Black Friday

It's 4:21 in the morning, and I am insane. This year, I've decided to go shopping on Black Friday. Never done it before. I usually laugh and laugh and laugh at people who get up this early to brave the crowds for a few good bargains.

But, what the hell? I figured I'd try it just this once, with Robert being gone and all. He usually laughs and laughs and laughs with me at those people and I'm afraid he couldn't bear to see this.

See what happens when you're gone, honey?

I need you to keep my grounded...

So sleepy, need more coffee, more later.

Oh, Thanksgiving!

Sigh.

I think I'm finally getting my space. I'm not sure, it's been a while and I don't quite remember what it feels like...but I think this is it!

My hubby is gone this week to see his family, I've got some time off work...it's just me, my girls and Mr. Wapkaplet. No soccer games, no running around, just finally, sweet relaxation! I'd love to finish the novel but I know that won't happen. I am, however, going to try to put a big dent in the word count and keep writing as far as I can go before the end of the day Sunday. I have claimed my space and told the girls that I won't be their chauffeur for the next four days and cleared all of my work files from my desk. I don't want to see them. I plan on writing, sinking my brain into my new, big, thick, beautiful novel by Wally Lamb, and watching holiday movies from the comfort of my bed or couch. That's right, I have two choices, baby, TWO. Sorry, dear husband, to sound so excited that you're not here...but the truth is, I am a little excited.

I love my hubby, I really do, tremendously. But I think it's good for couples to have a little time away from each other. We're not your typical "joined at the hip" married couple, and I think that's because we were older when we got married. At any rate, this is nice.

And...it's Thanksgiving today! My favorite holiday!

Oh, Thanksgiving, how I love you. You, of all the holidays, expect so little from me. No costumes or candy to buy, no eggs to dye or presents to buy. All you want is a little comfort food, and some time. Time to be grateful and reflect on God's sweet blessings. Time to kick back with my family. Time to eat, eat, eat! You are the last,lazy day before the rush of your sister holiday, Christmas. You usher in the hope that this year will be the best holiday season of all. And, as I do every year, I vow to enjoy this next month. I vow to not overplan and run myself ragged. I vow to slow down--way, way, down--and relax. I vow to go ice-skating, christmas light gazing, sugar cookie baking, but most of all, to think of others. To spend time hugging and laughing.

I have so much to be thankful for...Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

And now, if you'll excuse me, I hear the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade calling...

Pep Talk No. 2, 002,643

Some of my dearest friends seem to be fighting off the winter blues, myself included. It seems a little early for that so I have to ask myself...is it really that? Or is it that myself, and my dearest friends, are in a season of perpetual giving and not a whole lot of receiving? Maybe receiving isn't the right word because my group of friends are a lot alike. It's not that we NEED, per say, we just need time to recharge our batteries. Which I guess is a need, just not necessarily something that someone else has to give us. It's something that we need to claim for ourselves and that, my friends, is the conundrum. Why do mother's seem to have such a hard time staking that claim? Is it guilt? Are we martyrs? Are we control freaks? Or just good mothers? Hmmm....maybe a little bit of all of the above, if we're honest.

Guilt, that's easy. We have to be the best mothers that we can be which involves nothing new under the sun. Every mother who has half a conscious tries to be everything, and I mean everything, to her children. We have to communicate openly, expose them to our view of right and wrong, correct the mistakes that our parents made and raise well-rounded, productive human beings who will never, ever, be sad or hurt or inflict pain on other people. Or else we will have failed. What a tremendous pressure.

Lately, I've been thinking I micro-manage my children too much. "Text me when you get there, immediately." "Who are you going with?" "Why didn't you answer your phone?" When we were kids, we left at morning, came home at dinner. No cell phones. We had plenty of opportunity to spread our wings and fly, even if we fell quickly to the earth. We had a whole world outside of our parents and we grew, made mistakes, and gradually cut the apron strings. I wonder if I'm giving my children the same opportunities. They are individuals. They have their own thoughts, ideas, some of them completely different from mine. I have to be okay with that and let them spread their wings. But that's not always so easy. We, as parents, have to find a balance. Where's my damn manual?

So, where do I fit in? In all of this guilt, martyrdom and controlling? That's just it. Lately, I'm having a hard time finding my space. It comes and goes. The last week has been hectic, one daughter had a tonsillectomy, another had a two-day soccer tournament and a 16th birthday, and my son came home for the weekend from rehab. Oh, yeah...and it's almost Thanksgiving. And my grandson is discovering his individuality and screams when he wants something, which is often. He wants everything.

