AS USUAL

Getting organized for the week, I asked my ex-husband what his plans were for the week. The New Year's Eve conversation went as it usually does:
Him: So, well, what were you thinking for New Year's Eve?
Me: Well, what were you thinking?
Him: Well, we [him and his girlfriend] were kind of hoping you didn't have plans...
Me: Hoping or planning that I didn't have plans?
Him: Well, you know.

And then I have to admit: OK, fine. I don't have plans. I'll be glad to ring in the New Year with Cole.

I figure one of us might as well get to have a night on the town, and it wasn't going to be me. (To note: Last New Year's Eve I did have plans - a fabulous dinner party at one of my best friend's house - I was the only single person there, but what's new? I was so proud to tell my ex-husband I actually did have plans. Once over the past eight years isn't bad!)

ME. MOM. AND DAD. IN SANTA FE

It’s Friday night, and I just got back from my Christmas in Santa Fe. I am dogless, kidless and, oh yes, parentless. Whew.

The trip to Santa Fe with my parents was nice. I’ll give you a few details, but let me start by venting a bit. I knew this going in, but my dad is just getting old – or at least he sure acts old (he’s not 70 yet!). I vowed when I started this blog that I wouldn’t ream on friends or relatives, so I’ll try to keep my comments mild. We all laughed the day we got there because Dad decided to wear my grandmother’s fluffy mink earmuffs he had found at home along with a ball cap. Nice.

I can say with great confidence that the keeping-up-with-things neurons in Dad’s brain have totally burned out. At some point or another during the three-day trip he spent time (with much angst) looking for, in no particular order: his shoes, cell phone, gloves, mink earmuffs, hat, gloves, hearing aids, brushes, scarf, gloves, coat, room key and house key.

The other thing that got under my skin was the incessant - and incorrect - use of the “do what?” Lack of hearing? Lack of focus? I’m not sure, but every time you spoke to him, the first words out of his mouth were “do what?” As in:
“Our reservations are for 7 tonight”
“Do what?”
“Did you see all of that snow?”
“Do what?”
”Have you found your freakin' gloves yet?”
“Do what?”
“For the love of god, could you quit saying ‘do what’?”
“.......Do what?”

OK. Enough of that. Our room was small, but good – great view and very cool to have a fireplace in the room.

On Christmas Eve, we took the pilgrimage that all tourists in Santa Fe on Christmas Eve take: the march down Canyon Road. If you Google "Canyon Road in Santa Fe", you get more than 400,000 results, and every travel book raves about Christmas Eve on Canyon Road. Here’s how one Web site describes it:

One of Santa Fe's most beloved ways of celebrating the holiday season, the Canyon Road Farolito Walk lights up the hearts and souls of the crowds that walk this famous road every Christmas Eve. Small bags filled with sand contain votive candles that softly glow on this magical night as they line the neighborhood streets and adobe walls. Carolers spontaneously gather around luminarios, or small bonfires, and sing for joy as they warm themselves from the cold night.

Here’s what we experienced: a mass of people walking up a road, and then turning around and walking back down the road. No “carolers spontaneously gathered”, no “small bonfires,” no "singing for joy." One person was selling cider, and we did see a flame thrower dressed as Jesus. That was about it. We did get to traipse through snow (pretty cool for us Texans), and we did laugh about what a letdown it was.

Later that night we went to our hotel’s bar where it was apparently AARP night, with the piano player playing the requests, which included Moon River and My Funny Valentine. No joke. We did get her to play a few Christmas songs, because, oh yeah, IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE.

Christmas Day, we enjoyed a massive brunch where I ate more meat/protein than I have probably eaten in the past two years. Very nice. Mom and I ate dinner in a bar that night – sad to say it was not our first time to eat Christmas dinner in a bar. Today, we drove around in the snow and then headed to the airport.

It was a good Christmas, but certainly as I sat in the El Chico-esque bar eating nachos with my parents on Christmas Eve and as I read my 15th magazine on Christmas Day and as I spoke to my son for about five minutes over the three-day span, I was reminded THIS IS NOT HOW IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE!

CHRISTMAS AT MY HOUSE

OK. So here's the deal. I spent THREE days following Thanksgiving decorating my house for Christmas. I tried a new mantle, created a new tree for my kitchen table and even created a vignette of three candles nestled in "snow" (crystals from our adventure last year to Arkansas).
It is Dec. 19, and I've coming to the depressing realization that the only people who have seen the results of my three days of decorating are me, Cole, my mom, my maid and one mom who made it into the entryway of my house.
Instead of spending a few hours of staring-at-the-ceiling-fan therapy, I've decided to be proactive and share my decorated house with you. I am telling myself that there are a number of "yous" out there that actually read this blog.
(I have now spent 45 minutes trying to load photos for the first time to my blog. I am not happy. I am all about work-arounds, so I'm just going to load them as separate posts)

HERE'S OUR TREE

This is the Christmas tree - it's held together by a lot of duct tape and leans precariously to the right, but once it's all decorated, it works great. Note the gaudy, plastic crystal, lit star at the top - that's what I get for letting a four-year-old pick out our tree topper!

PICTURE THIS

Here's my collection of Christmas frames with Christmas photos. Note the photo on the right in the red frame of Red with Santa. We took him to the free "Get Your Pet's Photo Taken with Santa" event at Petco last year, and lo and behold, Santa was black.

