Not MY Drama Mama

I don’t remember my life being as filled with Drama as the kids today. Again it could be because I had three kids to take care of and a house to run by the time I was 27 so the only drama in my life came from the soap , Days of Our Lives. But it seems that every time I talk to one of my kids, or my friends tell me about their kids, there is always some kind of drama. It could be as simple as being slighted about a party invite or as important as a job change. I don’t remember calling my Mom or Dad about life changes, but it seems the generation we raised comes to us for guidance on so many issues.

The older I get the less I enjoy those moments. I worry that if I help them make a decision it will be the wrong one and I’ll feel guilty for my part. Now it could be that when I was twenty-two, my husband and I moved twelve hundred miles away from family and friends. We had only each other to depend on. There was no one to run to when we needed to make the big decisions. I don’t remember dwelling on decisions for too long. It was called life and one was just a passenger on the ride.

“What do you mean you’re pregnant?” One of life’s better surprises.

“What do you mean you overdrew the checking account?” So began the years of Wendy being banned from the checkbook.

“Why are the lights out? What do you mean you forgot to pay the bill?” Seriously the bill and check are lying right there but I was out of stamps.

“You shot a rod in your engine? How about putting oil in the car once in a while?”

One of my all time favorites, phone rings and I hear my husband’s voice on the phone, “Honey, I’m going to be a little late.”

I hear women screaming in the background, “It’s going to blow.”

“What’s going on?” I said, more than a little concerned by the screaming women.

“Your car is on fire in the parking lot.” My husband said, so matter-of-factly that the words didn’t match the situation

“What?”

“Listen I got to go, the fire department’s here.” A dial tone starts buzzing an obvious sign he’s left me hanging to tend to more pressing matters.

I get the story later. My husband was driving my car that day as I took the good car to haul the kids for their annual Doctors appointment. He was driving home from work when the car started smoking, so he pulled in to a Denny’s parking lot. He went in to use the payphone, (again we were around before cells) and when he glanced around the restaurant, customers and staff alike were diving behind counters and under tables. One woman was pointing out the front window and when my husband turned he saw flames shooting out from under the hood of our car. Thus the phone call and visit from the fire dept. The car was totaled and the insurance company gave us twelve hundred dollars. We thought we were loaded until we starting looking for a new car. Let’s just say we were a one car family for quite a while.

During these trying times I came up with a policy I still live by today. If the problem is something I’ll still be dealing with in say a year, it’s a real problem. But on the other hand if it’s something that I won’t even remember in a year, then it needs to be tucked away nicely in that chest in the attic. There it will become one of those random stories we occasionally take out and tell to the children to prove that no matter how bad things get life goes on.

Technology??????

Yesterday, I was having lunch with my daughter and her boyfriend and he was talking about some pictures he’d sent to my phone. This brought up a typical discussion that I constantly have with my children dealing with technology. On my last phone trade in I got a phone that does it all. Text, TV, every app imaginable...but I only have phone service. I refuse to text. Let me repeat, I refuse to text. If you want to talk to me, call. I have seen my kid’s text for an hour making plans that could have been handled in two minutes with a phone call. I get it. An “I’m running late,” text is maybe, probably easier than a call, but I’m not buying into the game. It’s just one more way to distance people from each other. I only have the phone in the first place because:

a. My kids only have cells and I’m on their plan so they can call me for free, not using up those precious minutes.

b. As I said before we travel a lot and it gives them a chance to get in touch in case of emergency.

That’s it. No other reasons. I work at home so most of the time people can get me there. In fact, the battery on my phone is dead most of the time because I forget to charge it the minute I get home (Note: I just got up to plug it into the charger).

I suppose most of this technology is good. But it seems to distance us from the people who are most important. I cringe when I am walking through the grocery and a young mother is chatting away on her cell as her child is pulling on her sleeve saying, “Mom, Mom.” You’ve all seen it. Or you’re behind someone in line that is chatting away on the cell as they pay for their purchase. You catch the cashier’s eye and shrug. A knowing smile crosses her face. It’s become a way of life.

People are important. Taking a few minutes to shut down your phone and spend time talking to your child has to be the priority. I am so glad my kids were raised without the technology. They learned to interact with people face to face.

It’s the same with e-mail. How easy is it to say something mean in a message that you wouldn’t say face to face? It’s a somewhat cowardly way to hit and run.

I hope you don’t think that I’m some crotchety fifty something who has no use for technology. I use it every day. I research on line for my articles. I send out notifications to my writing group, I play Bejewled, (hey, it’s fun) and I chat on Facebook. It’s just not the first step I take when I need to find out information from a friend or loved one. I'll pick up the house phone, because I like to hear their voices, the inflections and intonations that are part of a wonderful conversation. Besides, the cell phone's dead and I don’t feel like booting up the computer.

