I didn't look longingly at their lunch table or try to pass a note to any of them. Instead, I stayed in my own little Hermoine Granger group where I was comfortable and where no one ditched anyone.

It paid off. On the bus the next weekend to an out of town game, Heather sidled up to me and asked me if I wanted to sit with her and Elsa on the way there. I smiled politely at her and declined. She was a little shocked, I think.

Good, I thought. Bitch.

And then their courting began. There is nothing more attractive to a popular gaggle of girls than someone who acts as if they could care less.

This went on throughout junior high and high school. Sometimes, I sat with them at their table, but often I didn't. I turned them down more than accepted. This made me just that much more attractive. At parties, I was sociable and friendly, but refused to engage in the whispers or small groups of giggling girls.

I was what I was: basically a loner.

And you know, I did just fine. They never made fun of me, probably because they figured that I didn't care enough about them to be hurt. I spent high school pretty much staying within my smart group,but sticking my toe in every group.

And Livvy? There are always groups. For some reason, it just turns out that way.

The popular group (usually cheerleaders, football players, and rich kids)
The smart group (the ones with the high SATS, the ones who spend their lunch time debating colleges to apply to, the ones who usually have some sort of after school job)
The stoners (usually goths, misfits, but frankly, they are usually kindhearted and really, really funny if you sit with them just once or twice and often the drug use is not nearly as rampant as everyone thinks)
The geeks (really good at math or science or both, computer gamers, don't ask me why but often have acne)
The holy rollers (they wear tee shirts that say things like Jesus friended me on Face Book and I said yes!...they tend to be sort of judgmental but they always volunteer to man the punch bowl or help decorate for prom)
The politicians (the school president, the ones who stand out in the halls trying to get you to sign a petition requesting that prom be a Harry Potter theme even though the nuns think those books are works of satan)
The greens (wear hemp, protest Styrofoam lunch trays, hand out petitions to save the whales)

Seriously, almost anyone in all of these groups with the exception of the popular kids are pretty nice when you talk to them one on one. For some reason, the meanest kids in your class will probably be the popular ones.

So, I told her...I know this sounds stupid, but just be yourself and you will be fine. Refuse to join any crowd who is making fun of anyone. If you feel really brave, stick up for the ones who are picked on. Avoid any girl or group of girls who insist that you do anything that is uncomfortable for you.

Do that and it will all come together. I promise.

I looked over at Liv, who was listening intently.

She finally smiled indulgently at me.

"I somehow think it won't be quite as easy as you think," she said.

I nodded. Agreed with her.

Junior high pretty much sucks. But, you'll get through it and I'm here if you need me, I said.

She hugged me in this sort of pitying way that she has recently taken up.

I think she thinks that I am naive. And I guess I sort of am. But, I do remember junior high and I seem to recall feeling as if I was not very pretty, didn't have that great of a body and my Irish roots caused me to blush furiously whenever I was the center of attention.

But, I got by. She will too.

But, as baby hey zeus as my witness, if anyone hurts her, I will knock their teeth out, just sayin'.

Ok..I don't want to be that sort of hovering mom. I will PAY someone to knock their teeth out. No need for them to know that it was Liv's mom....

I wish I could protect her from the hurt that will come her way but there is no way to avoid it except to decide for yourself how your journey is gonna go.

How much do you think a hit man costs?

Trina and Bertie get hitched.

I had so much fun. But then, I tend to have more fun with Bing's family than with my own. Her family is full of colorful characters. They are originally from Louisiana and most still live there; a few came to the prairie to work in the meat packing plants but they ALL still see themselves as "Nawlins folk."

Bing's older sister, Marietta has a daughter named Trina. She is tall, blonde, willowy and, probably my favorite aspect of her: liberal.

Trina always swore that she wouldn't get married until her Aunt Bing could get married too. She met Archie in college and they lived together for 6 years and 11 months. Then she discovered that he had lied to her about several things and they broke up. Archie begged her to reconsider, she refused. Trina dated several men and then there was Bertie. Bertie was a carpenter who did some cabinet work for her in her kitchen. It was love at first sight. They knew each other for five months and she asked him to marry her. He, a shy boy who probably would have taken years to work up the nerve to ask for her hand, leaped into the air and shouted, "I'm marrying the most beautiful girl in the world!"

Trina had only one condition: she wanted to get married in Iowa, not Nebraska, since it was a state where gay people could marry. He happily agreed. If she had said she wanted to get married on the North Pole, he would have obliged her.