GIFTS

OK. I have no idea how to rotate this photo, but you get the idea. My red bow talent is the result of a summer working retail at the mall 23 years ago.

DINING TREE

Here's the new tree I created using my collection of antique silverware with monograms and old napkin rings. (Note the remants in the bottom right of the mess I had to shove to the side to take this photo...)

A MESSAGE FROM????

Red, Cole and I made another trip to a nursing home today, and I met a woman that seemed to have a message for me. Hmmm.

Cole did great - nothing phased him (not the sleeping people in their wheelchairs in the halls, not the man who kept giving him Ritz crackers, not the blind woman who couldn't really respond and not even the drooling man wearing diapers) until we got to one room that had that distinct, nasty nursing home smell. You know. Basically a diaper that needed changing.

He was really grossed out, and I felt bad that I had not mentioned that possibility. Later, though, he said "At first it grossed me out, but then it just made me sad." Then we had a long talk about how humiliating it would be. Never know what might come up at these visits....

So, there we were on the third floor and walked towards a woman in a wheelchair with a blank look on her face. She saw Cole, and her eyes followed him. We introduced ourselves, and she asked slowly if Cole was my boy. I said yes. She stared at me - really seemed to look deeply into my eyes. Cole went off with Red, and I stayed with her (Mrs. Rogers). It was hard to follow what she was saying at first.

Then, she looked right at me and said "You are brave."

Let me tell you, there are many days as a single mom I feel much more of a mess than brave. She said it again. "You are very brave." I said thanks and she asked "do you take care of your boy?" I said yes. She said "Well, you need some help." She was still looking straight into my eyes.

By this point, I'm wondering "who is this lady? how does she know about my life?" I said "Well, yes I really do need help." It was so...not sure what the word is. Thoughtful? Eerie? Prophetic? Spiritual? Not to sound too weird, but it was like a message I needed to hear.

Now, she did go on to tell me I should just call the nursery to get some help. But, I'm going to choose to believe that she did have a message for me, not just some confused ramblings. I plan to look for her on our next visit...maybe she'll have another message, or maybe she'll just be asleep.

A SPECIAL CHRISTMAS MEMORY

Cole had to do a little presentation this morning to his class about one of his Christmas traditions and Christmas memories. For the tradition, I talked him into telling about a Danish tradition in his father's family that involves one person at the table finding a surprise in their rice pudding. We brought chocolate pudding and played the game with the class. It was fun.

Then Cole shared his Christmas memory. I tried to suggest a few things last night, but here's what Cole shared with his class: "One Christmas Eve I had to wait five hours in the airport for my great-grandmother because they lost her walker." What??? That's the best, most memorable Christmas memory he could come up with?

What about our yearly drive - with Christmas music playing and hot chocolate no less - to look at Christmas lights? What about our mornings opening presents around the fireplace? What about discussing special ornaments as we decorate the tree? What about the time we went to the Old City Park Candlelight Christmas Celebration? Or when we went caroling in the neighborhood with our friends? What about when we pick out the toys to pack in the shoebox for Samaritan’s Purse?

To think that one long, irritating afternoon in an airport could negate all of the warm, special memories I worked so hard to pull off over the past 9 years! I'm thinkin' I'm going to focus on making MYSELF some warm, special Christmas memories from here on out.

POOP IN THE MOUTH

I'm sitting here trying to work and having a good cry watching the end of one of those old episodes of Little House on the Prairie. Love that old show. It was the Christmas episode where Laura gives up her beloved pony to that awful Nellie Olsen in order to get her mom a stove as a Christmas gift. Call me a loser, but I dare you to watch that episode and not cry.

Thought I'd report on Red's (my dog's) missionary work. (I just knew when I bought him he had a heart for missions. Ha.) He did pass the class at church and went on his second nursing home visit today. The visit did not start off well. As we gathered in front of the nursing home to pray, Red plunged his face into some yellow poop that he proceeded to happily eat. Lovely.

After some serious clean up, however, he did very well. So many of the rooms are warm and cozy, he tends to just curl up and want to stay. He did play the cute dog part well. One lady thought he was actually a baby - her great-grandchild in fact. She was a bit confused.

FROM THE HEART

Got a massage this morning, and it was great. The funny thing was the guy giving me the massage must have been hungry. His stomach growled the whole time - I'm always so distracted when I get a massage anyway! It really was nice though.

I used a gift certificate for the massage that Cole gave me for last Mother's Day. Cole's father has always been generous in helping Cole buy me gifts. After getting the first massage gift certificate from him, I knew I was on to something. "Cole, Mommy sure does love massages....yes I do. That's a great gift!"

I have taken a more creative approach with the gifts I help Cole buy his father (Christmas, Father's Day, birthday). I just let Cole pick out the gift - it's from his little heart (and clearly his father has not picked up on how to drop some serious hints).

So, Cole has given his father a musical Christmas tie, Spiderman bathmat and blue squishy pillow over the years. The singing Christmas beaver Cole bought him several years ago is the only accessory in his father's living room. The furry guy strangely sits in the middle of the coffee table - year round.

I'll let you know what Cole comes up with this year...