What’s This or Where are the cookies?

My kids stop by at least once a week to check on the old folks. We are blessed with the fact that we would rather be with the three of them and their significant other’s than just about anybody else in the world. We try to all get together for dinner once a month, with game night after. Laughter reigns and memories are made in those long easy evenings.

I try to make a good meal as I know they are all busy with work and the day to day things that take up so much of our time. Usually it’s lasagna. Something easy I can make up early so I’m not in the kitchen all evening. But the last time they were here I was asked that question that I’m sure many an over fifty mom has gotten. “Where are the cookies?”

Yeah, they want to know where those wonderful snacks are. The ones you kept on the counter so they could grab and go during the school years. Where are the bowls with the chocolaty baked goods, the salty bags of chips and pretzels, the gummy bears, worms or juicy fruit’s and the fridge full of soda? Now, the bowls have nutrition bars with flax seed and protein. The fridge has bottles of cranberry juice, orange juice and low fat milk. In fact almost everything in the fridge has low fat emblazoned on the side. The pantry is empty of any and all salty snacks, replaced with cans of tuna, low sodium, low fat soups and granola.

“The almonds, walnut and cashew nuts drizzled in 85 percent cocoa dark chocolate are in the Tupperware right there.”

He reaches in and takes a bite. Running to the garbage can he spits the remnants of the chocolate morsels into the can. He rushes to the sink, turns on the faucet on and lets the water run into his mouth.

“Oh my god, how can you eat that”

“It takes some getting used to.”

“You use to have good snacks,” he grumbles.

“But if they’re here I’ll eat them.”

“Just use your will power.”

I have to laugh. “Will power?” I ask, “What’s that?”

My husband has willpower. One day he said, “I don’t think I’ll eat salt anymore.” That was it; he no longer salts his food. Then he said, “I think I’ll stop drinking soda.” That’s right no more soda. Not even when we go out for pizza or burgers. That’s just not right. Oh and instead of soda he drinks water. I don’t think he realizes how guilty I feel when we’re out for pizza and the waiter brings me a sixty-four ounce soda as he sips his small glass of water.

You would think I would use the I’m over fifty excuse and eat what I want, but somewhere in the deep recess of my mind is the notion that I do need to take care of myself, because I’m just staring to have fun. Those kids we raised, the ones who frustrated and annoyed us, the ones we ran after and picked up after, the ones we prayed for and fretted about. They turned out great and shouldn’t we reap the benefits a little while longer.

Besides, the healthy foods, well they grow on you.

Have you always been this young?

Okay, I get it, waiters, waitresses, aerobics instructors; all these professions are known for being held by younger people. My hair stylist is twenty-three. Most of my clothes and possibly make-up are older then her. (And I think I just threw out a tin of McCormick’s cinnamon that expired the year she was born). Whenever I have to deal with a person of younger stature I just think of them as one of my children. I talk to them the way I would talk to one of my kid’s friends. I think if everyone treated younger people in this fashion it would work wonderfully. However, I expect the same treatment in return. Well, maybe not to be treated like their mother, maybe their favorite older aunt.

The other day I was at the mall at a local department store looking for a white blouse. Easy right? A simple white blouse to wear with my dark jeans, I like the look, in fact I have pictures taken in this look since I was eighteen. So I walk into the store, to the ladies department and I locate the sales clerk who is leaning against the counter talking on her cell. The store phone rings and she hangs up from the cell to take the call with a, “Gotta go, the boss gets pissed if I miss a call”.

The young woman talks for a few moments, being sure not to make eye contact with me, then, “let me check,” puts the phone down and moves away possibly to check on a size in stock. When she returns carrying an item, she informs the person on the phone that yes she does have it in stock and yes she will hold it.

I’m standing there, waiting for the opportune time to ask about a shirt I saw advertised but can’t find.

Finally I have her attention.

“Excuse me; I’m looking for this shirt.” I show her the ad.

“I’m sorry ma’am, (Strike one) but those didn’t come in.” Large sigh, (you’re bothering me, strike two). “We have some on the other side that are comparable.” She looks down but doesn’t make a move to at least point me in the right direction.

“Could you please show me where they are?”

“Yeah sure.” (To the tone of I can’t be bothered but now you’ve put me on the spot.)

I follow her over to the section and she pulls out some white shirts. Then she says something that will set the tone of my day. “My mom loves this line of clothes.”

That’s it; I’ve been ignored, been ma’am and look like I wear mom clothes.

In my head I see the scenario as it should have gone.

I walk up to the counter, “Hello, how can I help you today?” Phone rings. “I’ll get that later, you’re here in the store now so I’ll help you first.”

“Thank you. I can’t seem to find this shirt.”

“I’m so sorry, those didn’t come in, but we have some that are pretty close on the other side. Follow me.”