We had the happy couple to dinner last week and fell deeply in like with Bertie. He was a sweet man and looked so adoringly at Trina that we knew they were made for each other.

They looked and looked for the perfect site to marry in Iowa. Neither one of them are religious and they refused to marry in a church. They finally found a rather silly place in the beautiful Loess hills of Iowa that looked like a castle and boasted suits of armour and "medieval settings for sweet weddings." The castle had only one opening and that was August 13th. Since neither one of them are superstitious at all, they snatched it up. They opted out of the medieval fixings and planned a simple outside wedding where they would be married by "some dude that we found on Craig's list who has his online minister's license." What the hell, they figured, as long as it was legal.

We went to the evening wedding last night. It was picture perfect. The weather, which has been god-awful all summer had relented and it was a gorgeous summer evening, complete with singing cicadas and fireflies who came to call in their lighted finery. Instead of diamond rings, they exchanged cigar bands as neither are into jewelry and they are saving for a trip to Turkey over Christmas. Guests were told to dress comfortably and to be prepared to dance. There was no wedding music, just the sound of those cicadas singing and Trina's unexpected tears. This was a woman who had admonished her mother not to be "a bawl baby" and there she was, suddenly overcome with love and joy and burst into tears as she walked up the aisle alone. Ever independent, she had refused to be given away as if she were a "prize pig" and had chosen to wear her flip flops and a long golden sleeveless dress rather than a traditional gown. She had a crown of laurel leaves in her long, straight blonde locks and that was it. Bertie chose to wear a gray tuxedo because he had never worn one and always wanted to. They did not match and could have cared less. The two bridesmaids chose to wear matching lavender dresses with spaghetti straps. The groomsmen chose to wear gray tuxes to match their college roomie.

The wedding was just under five minutes and they vowed to "love and be each other's champion" and that was that. The minister then said, "I present not Mr. and Mrs. Albert Thackerey, but Ms. Trina Raddison and her partner for life, Bertie Thackerey." We all clapped wildly and then music POURED out of a boombox. It was this:



Trina, Bertie and all their attendants danced happily down the grassy aisle. The rest of us followed, the more sprightly of us (that would include me, Bing and Liv) danced along after them.

And then it was party time. And believe me, Bing's family knows exactly how to party down. There was a rush for the bar and everyone pigged out on gluten free pasta (the groom has Celiac disease), gluten free cupcakes and lots and lots and lots of booze.

There was no band, but a bitchin' DJ who played Frank Sinatra for the older set, heavy metal for the bride and groom and even some Selena Gomez for a 10 year old who requested it. A wandering cousin went around recording everyone giving advice to the happy couple on how to have a happy marriage. When it was my turn, I said, "Don't listen to people who say that you should never let the sun go down on your anger. That is pure bullshit. Don't stay up all night fighting. Go to bed mad once in awhile. Things really do look better in the morning." Bing simply said, "Never say anything to others about your spouse that you wouldn't say if he or she was standing right in front of you in earshot." Liv said, "Remember how incredibly cool it was to play Frankenstein at your wedding!"

As the night went on, the dancing got crazier. Bertie donned a red bow tie and we all made a circle for him as he danced the ENTIRE Pee Wee Herman Tequila dance:



We all participated in the obligatory We Are Family dance. The bride and groom did a rather risque grind together first and their parents followed suit, albeit without the grinding. Bridesmaids and groomsmen came next and eventually, me, Bing and Liv took our turn, holding hands and proudly showing off our little family.

This would have never happened at my family function. In fact, in my family, I honestly do not believe that I have even been to a wedding that wasn't steeped in Catholicism.

But Bing's family is southern, wild New Orleans stock and anything goes.

Basically, most of us got blotto. I got pretty tipsy. Bing, always the designated driver, drank club soda with lime all night and Liv drank lemonade.

Bing's Cousin Tish took me aside and put her extra pair of false eyelashes on me. I looked rather blearily stunning if I do say so myself.

Bing's sister, Marietta, the mother of the bride, teetered around on her high heels until the dancing began and then she went barefoot and led us all in dancing to Footloose.

Bertie's Aunt Lena told the story about how he got sick on The Cyclone ride at a fair and had to be taken to the ER after he got off the ride and could not move his neck, even while he was vomiting profusely.

Someone's three year old child decided that she wanted to catch a goldfish and jumped into the fish pond, terrorizing all the fish in sight. She was fished out by her father who handed her up to her mother and then slipped and fell in the pond and it was all caught on everyone's cell phone cameras.