QUIRKY RADAR

It’s official. It’s been one year this month since my last date. My last evening of adult conversation with an available male. I think the well is officially dry, and there’s no hope/potential in sight.

I was thinking back on the dates I have been on (that would be pre-2007) and some of the just plain funny things I’ve experienced. Now, you might not think they’re funny, but I think they’re quite quirky. Some might say my quirky radar is too sensitive, but judge for yourself.

In the past seven years, I have been out with men who:

• Drive a bus for a living.
• Prayed over our meal and thanked God for the red tomatoes on our salads.
• Pulled over at the end of my street to make sure I was going to put on my seatbelt.
• Told me they were recently divorced (as in four days divorced)
• Admitted that they lived with their parents.
• Told me their soon-to-be ex-wife thought they were an alcoholic, as he drank his fourth glass of wine.
• Talked baby talk to their CAT.
• Told me that he and his ex-wife fought more over custody of their dogs than custody of their kids.
• Took me to a lovely fountain to enjoy the sunset - and brought a towel in case we decided to splash around in the fountain. (seriously dude?)
• Talked to me in third person, as in “How is Laura doing?”

Now, those of you who know my dating record realize that this list is a compilation of a mere five to ten men (too depressing for me to actually count the number). It’s a weird dating world out there, and I’ll admit that it just doesn’t take much for me to hoist that red flag right on up the flagpole.

(I need to say here that I am certainly not ungrateful - I have been on some very fun dates, enjoyed some good meals at cool Dallas restaurants, gotten lots of good advice, had great conversations, gotten some good self-esteem boosts and some very thoughtful gifts.)

Maybe if I turned down my quirky radar, I’d have better luck. If nothing else, it might make for some entertaining reading for all of you married gals who wonder about all the great fun us single gals are having.

THE GREEN FELT BIRD

I finished putting up all my Christmas decorations – it took three days, 16 Diet Cokes and only one emergency trip to Michael’s. I have not worn makeup or anything nicer than my fat-girl sweats for the past three days. Whew.

Putting all our ornaments on the tree was quite a feat and made me think about the fact that every ornament has a story. Probably the most interesting/pitiful/tragic story on my tree is the gaudy green felt bird decked in sequins and gold trim. It was my Grandma’s.

When my Grandma died several years after my Grandpa, the family had to clear out their house. Walking through during the clean out, I noticed that all of my Grandma’s ornate green felt birds had been thrown in the trash. These weren’t just any felt birds – these were the birds that had hung on my Grandma’s tree for as long as I could remember. Yes, the tree looked a bit odd covered in only strange green felt birds, but it is what I remember of their tree on so many Christmas Eves.

“Why are we throwing out all the green felt birds?” I asked my mom, who was busy sorting through another drawer of paper scraps (Having grown up during the Depression, my Grandpa always ripped the fronts off Christmas cards and used the back sides for scratch paper. He also tore napkins into fourths – which doesn’t sound so weird to me anymore thanks to the current economic climate.)

“Oh, Laura,” my mom said with a sigh and a laugh.

“What??” I demanded.

She went on to tell me that the tacky – but special – green felt birds that brought me warm memories of the family gathered around the piano on Christmas Eve at my grandparents were made by my Grandma when she was locked in a psychiatric hospital. Nice.

I’ve known for a long time that my family has a long, proud history of depression and an array of other anxiety related disorders. But really? She made the birds in art therapy at Timberlawn? And THEN, she hung them on her Christmas tree every year?? How could decorating her tree every year been anything but, well, depressing?

I did pull one of those birds out of the trash, and I hang it on my tree every year. We’re all kind of a mess, aren’t we? And our Christmas trees do kind of tell the story of our lives, warts and all.

Besides, I Christmas-crafted my way through a depression once. It was year one of going through my divorce, and I worked like crazy on Cole’s Christmas stocking. It’s a traditional red velvet stocking with sequined figures, including a snowman, football and train.

I do laugh and roll my eyes when I hang it up every year. It’s too darn cute to throw away for the sake of not having an oh-how-I-hated-my-life flashback. Maybe that’s how my Grandma felt – but seriously, these birds are ugly.

THAT MAGIC NUMBER

Cole and I were snuggled up on the couch Wednesday night watching old home videos when the phone rang. I checked the caller ID which said "Wireless Caller" followed by 214 and three numbers (313) that made my heart jump a bit. The exchange was familiar....yes, very familiar. It must be that guy I dated a few years back! Calling me!

Here's what went through my mind (no joke): Should I answer it? No. Don't want to appear too eager. And, hey, who does he think he is anyway calling out of the blue and expecting me to answer the phone? He can just leave me a message like other people who I screen.

He didn't leave a message.

Hmm. Should I call him back and say I noticed he called? Too desperate. And why is he calling me? I haven't talked to him in a year. Maybe he's moving. Maybe he's getting married. Maybe he's decided that of the 100s of women that he dates I am THE ONE. Maybe he just wants to go to dinner. Oh god. I weigh about eight pounds more than the last time that I saw him. What would I wear? Have I bought any new going out clothes in the past year? I wouldn't want him to see me wearing one of the same three tops I rotated through when we did go out some.

I continued to snuggle on the couch acting interested in the video of Cole at age three showing off his karate moves -- but with a nice little smile on my face.