So do I.

But right now, I'll settle for a little space, a little time to be only Melinda. No one else will claim that for me.

Just say no, Mo, just say no. You are no one's everything. But if you lose yourself, you are nothing to everyone.

Thanks, me. Good talk.

Onward!

Alone

All of the children are gone for a while tonight and I'm left with myself. Wow. I've forgotten what that feels like and I'm reminded tonight...liberating. So much of my time is spent doing for them. I get so tired. So bored. So wrapped up in routine. Sigh. It's just the season that I'm in.

Some thoughts that pertain to me...apparently, I'm more into fashion than I ever dreamed I'd be. Weird, most of the time I wear jeans, t-shirts and flipflops. Hair piled up on top of my head, little make-up and I use a purse until the straps come apart, but yet...Project Runway is my favorite show, next to Top Chef. I long for a night where I can spend two hours getting ready, a symphony opening, a play...just something where I can shine. Is that narcissistic? Maybe shining isn't the right verb, maybe just feeling like I'm doing something that I ENJOY is enough. What's that like?

I watched an excellent movie tonight while the kids are away...The Visitor. Check it out. Awesome movie. And it's funny, it expresses exactly how I feel lately. I love when that happens. An older guy, bored with his life, going through the same old routine, playing a part he feels he has to play, but longing for something more. Something passionate, something that he loves and believes in. Beautiful movie. BEAUTIFUL. And he plays hand-drums. Actually, he learns to play them. I play the hand-drums, but I think too much when I play. There's a new building down the street that they just put a sign out for this week, the sign says "Lotus Studios...Belly Dancing, Yoga, Hand Drums, Karate". Think I'll check into hand drums.

That's all. Just feeling melancholy lately that I'm not doing what I want to do. Think I've said that before.

When will I start?

Too many thoughts going 'round in my head to reign in. Thinking about the possibility of opening a book store...hmmm....

Ode to a Friend

I have a friend.

She's been my friend for 28 years. Just to write that number makes me catch my breath, to realize that I, and my friend, have been around for that long, and longer. Let me recount....2008 minus 1980...yes, that's right. 28 years. Wow.

Not to sound cliche, but it certainly doesn't seem that long. We've been through many jilted boyfriends, an untimely death of someone very close to both of us, college, drunken binges, a few disagreements, children, husbands, and many, many, many pets.

We only see each other a couple of times a year, and talk about once a month but each time I hear her voice, it feels like home.

She's always in control while she's out of control, that is who she is. Always questioning and never settling for ordinary, still she loves the mundane. She's somewhat of a contradiction, my friend, which is what makes her so interesting.

Happy 28th anniversary...you know who you are.

Snails and Puppy Dog Tails Rock

Girls.

So much to say about this gentle gender. I'm raising two teenage daughters and for the most part, they are the light of my life. Opposites in every way, they are in the 10th and 9th grade and growing up. Or not. Growing down? Stagnant? Filling out by the bust and booty but not in the brain? Moodier than a woman in the cruel throes of menopause. So smart sometimes in their insight to the human condition that I'm amazed, and other times, dumber than a pile of dirt. And just as unsightly. How can a teenage girl's very countenance change from one of bright, yellow sunshine to odorous, green dung in less than a second?

All I can say, is thank heaven for little boys. And men. If it weren't for my husband, Roberto, and my grandson, Mr. Wapkaplet, I'd lose my mind. As I type this, Roberto is behind me, playing COD on the XBox. Completely at ease with his geek factor, he's got more gadgets to this machine than I knew existed. I can't hear anything from the TV because of the full headphones he wears but at any given moment, he explodes with random comments that mean nothing to me but everything to his twelve-year old Internet comrades..."I'm in Grandma's house" or "They're in the conference room, dude!" and then there's "Watch the cave!" or "There's still one ON THE BALCONY!", and my all time personal favorite, "WHAT? NO WAY! I JUST UNLOADED A FULL CLIP ON HIS ASS! NO WAY HE'S NOT DEAD!"

Gotta love him. Simple creature that he is. He works, he eats, he sleeps, he poops, he plays. Just like my grandson, minus the work. And at the end of the day, he smiles at me, hugs me and tells me he loves me. Just like my grandson, minus the telling me he loves me. But only because he can't talk. I'm sure though, that when he says, "gleekumblakeoopuuu", that's exactly what he means. Because he's cool like that.

Ten minutes with the guys is like a band-aid coated with neosporin for my wounded, teenage girl inflicted, tortured soul.