Trina and Bertie tried to coax Bing and me into hiring the online minister to marry us since it WAS Iowa and we WERE legal there. We declined, begging off by saying that we wanted our OWN wedding and our OWN presents. But, it was food for thought and on the way home, Bing asked me if maybe I would consider marrying her. I said that I would think about it. I AM thinking about it. And why not? We could use a new toaster.

The only down side was Bing's seriously-bipolar-and-untreated-medically sister, Francesca who went around dissing everyone and everything. She had been at our home since Wednesday and spent all day Friday baking cupcakes for the wedding that were dry and tasteless. She chose to wear a bright yellow dress that she squeezed into like a sausage and then went around making fun of the wedding decorations, the bride's dress, the online minister (who wore jeans) and the incredible sacrilegiousness of playing FRANKENSTEIN at a "sacred occasion." While everyone was dancing, she was sitting stiffly at her table looking as if she just ate a prune. She commented to me that she thought the table decorations (lovely long tree switches placed in mason jars filled with pebbles) were "tacky" and how unfortunate it was that the bride and groom clashed. I held my tongue as long as I could but when she commented on my daughter's choice of clothes (a pair of capris and a Muse tee shirt), I decided that I had listened to quite enough and told her to "please shut the hell up, you're harshing my mellow, dude." I said it with a lilt in my voice that I didn't feel, but she caught my drift and said, "I've never really liked you, Maria and if you and my sister do decide to have your little fake wedding, please don't invite me to such a charade."

I couldn't help it. I snickered and told her not to worry her closed little mind about that. And then I told her to find somewhere else to sleep tonight. She opened her mouth and shut it. I walked away.

This morning when she came to collect her clothes, I had packed them up already and handed them to her at the front door, not allowing her in my house. Bing stood behind me, arms crossed, not saying a word.

It was the only unhappy time at a beautiful wedding.

And you know what? If we ever do get married, I will invite her all the same. Just to let her know that family is family. She will fit right in with my pee butt racist brother in law. In fact, I will sit them at the same table. Because she WILL come. She won't be able to resist a chance to talk about us behind her hand. But, hopefully, she knows now that she can say whatever she wants about me, but she WILL leave my child out of her sad ass commentary.

And you know what? I don't think we would have Frankenstein as our wedding song, but how about this:



Can't you just see her FACE?! And my poor conservative Republican family's faces?

God, now I want to get married just to do this....

But, anyhoo...a wedding should be fun and full of love and joy and that is exactly what Trina and Bertie's wedding was about.

And really, does it matter what the tablecloths looked like or what anyone wore?

There they stood, two people madly in love and ready to take on the world. It doesn't get much better than that.

What do you think?

A Tale of Two Cousins

If you're lucky, you have a favorite cousin. I am lucky.

My cousin is Bella. Or Annabella, if you are going all legal. She and her three sisters all got the cool names. In my family, we always said that. Her sisters are Suzanna, Kendra and Sadie. Their mother and my mother were sisters. They lived in Omaha. We lived in a small town in Iowa so we only got to see them when we visited on holidays, at weddings, funerals and for two weeks each summer when I was allowed to visit Bella each year.

Bella is five months older than me. And has always been about ten years cooler. She was the city mouse to my town mouse. We always managed to get into trouble when we were together and it was almost always her idea. By the time I was six, my mother would preface any visit to Omaha with the sentence, "Now, Maria, I expect you to BEHAVE with Bella. No crazy shenanigans!" I would always promise and then break it later when Bella decided that we should play beauty parlor with our barbies and then give mine a short Twiggy cut or when we were older, taught me to blow perfect smoke rings (which to this day, I can do!)

Bella and I were exactly the same size, both small girls. That was where the similarity ended. She had the gorgeous auburn hair of our mothers while mine was mousy brown. Her eyes were huge and brown like her father's eyes. Mine were a weird shade of not quite blue, not quite hazel. She was beautiful. I was average.

I adored her and she adored me.

At weddings, it was Bella's idea to go up to every uncle and ask for a dollar to buy a soda. They all obliged and by the end of the night, we were flush with dough. It was also her idea to sneak half empty drinks off tables when couples got up to dance. When they returned to the table, they always assumed that the wait staff had taken their drinks. This is why my first drunken night was spent when I was nine.

Bella and I come from a family of smokers and card players. At nearly every family occasion, the adults would sit at the dining room table smoking and playing cards. Loud laughter would erupt from that room with smoke circles wafting all over. We cousins would all be laying on the living room floor watching television or playing board games, inhaling smoke fumes and falling off to sleep to the sound of grown ups laughing. To this day, smoke means a party to me.