The phone rang again. This time it was my ex-husband's phone number. I picked it up, and he said, "Hey I tried to call you awhile ago." My little smile begins to fade. "Really? I didn't see that you called...someone did call about 20 minutes ago from a number I didn't recognize," I said.

"Oh yeah, was it 214-313-blahblahblah?" he said.

Turns out he was calling on his girlfriend's phone. Of course he was.

Just shoot me now.

BEHIND THE EYES

Here's a tip for you married girls out there: if you'd like to reach out to us divorced/single gals, one very practical thing you can do is offer to have your husband come get our Christmas trees out of the attic. Wrangling our four-foot wide trees through the three-foot wide opening to our attics is one of the few things we simply can't do without help - preferably strong and patient help.

My brother and nephews will be making their annual pilgrimage to my attic tomorrow to wrestle down my tree. I am oh so grateful!

It is Thanksgiving week, and I certainly have much to be thankful for. However, as I said in a previous post, the holidays are a glaring reminder to us divorced people that THIS IS NOT THE WAY IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE. It's always a very isolating time. Even when I'm with Cole, I still feel isolated - no adult conversation and endless rounds of football, ping-pong and baseball. It feels like everyone else is out doing family things together, and I am just alone.

Now, my Thanksgiving Day is going to be very nice with my brother, sister-in-law, nephews, niece, parents and Cole. It should feel almost the way it is supposed to be.

Otherwise, it's already been a funk-inducing week. I plan to spend the rest of my evening on the couch listening to Amy Grant's Behind the Eyes CD (which she later deemed her "Prozac and razorblades" album) - it's the perfect soundtrack for contemplating the ceiling fan.

P.S. Ladies, remember to have your husbands return after Christmas to help stuff the tree back up in the attic!

GRADUATION

(I meant to post this yesterday/Saturday) It was a big morning for Red, but let me begin by venting. As the single mom of an only child nine-year-old boy, I am really tired of playing with him. Frankly, bored is the better word. There. I said it.

(The afternoon went something like this: play game with Cole and Red that involves intricate rules – it’s a combination of tackle football and tag; then, play indoor baseball game which involves diving onto the mattress that I drug into the den until I decide we’re going to break something so we move the mattress and game outside; after chasing a kazillion of Cole’s hits into the street finally coming inside -- after dragging the mattress back in. Ten minutes later we begin an hour-long game of me throwing the football to Cole, and Cole diving on the mattress. It is going to be a very long holiday week.)

Well, anyway, Red graduated from his obedience/visiting nursing homes class. He never did master the sit-stay-down (it basically turned into me saying “sit” and Red doing a belly flop onto the floor), but the trainer thinks he’ll do just fine with the residents.My mom proudly came to the graduation, as both of her granddogs were in the class. She took photos and cheered for them as all good grandmas do.

Frankly, it was a bit disturbing to realize just how bored she must be with her life. We’ve discussed the fact that she’s kind of in phase II of being a grandmother. Phase I involved much babysitting and attending about four to five games a week to cheer on her four grandkids.

Now, her three older grandkids aren’t playing sports, and the babysitting needs have lessened. Not sure what phase II of grandparenting will include for her, but I certainly don’t think cheering on her granddogs should be the highlight of her week. Hmmm. Wonder if she’d like to play some football with Cole?

BEST MOM EVER

We had Cole's first teacher conference of the third grade yesterday. Everything went well, and I was so proud to hear that Cole has a 100 average in vocabulary. Especially because we have never done the vocabulary homework. Ooops. (Best Mom Ever - I know.) Go, Cole, go!

ME. MOM. AND DAD.

It’s official. I will be spending Christmas with my mom and dad. Just my mom. And my dad. Cole’s dad has out of town plans for him, and my brother and sister-in-law will be spending the holiday with her family. So, it’s just me. Mom. And Dad.Holidays are always a sharp reminder for us divorced people that THIS IS NOT HOW IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE. How many times in the last ten years have I laid on my bed, stared at the ceiling fan and thought that???

I have a picture on my refrigerator that shows how it is supposed to be. It is the front of a greeting card – a two story old, traditional house with a wreath and lit candle in every window; a porch wraps around the front of the house and the walkway is lined with snow. It looks very warm. That is how Christmas is supposed to be. Coming home to gather with your large family, huddling by the fireplace and drinking hot chocolate. You’ll eventually inherit and move out to the old family home place where someday you’ll host Christmas for your children and grandchildren. Ah.

Well, as we all know, that’s just NOT THE WAY IT IS for most of us. These lean Christmases have happened before. My mom can’t stand the thought of the three of us sitting around the house on Christmas, so we concoct some plan to get us out of the house. We usually all go to bed thinking THIS IS NOT HOW IT IS SUPPOSED TO BE. (Like several years ago when we ended up at the Gaylord Texan eating Mexican food in a bar for our Christmas dinner.)

This year, we have made plans to go to Santa Fe. Me. Mom. And Dad. Traveling with my father, God love him, takes the patience of Job or copious amounts of wine. There was the time when he was driving to New Mexico that he pulled over on the side of a busy highway to adjust his mirrors; or the time he said he had my suitcase, and we didn’t discover until we got to my house that it was someone else’s suitcase; or the time he lost his “very important bag” within five minutes of arriving at the airport; or the time he managed to lose the rental car papers between getting in the rental car and driving to the parking lot exit.