The World Goes to Hell in a Handbasket

I've had quite a frustrating weekend which revolves around customer service, or should I say, the lack thereof. I have had heated discussions with numerous Comcast employees, trying to find someone who could correct an error that they made. It took me weeks just to get Comcast to even acknowledge the mistake, much less correct it. In a nutshell, we dropped our landline on July 7th because we don't need the extra expense when everyone in the house, except Mr. Wapkaplet, has a cell phone. The monthly bill is autodrafted so I didn't realize that I had been paying for a phone line that I hadn't had for two months. When I realized this, I merely wanted to be credited...that's all, just credit to my account for the cancelled service.

These people are wacko. Idiots. Maroons.

First guy I talked to says yes, my phone service was cancelled on July 7th but to ACTUALLY be issued a credit, I have to GO TO the Comcast office.

"Huh?" (pretend you're me...right now your mouth is hanging open)

"Yes, man. In order to actually have the charge for the phone service REMOVED from your account and be issued a credit, you have to do it in person, at the office."

"Really? How come the girl I spoke to on July 7th didn't mention this vital piece of information to me? And how is it that you can disconnect my service with the touch of a buTTon, but you can't credit my account for a service that I haven't had for two months and HAVE BEEN PAYING FOR DURING THOSE TWO MONTHS?"

"Ma'm, I'm just telling you how this needs to be handled. I can't help you."

Imbecile.

Fine. Three weeks later, I finally find the time to drive to Comcast and I'm pissed. Gustav is heading our way and it's been raining for three solid days. When I arrive, of course, there is a line out the door with similar irate customers, like myself.

I wait, ever so patiently. My patience was not rewarded. A woman who looked like she needed to have something removed from her buttocks, told me that I would NOT get a credit because I still have a phone.

"Huh?" (pretend you're me except this time, your mouth isn't hanging open and you have that bitch tone in your voice)

"Yes, mam. We're showing you never cancelled your service and the phone is still on."

Tap. Tap. Tap. The lady (and I use this term MOST loosely, is making this sound with her pen on her desk while she stares at me as if we are 'bout to throw down)

"No, mam. You are mistaken. I cancelled that service on July 7th and merely want my credit APPLIED TO MY ACCOUNT!"

"Mam, I can't help you until you turn in your modem at which point, you will be issued a different modem, at which point, your phone will be terminated as of that day."

"Really? Return the modem? Even though I still have Internet with you halfwits? The phone is TURNED OFF! THERE IS NO DIAL TONE! How come no one told me I had to turn in the modem the first TWO TIMES I CALLED?"

"Mam, please calm down and move aside. I have told you all I can do at this point and what YOU need to do to correct the situation."

Imagine her looking so annoyed with me, the pitiful victim, and imagine her whiny, condescending voice as she sends me away. Then imagine me smashing my hulk fist through the plexi-glass shield that separates us and ripping out her thin, whiny, vocal chords! No, that didn't happen, but welcome to my mind.

This story could take all day, so I'll condense. I did eventually get my credit. But only after I threatened to cancel my service completely and THEN find every employee of Comcast and sew their ass-cheeks together after I've shoved massive doses of Ex-Lax down their whiny throats.

But I must share with you the last conversation that I had with the Comcast drone before I got to the sweet, kind young lady who helped me.

"This is Doris, can I help you?"

"Yes, mam. I cancelled my phone service on July 7th and have been paying for this service for two months, still shows up on my newest bill, so I just need to have this resolved and have a credit issued to my account."

"I see. (type, type, clickity, clickity frickin' clack) Mam, I show no record of your service being disconnected. You are being charged for this service because you still have this service."

"No...I don't. I have not had a dial tone as of July 7th when I called and cancelled this service. Don't you show that in your records? WHEN YOU CALL THAT NUMBER YOU GET A RECORDING THAT SAYS THE NUMBER HAS BEEN DISCONNECTED OR IS NO LONGER IN SERVICE! WANNA KNOW WHY, HUH, DO YA, DO YA? BECAUSE I CANCELLED IT! CALL IT! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE CALL IT! I WANT MY CREDIT!"

"Mam, please calm down. There's no need to shout. Have you contacted our service department to see why it is that you don't have a dial tone?"

I kid you not. That's exactly what she said. It was then that I lost complete control of my bladder and all rational thought. The paramedics later found me lying in the parking lot, muttering something about the wrath of Gustav and the evils of digital phone service.

Tomorrow: The sad, sad story of how the Texas Street Tavern royally screwed me shortly after my release from the 8th floor.