She hands me the shirt. “This is one of MY favorite designers.”

“I’ll take two.”

I like my way better.

Whatercise

Recently, a friend talked me into taking a yoga class. I have a sister who goes to yoga every other day, and when we speak on the phone, at least once in the conversation, I get a sales pitch on how good yoga is for you. I get it-YOGA IS GOOD. So, my friend and I went. We put on our faded sweat suits and our grass stained sneakers and walked into the darkened room with soft melodic Indian music and chimes tinkling intermittently playing in the background. The walls were draped with brightly colored silk cloth and the incense that was burning on a small bamboo table at the back of the room reminded me of a smell reminiscent of college days.

“Okay, everybody, grab your mats and find a spot.”

Grab your mats. The confusion sets in. Luckily, there was a wonderfully helpful young woman who came to our rescue.

“If you don’t have a mat, they have some over in the corner for you to borrow.”

Great. We grab a couple, knowing full well that someone at sometime or other has probably sweat or drooled on said mat, and make our way to the back of the mirrored room. All the other participants are in these cute little t-back fitted tops with stretchy black yoga Capri’s. One woman is actually stretching by putting her foot behind her head.

Is this yoga or tryouts for the circus?

“You two in the back,” the instructor points in our direction. “Come up front. I like to keep my newbie’s where I can see them. It’ll help with getting the poses right.”

Poses? I’m perplexed, I’m not some model in a shoot for a magazine. I’m here to stretch and sweat.

So we move up front, not happy about the attention, and the slow rhythmic music begins to play. It’s obvious the members of this group have been at this for awhile and I can’t help but feel we are somehow holding them back as the instructor time and again makes his way over to pose us in the “correct” position.

“No, turn your foot out, like this. No, out.”

My friend, who has had knee surgery due to a skiing accident, informed the guy that her leg just doesn’t turn that way anymore. He sighs as he goes back to the front of the class.

“Okay, let’s try lying down on our backs and follow my direction.”

As I’m lying there my back starts to cramp up. I have always had back problems since I carried about a hundred extra pounds with my second child twenty-eight years ago. So, I’m lying there, on the ground and the cramp gets tighter and tighter. I roll to my side and sit up, stretching to reach the hard knot that’s forming in the lower part of my back threatening to make the journey north. I knead the knot while watching the others move through the rest of the floor exercises without hesitation. Even my friend is into this part of the workout. Finally the cool down. I can do this. Stretch, breath, stretch, breath. Yeah, finally I am one with the group. But then it’s over.

“You did really well for the first time,” the young woman that helped us out earlier with the mats says. I’m assuming she’s the plant in class to make the newbie’s feel welcome and keep them coming back.

“Thanks,” we offer. By now sweat is pouring down my strange shade of crimson face. My mascara has melted and formed a dark smudge that seems to have pooled under my eye. I notice that the other women in class appear as clean and fresh as they were before the session started, looking as if they are ready for a night on the town.

We’ve signed up for six sessions so we’ll be back. It did get easier, but it just wasn’t for me.

SO---- I decided to take a Pilates class. I loved it. It was all about core. Work your core. First, I had to find my core. The instructor also seemed to have problems finding my core. But we kept at it. I signed up for six weeks and it did make a difference. I had definition in my arms for the first time in like forever, but the cost was high. It ended up being almost sixty dollars per session and I just couldn’t get past the cost being more than I spent on groceries each week.

Aerobics. I took the class and when the twelve year old that was teaching it yelled, “Today, we’re working out to music from the eighties,” and no one in the class knew any of the songs, I moved on.

On to water aerobics. The club I belong to has water aerobics every day, nine to ten fifteen. The instructors are wonderful and I seem to be able to keep up with the over seventy crowd. Although there are two that kick my ass on the reverse run (where you run in one direction around the pool and then run back against the current, hey, it’s harder than it sounds). The instructors are wonderful, making me do twice as many reps as the older ladies so I get a little harder workout. They play songs I know and love. And, afterward, I can swim some extra laps for my core. That’s right, I found it. And you know what, its right where it’s supposed to be.

That’s Not My Luggage That's My Makeup Bag

Recently my husband and I went on a trip with another couple. We had the car packed and my husband was commenting on the amount of luggage I’d brought along. “Really, Wendy, is all this necessary?”

“Well,” I started, “I need clothes to stay in, clothes to go out, it’s a weird time of year so I need warm and cool clothes. I need workout clothes (that I really intend to use this time) and swimwear for the indoor pool. I need black shoes, brown shoes, tennis shoes, my black boots and brown boots (I live in Florida when else will I wear them?), water shoes for Kayaking and fuzzy slippers for inside the house at night. I need pj’s and since we are traveling with others a robe because I don’t get dressed until after my morning coffee (we’ll get to the strange way I do everything in order each day later). I need two jackets; one to go with brown and one to go with black outfits. I need my seven different color shawls because I get cold and need to wrap up but never know which color I’ll need.”