My father hasn’t traveled in about four years, so it should be interesting (a nice way of saying “extremely draining”) Here’s to a “different” kind of Christmas!

BAILOUT

My fall financial crisis is over. Hooray! My economic bailout plan arrived in the mail yesterday in the form of a large check from one of my clients. So, I essentially bailed myself out!

Huh. Imagine that? Sometimes we can bail ourselves out by WORKING. I hope this country doesn't forget that over the next four years.

(Please note that the self-righteous opinions expressed in this post do reflect the views of the owner today. However, give me two months to spend that check, and I very well could be writing about the brilliance of the welfare system, the joys of shopping with food stamps and my pride in chanting "Spread the wealth! Spread the wealth!")

CHANNELING ROSIE

Talked to my friend Mrs. H. yesterday, and we’re trying to get together for lunch later this week. Mrs. H. is a fairly new friend – 89 years old, fighting cancer, true Texas woman and quite interesting. It’s a friendship that’s had some surprising twists.The friendship itself began in a surprising way.

Cole and I took the Super Shuttle to the airport for our trip to San Diego in August (notice that I said “trip” not “vacation” because when is it ever a vacation with just you and your only child?) It was about 5:30 a.m. when we got on the blue van, and there was a woman already on the shuttle.

This is where I started channeling my grandmother Rosie. She was always chatty with strangers and made many friends that way. So, sure enough, there I was at age 39 acting just like my grandmother. We start visiting (her name is Ann), and I find out she is in town to visit her mother who is fighting cancer. There is no other family in town, and Ann has to get back to her life in Washington, DC. She tells me her mother is at a nursing home that just happens to be along the same road that I travel about 22 times a day hauling Cole to and from school, sports practices, meeting his dad, etc. I told her I’d be glad to check in on her mom for her. We exchanged e-mails and then schlepped our way through the airport to our flights.

A week after I returned from San Diego, I headed to the nursing home for a visit. Mrs. H. was on the phone, and she motioned for me to sit on the bed. When she finally got off the phone, she looked at me and said “who are you?” Not sure my explanation made sense.

On my next visit, she mentioned her ranch in East Texas, her real estate investments (including a condo overlooking the ocean in California) and then how she and her husband had lived in Washington, DC, for a number of years because her husband was appointed to a position by three different presidents. What??

A quick Google search that night led me realize this wasn’t just some random, pitiful woman I was befriending. Her husband had been assistant attorney general of Texas and eventually was appointed as head of the Interstate Commerce Committee for the U.S. I also think she and/or her husband served on the Board of Regents for the UT system. Humility, meet Laura. Laura, meet humility. Here I was thinking I was so good to “stoop down” and befriend a poor old lady.

Poor old lady my a#$@! Two weeks later, once she was released from the nursing home, I found myself enjoying a lovely lunch at “The Club” (as in “the country club”) with my new friend. Who would have guessed?

Mrs. H. wants to take me to lunch at La Madeleine on Friday if she doesn’t have to get chemo on Thursday. Rosie would be proud.

LOVE IN A PINK BOX

I have discovered what might just push me over the edge into a more pro-active dating role – as opposed to the reactive stance I seem to be taking (as in, I’ll just enjoy my weekend nights of sitting around in my pjs and working because I know that God will just drop that magically perfect man into my life.) You’d think that my current little economic crisis or need for a handyman or desire for a dinner in a restaurant without video games might push me over the edge. Not so much.

My latest enticement towards finding a man (or heck, just finding a date!) is very shiny. As in diamonds. My mother bought me some “huggies” (small loop earrings with diamonds) for my 40th birthday this fall. We went to Naomi’s (Libby Lou’s for grown-ups) the other day to look for diamond-covered dangles to attach to the huggies for mom to give me for Christmas.

How fun. I just loved all the little shapes and designs - all covered in diamonds, and I was overcome with the idea that if I had a man in my life, he could buy me a different set of little dangles for all those special holidays or even just because. Ah. It would be so perfect and convenient for him! He’d get to be real good friends with Naomi herself, and she would advise him on the most popular designs. He’d get to the point where he could just call her, and she’d pick out the shiniest and best dangles for me. He’d have her wrap them up, and then he’d swing by to pick them up along with a beautiful bouquet.

He’d slide the box over to me as we dined together at home by candlelight (because, you know, we’d do that because we’d be so in love). My eyes would light up as I recognized that special little pink box from Naomi’s. I’d rejoice over my new dangles, and thank him for once again understanding that my love language – the best way to love me – is by giving me gifts. Especially shiny gifts that can hang from my huggies.

PARTY WITH THE GROWN-UPS

Had an interesting evening Friday night. Sugared up after an evening of sneaking Cole’s candy out of his trusty orange pumpkin, I headed out on what we’re calling “Operation Truth” - a husband who needed some surveillance. Long story short, I ended up in a raucous bar, dressed in my sweater set from Harold’s and frumpy brown shoes, drinking a Merlot (hey, I don't get out much and frankly, if I'm drinking alcohol I want a glass of red wine!) by myself at an empty table for five right in the middle of the bar. Complicating my mission was the fact that everyone was dressed up in Halloween costumes, keeping the suspect disguised. (Nothing's ever easy!) I was thinking “is this how the other half lives?” Do grown ups really dress up on Halloween? For those of you who were stuck with your little trick-or-treaters Friday night, the answer is “yes.” There’s a whole other world of Halloween out there that involves lots of beer, smoking and dancing. Who knew?