Bella and I used to sneak cigarettes from our mother's purses and if we were bold, a dollar, and then walk to the candy store for popsicles in the summer or mallo cups in the winter and head to the back yard shed to smoke and eat. Since I had type one diabetes, I often could only take one bite or two and Bella would finish up my treat. Even as a child, I knew that a diabetic coma would not be fun.

I loved Bella's house. It was much freer than mine. My house was a quiet one. My Da was a reader and often ill, so there was no running around screaming in our abode. In fact, we were fined a quarter if we slammed a door and fighting with ones sisters was absolutely not allowed. Instead, we perfected the art of silently pinching each other and giving a sister indian burns while she just as silently screamed and hissy whispered that you were SO going to get it. Both of my parents were very religious too and modesty and ladylike behavior were expected at all times.

Bella's house was looser. Her mother, my Aunt Dottie was like a vibrant peacock compared to my brown wren mother. Her father, Uncle Lenny, was what my Da referred to as a "loud mouthed wiseacre." I was just a little afraid of him as he tended to swear and swagger and my own Da would not swear if he were being tortured and was a quiet, gentle man. The food at my house was almost all home made and since both my Da and I were diabetic, there weren't many carbs or sugar based foods. Bella's house held things that were unheard of at my house: Wonder bread (my mother baked all of our bread every Saturday), soda pop and something called Fizzies (we drank milk, orange and grape juice and that was it, folks), ice cream of all flavors, my favorite being neopolitan (ice cream at our house was for birthdays only and then it was vanilla) and best of all: POTATO CHIPS. I adored potato chips and knew that I could eat five of them without risking my blood sugar rising. We didn't have potato chips in my house. Or oreos. My mother did a baking every Saturday that consisted of several loaves of bread and two dozen cookies, almost always peanut butter cookies. When they were gone, they were gone. Food was for sustenance, not for pleasure. And frankly, my mother was a terrible cook. Her Sunday rump roasts were well done stringy and nothing was wasted. We took our lunches to school, NEVER bought and in our homemade bread sandwiches was leftover charred well done roast beef. When that ran out, we had farmer's cheese or peanut butter. I discovered velveeta cheese in college and have been addicted ever since.

Bella's house was LOUD. She and her sisters danced to The Beatles, Herman's Hermits, The Byrds, Chad and Jeremy. In our house, my mother (my Da died when I was ten) did not allow rock and roll music, thought it devilish. I relished going to Bella's house and dancing. She and her sisters taught me how to do the swim, the watusi and the twist. In our house, my Da taught us all to waltz and that was it. Apparently, my parents thought that we would be attending cotillions and not high school dances EVER.

Bella had no bedtime. This just astounded me. In our house, bedtime was eight o'clock sharp for all under ten and after that, nine. If you were a teenager, you could study quietly at the desk in your bedroom until ten, but after that, you risked a cut in your allowance. When my daughter was born, I vowed that she would have no bedtime and she never has. I would get in bed with Liv and read around 8:30 every night and she would fall asleep around nine. Now, she almost always puts herself to bed around 10 and she has not been ruined or spoiled by this. AND bedtime was never a hassle.

When Bella and I were teenagers, every time we got together was a good chance at debauchery of some kind. She taught me my first naughty song, sung to the tune of Nothing Could Be Finer Than to Be in Carolina in the Mornin'.

Nothing could be finer than to be in your vagina in the mornin'.
Nothing could be sweeter than to have you suck my peter in the morrrrrornin'.

Bella always had a boyfriend and so did I and we would share our dating details. Hers were always much racier than mine, although I was not far behind. By the time I hit 16, I was having serious doubts about nearly every facet of my life. I was questioning the Catholic Church, was not even sure I believed in God. I thought my mother's rules about chastity were ridiculous and I had my own little ashtray that I hid in my desk drawer. I would light up my Virginia Slims, hunched by my window with it cracked open to let the smoke escape even on frigid winter nights. Even though my mother smoked, she deemed it unladylike to smoke until one was eighteen. I disagreed, so smoked my first cigarette when I was 14 and by the time I was 16, was addicted. It is probably one of the few things that I totally agree with my mother about now. I quit smoking when I was 24 and it was torture. I tell Liv that she is NEVER to smoke, that it is a disgusting, smelly habit.

My mother and I had long since stopped talking other than pleasantries by the time I was 13. She thought me flightly and a dreamer. I thought she was dull and not very smart.