“Okay,” he says, “I get you need all the clothing, but what’s in this bag?” He holds up a rather large duffle. I take a deep breath and start. “That is my makeup bag.” “Nobody needs this much make up.” “Really? Let’s see.” I pull out the contents. “This is my blow dryer because my hair is so thick I need a 3500 watt. Most places only have 1500 so unless you want to wait an hour and a half for my hair to dry this stays. Next is my straightener. I have naturally curly hair and if I don’t straighten it I’ll resemble Bozo the clown on a good day. And don’t forget I need both my hair brushes, the big on for the top of my hair and the small one to curl the ends.” I continue to lay out the rest, “This is my shampoo, conditioner, hair glaze and hair smoother, all necessary to complete the illusion that I just run a comb through my hair and go.”

“Okay,” my loving husband sighs, now sorry that he brought up the subject. “This bag contains my actual makeup. Day make up and evening because the lighting is different and therefore the makeup is different.” I need to note that this is the smallest bag in the duffle as I really don’t use a lot of makeup. Somehow having it just makes me feel better, you know, in case of an emergency.

“And this bag,” I hold up a plastic zip lock bag, “is medication. My must haves, my daily regime, Lipitor, Calcium, Fish Oil, Multi Vitamins and Advil. Then there are the may needs Tums, pepcid, Benadryl, and the ever necessary item to cure that travel problem many of us get, a laxative. Then the necessaries: toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, mouthwash and last, baby powder and deodorant along with a few of my tanning towels.”

“I get it, okay...can we go?” “Not so fast, Mister. I also have my soap that I use because some soap dries out my skin and I need my moisturizer to put on each night to keep my tender facial skin hydrated.” “Are you done?” he asks, obviously tired of playing this game. I look in the bag, “Yep that’s it. Oh except the towel.” “Alright, put it all away. I get it. I won’t say anything again.” “Thanks, hon,” I say rubbing his face gently with my hand. “That’s why you’re such a good husband."

Change will do you good...or not.

My husband recently celebrated his twenty year anniversary at work. Before that he worked for a public accounting firm for thirteen years. I bring this up because our generation is known for staying put. Not me, but that’s because I went back to work at various times throughout the years to help financially when needed. My husband and I decided when we had a family that we’d do without in order for me to stay home. So, I took jobs while the kids were in school, selling unfinished furniture, managing a Wendy’s, working the desk at a health club and, well, the list is just too long. But it seems our children's generation is constantly moving from job to job.

Phone rings. “I’m thinking about taking my life in a different direction.” “Yeah,” I answer. I have to think, does the person want me to:
a. Really discuss this issue honestly and tell them my true feelings on the subject.
b. Sit and listen in silence as they bounce the ideas off me, adding only the occasional uh-huh, yeah, I see…or
c. Be the cheerleader… Agree to anything they say because they’re mind is already made up and they just called for confirmation that their decision is the right one. Sometimes it’s exhausting just trying to decipher what they need. “Yeah, I’m kind of tired of all the bullshit at work so I’m thinking about going back to school.” “Um sounds good.” Still unsure about which route to take I hang back to assure myself I’m following the right script.

“What do you think?”

“What do I really think?”

“Yeah, of course, why else do you think I called?”

I dive in head first, “Do you know what you want to do?” “Maybe education, I like teaching kids to do stuff.” “There’s a lot more to teaching. I mean you need to be committed to being with kid’s day in and day out. And it’s not like the old days. Now there’s so much paper work and don’t get me started on the whole teaching to the test stuff.” “So you think I shouldn’t be a teacher?” “That’s not what I said. Maybe you should talk to your cousin Frank. He’s a teacher. He might be able to help you out.” “But you sound like you don’t think it’s a good idea.” Time to change tactics…. “Um, I don’t know, what do you think?” “I think it might be fun, to make a difference.” “Yeah, I see your point.” “Good, well I’m going over to the college to see what I need to do to get my teaching credentials.” “Sounds good. You know honey; you can do anything you put your mind to.” “Yeah, thanks for the talk.”

Two weeks later after I’ve worried about the costs of the kid going back to school, if they would be happy in the teaching profession, discussing it with my husband, my friends and my mother, I carefully broach the subject. “So how did the meeting with the college go?” “What meeting?” A look of confusion crosses their face. “About going back to school to get your teaching certificate?” “What?” “You called,” I start. “Oh that. That was just an idea I had. I changed my mind. I’m still thinking about changing jobs, but I don’t want to do anything until I’m sure.” “Sure about what?” “About what to do.” B. uh huh… C. you can do anything… usually they really, and I mean really don’t want A

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