AMEN

Today, Cole's sweet teacher who he had for Kindergarten sent me a really cool quote. (She's one of those people that is always forwarding things - you know, you see their name in your in-box and think "How nice, I'm so glad to get a message from her" and then you realize she has sent it to you and every blessed soul she's ever met.) Anyway, this whole election thing has gotten me worked up and stressed about what is happening to the work ethic in America.

This quote is by an early 20th century American clergyman named Rev. William J.H. Boetcker: "You cannot help the poor by destroying the rich. You cannot strengthen the weak by weakening the strong. You cannot bring about prosperity by discouraging thrift. You cannot lift the wage earner up by pulling the wage payer down. You cannot further the brotherhood of man by inciting class hatred. You cannot build character and courage by taking away people's initiative and independence. You cannot help people permanently by doing for them what they could and should do for themselves."

Amen.

OBAMA IS A LLAMA

With all of the election talk and coverage going on, and the current economic crisis, Cole and I have had a number of political discussions. Not sure if you count me lecturing about the insanity of me/us having to bail out people who took on mortgages for houses they couldn’t afford and my growing anger at the number of Obama signs in my neighborhood as “discussions,” but I like to think he is taking it all in and learning something.

Cole claims to be a Republican – proudly chanting “Obama is a llama, he hates his momma” (apparently the Republican rallying cry at his school) – however, I am beginning to have doubts. While preaching the virtues of hard work, pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, taking responsibility for our actions and capitalism, Cole dutifully nods his agreement. He understands why we must stay in Iraq to fight terrorism, how trickle down economics works (kind of) and why we don’t like taxes.

However, he seems to have a great love for entitlements. As in “I am entitled to order pizza whenever I feel like it.” As in “I am entitled to stay up as late as I want to.” As in “I am entitled to bid on football cards on eBay.” As in “I am entitled to sit on this couch and boss you around.” (When he was four, sitting on the couch and making his demands, he said – in a moment of clarity – “Hey, you’re kind of like my butler.” Nice.) I am afraid I am creating my own little Democrat.

HULA HOOP TRICKS

Red (my one-year-old Shi-tzu) and I went to our fourth “training session” at church this morning. We got into this thing because Cole heard them talking about the Paws to Care ministry at our church; we saw the tall and well-trained Olivia (one of those weird looking over-sized poodles) in the church lobby; and Cole thought it would be fun to take Red to visit people in nursing homes.

Swept up by Olivia’s soft fur, the nice lady at the sign-up table and the thought that my son might enjoy doing something other than organizing football cards or playing computer games, I signed up. We showed up for the first training class, and I began to get the whole picture. The training sessions are obedience training – not how to be nice when sweet old ladies in wheelchairs pet you.

So Red and I trek into the church every Saturday and dutifully practice heel; sit-stay; and sit down stay. Today we even learned how to walk through a hula hoop. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’m loving the fact that I am getting free obedience training, but I’m just not sure how my little dog knowing how to do a 60-second sit-down-stay or how to walk through a hula hoop is going to make us more qualified to walk around a nursing home.

The kicker is that we have to pass an “examination” to qualify for serving in this ministry after the eight weeks of training sessions. I kind of figured everyone would pass, but I talked to two women this morning whose dogs didn’t pass last spring. (Granted, one of them has a half Doberman/half lab and the other had a wild puppy) So now the pressure’s on. I think Red does just fine with his sit-stays but he seems only to be able to achieve the sit-down-stay when he’s so tired that he happens to lay down right when I give the command. If the walk-through-the-hula-hoop trick is a major part of the exam, then we’re golden.

The other thing about the class is the number of people who are trying to train their massive mastiffs and rottweilers to “share the love of Christ with those in the lonely stages of life.” Are you kidding me?? If these dogs walked in my nursing home, I’d grab my bingo card and walker and hide. If those dogs pass the exam, and my dog doesn’t, I plan to take it to the elders.

"DIFFICULT AND HISTORIC ECONOMIC TIMES"

My son's private school newsletter, in a message from the headmaster to the dads, mentioned an upcoming "roundtable discussion on how we can lead our businesses and families through these difficult and historic economic times." I have a good friend who is another single mom at the school, and I'm thinking we need to crash the meeting. We both have our own (small) businesses and are definitely struggling to "lead our businesses and families through these difficult and historic times."

However, I am thinking the discussion will revolve around financial markets and investments, rather than how to save up enough money to pay the plumber to fix the toilet that has been broken for eight months because now the other toilet doesn't work so we are having a "difficult economic time." Or how to afford to fix the garage door that is letting in wildlife. Or how to save enough money to get the dead tree removed that you pray during every storm will not fall on your lovely new roof that you are still paying off.

I'm thinking that have a garage sale, quit spending so much at Ann Taylor Loft, give up your $18-a-week Diet Coke habit and consider renting out your spare bedroom will not be offered as suggestions at the meeting. Maybe I can solve my economic difficulties myself.