I ADORED Bella's mother, though, my Aunt Dottie, right from the beginning. She was the mother that I wished that I had. She wore what she called mules in the evenings with her shortie nightgowns. My mother wore a Little House on the Prairie white full length night gown, complete with long sleeves and buttoned up to her neck. Dottie had this cunning little jar of Tussy deodorant pads. My parents shared a can of Right Guard. Dottie had an entire shoe box filled with dark red lipsticks, blush, mascara and eyeliner that she put on with a brush. My mother wore light pink lipstick ONLY on special occasions. Aunt Dottie wore perfume called My Sin. My mother didn't wear perfume ever, we all washed with Ivory soap and we all smelled like it. Aunt Dottie and her daughters all wore the latest fashions. My mother made all of our clothes or purchased them at Goodwill. And we got good use out of all of clothes. When one sister grew out of a dress, it was handed down to the next sister. Our oldest sister, Patrice, often wore dresses handed down from our Da's little sister, so she seldom wore new clothes either. My mother was not a good seamstress either, so our dresses were always very simple and utilitarian. When we were older, we were allowed to purchase our own clothes if we had a job. Every one of us sisters was gainfully employed by the age of 16 primarily so that we could buy our own clothes. But even then, they had to pass our mother's muster: No midriff tops, no mini skirts, no go go boots. We were not allowed to wear makeup until we were 17 and then it was this ugly pink lipstick that my mother purchased from Avon.

By the time I was 16, I used to stash makeup in my purse and put it on in the girl's bathroom at school. Once when my mother came up to school to volunteer for something, I had a close call and nearly bumped into her. I ducked into a janitor's closet to hide, where I conveniently found a small ladder that went down to the coach's office in the downstairs gymnasium. I shared this with my friends and we often used it to skip out of school over lunch time and sneak out to a local park to hide under a slide and smoke cigarettes and eat bags of Cheetos.

After high school, I went on to college. Bella, who was a poor student and lucky to even graduate high school worked as a secretary for an insurance company. She later moved to California to live with her eldest sister who was married and a teacher. There she met her husband and now they live in San Ramos, California. They have two children, a girl who is now a teacher and a boy who has just graduated from college.

Bella and I lost contact when she moved to California and soon after that, my mother disowned me after I came out to her as a lesbian. Actually, I was bi-sexual, but figured that she would have enough problems with the lesbian thing and didn't want to muddy up the waters by introducing bi-sexuality to the mix.

After that, I didn't hear from any of my family with the exception of my sister, Celia, who refused to let me go, for almost 14 years. I was 24 when I was disowned and 37 when my mother died of breast cancer. After her death, Patrice, Jessie and I found our way back to each other and I found a way to forgive them.

The last time I saw Bella was a month ago at her mother's 90th birthday party. Uncle Lenny is long gone, but Aunt Dottie is still a pretty peacock at 90. When I sat with her to hug and congratulate her, she told me for about the 100th time how sorry she was that my mother had disowned me. ("I told Rosie over and over that cutting off a child was disgraceful and that she would regret it. But, you know, I don't think she ever did regret it, honey. She could be stubborn that way, but you know that.....")

We all sang Happy Birthday to her and then Bella and I found each other. We have been sending Christmas cards for years now and keep in touch with e-mail. Bella reads my blog occasionally and tells me that I haven't changed a bit since we were younger. ("Still a rabble rouser, Maria. Still an upstart. Still so freakin' smart and funny."...I ADORE Bella, can you see why?)

We caught up. Her daughter is getting married this Autumn and we will fly out for the wedding. Her son is troubling her, he seems to have no interest in a career, just wants to be a beach boy. I told her how it kills me to send Liv to parochial school, how I worry about her.

We are both 53 years old now. Her children are 30 and 22. Mine is 12. Bella still dyes her now gray hair the same shade it was as a child, a deep auburn. We are both still only 5 feet tall. Her 6'3 husband towers over her. We are both worried that our hips are splaying and we no longer have pretty breasts. I have more wrinkles than she does, but she admits to trying botox once or twice. We both are partnered with people whom we adore and agree that we found the one.

Bella and I hugged goodbye. She had to help her mother into her sweater. She and her sisters need to discuss how to convince Aunt Dottie to move into a retirement home. She still insists on living in the house that she raised her children in here in Omaha. I look in on her now and then but at 90, she is amazingly sprightly. One of her daughters lives in Omaha and visits or calls her daily.

Bella and I did what we always do when we say goodbye. We put our pinkies together and say, "Next time, cuz!"

Everyone needs a favorite cousin. How about you? Do you have a relative who you are close with?