THE EQUALIZER

Yesterday was one of those "equalizing" kind of days. Let me explain. I had a meeting Monday morning with a client (we'll call her "client #2") who another client ("client #1") had warned me about. Apparently, not a real nice or happy lady. So I go into the meeting ready to kill her with kindness and understanding.

Well, what do you know, but we begin discussing kids and she says I look way too young to have a nine year old. I dare to say "well I'm 40. " She says I really don't look 40. Apologies to any of my good friends who are reading this blog, but I now have a new BEST FRIEND. I have decided that I love her. I don't care how many rude things she says about client #1. I don't care that she sabatoges everything that client #1 tries to accomplish. I don't care that she never smiles.

To all those friends who say I should be a cougar (older woman who goes after a much younger man), HA! I don't look old enough to be a cougar. Besides, being a cougar implies that you have prey lurking about you that you could hunt. The only things that seem to lurk around me are piles of laundry and unpaid bills. Actually, I prefer to think that the prey is merely hibernating. Once he has made a small fortune, fine-tuned his household handiman skills, gotten his relationship with the Lord right, tried to solve world hunger and decided that 9-year-old little boys who love all things football are the coolest things ever, then he will come out of hibernation, and the hunt will begin!

OK. Back to the compliment. At this point in my life, I take any compliment from a non-family member for all it's worth. Last summer as I was leaving a 7-11, I hurried past a man with a stringy beard, dirty clothes and no legs sitting in a wheelchair who asked if I could spare a dollar. I smiled politely, said no I couldn't help and headed to my car. He called out "well, you're beautiful anyway." I promptly opened my car door, grabbed a dollar, hurried back to the man, gave him the dollar and said "thanks so much for calling me beautiful. It's been a really long time since a man said that to me." Pathetic?

Anyway, after my esteem-boosting morning, Cole and I were hanging out in the den, and I said "Hey, Cole, look at this." I lifted my shirt just a little to reveal the weird red rash growing around my belly button. (Gross. I know. And gross to show my kid, but frankly there's no one else in this house to show weird skin disorders, interesting editorials or garage paint colors to.)

Cole, looking at my belly: Wow, mom, you're fat.
Me: Well, thanks a lot Cole.
Cole: Actually I didn't mean it rude. Really it's like wow you don't look fat but you really are fat.
Me: Again, thanks.

Where's my new best friend when I need her?

A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

So I'm trying to shut down the house for the night last night, and I open my house door into the garage. Right there at my feet is the biggest ARMADILLO I've ever seen! In my garage. Did I mention that I need a new garage door? It's all wompijawed (hanging at an angle, for those of you who aren't Southern) so that there is a one-foot opening on one end - through which the armadillo must have found his way.

Now, I have dealt with my share of animals that have found their way into my house. The mice that enjoyed running about the den. The raccoons who set up house in the attic. The roach that took a swim in my Diet Coke bottle. But never has my house attracted a big, gray armadillo.

After slamming the door and catching my breath, my mind shifted gears from "no way!" to "wait a minute, maybe we could use the armadillo for Cole's mammal project." I tried to wake up Cole, but he wouldn't move to come "observe" (as required to complete the project) the lovely mammal in our garage. At least one of the three mammals he is supposed to observe by Dec. 10 is supposed to be "in the wild" - so not a zoo animal or our puppy.

Wouldn't roaming about in my garage count as being natural or in the wild? Of course, how would we "describe the habitat"? Garage full of boxes of baby things that mom can't bear to throw out and boxes of toys that Cole can't bear to throw out and piles of newspapers that mom needs to throw out. Then there's also that bag of trash that the armadillo was enjoying...

Where's my roofer when I need him?

ALMOND BUTTER OR WHITE ICE?

I have to get a new garage door. (I backed into it several years ago causing a series of unfortunate problems. Nice.) The repairman came by this morning, took a look and declared the current door hopeless. He showed me a brochure and some door colors and said "You can wait and talk it over with your husband."

I threw my shoulders back and with all the feminist pride I could muster, I said "There is no husband. I will be making this decision myself." Making car-related, house-related, things-I-don't-know-much-about-related decisions can be hard as a single woman but also can be empowering.

I am a woman who picked out, negotiated the price and bought my last car; drags her own branches down to the curb and pays all the bills. I can most certainly order myself a new garage door. I can decide how many windows it will have and what the color should be. I have no one I have to ask; I'll make that door almond butter, deep brown or white ice -- whatever color I please. Ha. I do not need a man to take care of me!

(All right. Here's the truth. Here's how this whole I-need-to-get-my-garage-door-fixed thing started. Once the door really quit working, who did I call? A man. My roofer who takes care of his clients. My roofer who replaced not only my house roof last year but also the damaged roof on my little red shed. My roofer who let me pay out what I owe him in very small payments.

My roofer called the garage door company that he uses, arranged for the service man to come over, came over himself to inspect the garage, and told the garage company to bill HIM so that I could just add it to my tab and continue to make small payments. Truth is, it's nice to be taken care of.

And, who did I call about paying for this extra expense? One of my favorite men - my dad.)

OH THANK HEAVEN

A single mom friend of mine called last night in a bit of a panic. Her oldest son had cut his finger, and she wasn't sure if she sould head to the Emergency Room -- with her two, tired younger sons in tow.

It's one of the bigger hassles of being a single mom: the late night emergency. I have great neighbors who on more than one occasion have met me in the middle of the street at midnight bearing Sprite and crackers for my sick child.

But sometimes it's not that easy. Last Christmas Eve was one of those "nothing's ever easy" nights. I put Cole to bed with what I declared was a slight toothache. By 10:30 p.m. he was still wide awake, wimpering in pain and apologizing for "messing up" our Christmas Eve. The guilt. He had been having toothaches for the previous few weeks which I had been basically ignoring. I am totally irresponsible when it comes to all things dental.

So I threw Cole in the car, and we joined the small but determined pack of people wandering from drug store to drug store on Christmas Eve in a desperate attempt to solve our very inconvenient emergencies. Let me tell you, we were a pitiful group, pressing our faces to the glass and rattling the locked doors in hopes that the guy sweeping the floor would show some mercy and let us in. No such luck. We found no mercy from him at the CVS or from the lady closing out the register at Walgreen's or the creepy looking guy at Walmart.

A bit crazed at this point, I threw sense (and caution - literally) to the wind, and pulled into a not-very-safe (i.e. gang members wandering the parking lot on Christmas Eve) 7-11. Lo and behold, 7-11 has a small section of dental paraphrenalia - including Orajel! Oh thank heaven for 7-11!

We raced home, slathered Orajel all over Cole's teeth and were asleep by midnight. Who knew that I'd find my own little Christmas miracle tucked between the beef jerky and semi-pornographic playing cards at 7-11?

STRANGER DANGER

Look at me. This is entry number two, and it's only been a few days since my first post. Maybe I will actually be able to keep this thing going. (If this is your first visit, read my first post below so you'll know a little of why the heck I'm doing this...)

I spent the evening with my friend Julie discussing decorating, fashion, the greatness that is a Burger House french fry, schoolwork angst, tackle football, etc. - a good mom evening. Cole and I pile in the car to head home, and he slumps down in the seat and begins moaning about his stomach. I'm telling him to hang on until we get home and am imagining the night ahead: much moaning and potentially an unpleasant night in the bathroom.

We pull up to the corner of Boedecker and Northwest Highway, and this guy in a big truck pulls up next to us. He's looking right at me, smiling and making hand motions. I smile and try to figure out what he's getting at. Are my lights on? Is my trunk open? Is my tire flat? Finally I realize he wants me to roll down the window. Oh good, now I can hear what car malfunction I have missed.

Well, lo and behold, he actually says "Hey, what are you doing tonight?" I laugh and say increduously, "WHAT???" Keep in mind that this is a normal-looking, age-appropriate cute guy.

"No really, what are you doing tonight?" he says again.

I start really laughing and say "Well, I'm actually taking my sick child home to put him to bed." (He couldn't see Cole because of the aforementioned slumping due to stomach distress.)

He said "Oh well..."

Meanwhile Cole has heard all of this and was like "what was that all about??" I quickly took the I'm-single-and-I-got-the-attention-of-a-cute-guy-on-the-street-corner stars out of my eyes, and we had a serious discussion about the perils of stranger danger.

I'd like to think that if Cole hadn't been in the car, and if my hair hadn't been in a clip, and if I hadn't had my baggy workout shorts on, and if I wasn't worried about getting my eight hours of sleep, and if I didn't care about that whole stranger danger thing, that I just might have said "I'm not doing anything. Where are we headed?"

Yeah. Right.

So, I'll spend the rest of the evening trying to act compassionate to my moaning child. But, with the one-year anniversary of my last date looming, I'll take what I can and go to bed with a smile.

HERE WE GO...

I’m a writer, and it’s very in fashion for writers to have blogs so here I go. I’ve actually been a blogger wanna-be for awhile, creating entries every now and then for my non-existent blog and just saving them in Word for no one to read. So I’m taking the plunge.

Knowing that the key to any kind of success with a blog is to keep it regularly updated, I’m going to try to update this thing at least twice a week. That’s saying a lot for me, because I don’t do much in my life unless it is:

1. Billable
2. Kid-related
3. Weight-loss inducing or
4. Highly entertaining for me
   

But, I do enjoy writing, and I do find things fairly amusing in my life sometimes, so I think I’ll enjoy this even if no one really reads it. While I do find my family and friends rather “amusing” at times, I’m going to try to avoid too many can-you-believe-them kind of entries for the sake of maintaining those relationships – which are necessary for my sanity!

I also will try not to make this all isn’t-Cole-cute-and-you’ll-never-believe-the-funny-thing-he-said. However, I probably will include some Cole stories though when they make me laugh until I cry or simply cry. Here’s one that falls into the latter category. The conversation in the playroom went like this:

Cole: Mom, if I die will you take me to the hospital and use those shock things?
Me: Absolutely.
Cole, after thinking for a moment: Actually mom, you’ll probably die before me.
Me: That’s probably true. So, if I die will you take me to the hospital and use those shock things?
Cole: Sure….oh but, I probably won’t be here. You’ll probably die alone. Maybe the neighbors will find you.

There it was. Said right out loud. Put right out into the universe. The nightmare of a single, dateless mom, that could actually come true. I will die alone, and only after the stench of my decomposing body wafts down the street will a neighbor happen to find me.

Certainly by then it will be too late for the shock things at the hospital.