I'd Like Some Testosterone, To Go.

Writing about the Mommy Club experience in Exit, Stage Right got my wheels turning and made we ponder why some women are so, well, mean. Some days it's enough to make me wish I were a man. Yep, you read that right. I had the very good fortune to work at a company with a large group of men and one very lovely lady. What I learned about men while working there amazed me.


The men gossiped, but they did it out in the open, right in front of the person they were talking about. "Hey Ted, heard you and the Mrs. are having trouble, that true?" Wow! The female gossips I've met have never given the person they were gossiping about the chance to refute or clarify a situation. In the course of a day there were differing opinions on everything from work ethic to sports, to how to properly set up a household budget and keep the family happy, and not one man got angry, stormed off or stopped talking to another. Gulp. Can you imagine? There were some moments when arguments were heated, but at the end of the day it was "Nite Ted, see ya in the morning." 


I have this silly idea (since we're all women and we know the heavy loads we carry in our society) that we could support each other with the nurturing instinct that so many of us have in spades. We could disagree, but not judge because we differ. No name calling, no back-biting, and none of this "I'm better than her because..." caca. Oh Utopia! We women wear so many hats (yeah, yeah, I know the men do too, but I'm talking women here), professional, mother, sister, friend, Girl Friday, care-giver, housekeeper, social co-coordinator, and so on. With all we do it's a dirty rotten shame that some women can't stand in one area together without an episode of “The Real Housewives of New Jersey” breaking out.  I'm thinking the solution might just be that we just need a little more testosterone in our diets.


How do you handle situations with "mean" women?
Have you ever maliciously gossiped about someone knowing it would hurt them?
Ever felt like you were back in high school all over again?
Let the debate begin.

Masking the Grief

When Evelyn and I get together, as we did this past weekend to celebrate her birthday, we can hit fifty different subjects within an hour. I’m talking female domination (does that exist anywhere?), to world peace, Presidential hopefuls, taxes, college tuition and of course, our children and families. We know each other as well as sisters, having known each other since preschool age. Although our histories are separate, they have been shared for four decades. No one knows us better with the exception of our Mothers. Being with her soothes my grey cells. I can let my hair down and let loose with my opinions, and I can feel what I feel and let it show. I don’t have to wear a mask.


July is an up and down month for me, I celebrate the gift of my best friend within that month, but I also mark the anniversary of my Mama’s death. She died July 5, 1998 in my living room from complications of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, or COPD for short. I had brought her to my home that morning from my sister’s home. The plan was to give my sister a break from care-giving and I welcomed the opportunity to do so, not just to help my sister, but because I love my Mama and she gave me so much. But just like Mama, she had other plans, and other places to go.


At nine o’clock that evening, just as “Touched by an Angel” (a popular TV show in the 90’s) was going off the air with its signature dove flying off into a sapphire blue sky, Mama flew away home. My husband called 911 while I administered CPR. The rest is a blur. Emergency Medical Techs surrounded me and took over while my not quite one-year-old daughter slept unaware upstairs. I had phone calls to make to my two sisters and my brother. My husband’s parents came over to lend their support, pitch in with our daughter if needed, and above all, to surround us with the grace that only love can give. So I don’t care much to be in my living room on any given July Fifth, and when I wake up on that morning it’s like some hateful mechanism goes off in my being, squeezing my heart and reminding me of what I’ve lost.


A few weeks after the funeral I was told I shouldn’t grieve, a year later I was asked why I dwelled on it so, and the years have rolled by with comments, meant to bring comfort, but judging. “You need to get on with your life.” Life has gone on. My daughter will be fourteen this year, my shadow and junior lady, and I have a beautiful blue-eyed son who wasn’t even a glimmer when my Mama died. I do what I need to do, I laugh, I work, I help with homework, drive endless miles for the children’s activities, I do not dwell on my Mother’s passing, but I cannot forget it or act as if the loss means nothing. Such a tremendous part of my strength comes from my Mama. My love of music, my gut instincts (which Mama had in spades) my fierce watchfulness over my children and my appreciation for friends are just a tip of what Mama gave to me by example. She was my truest friend, my most righteous defender, and my biggest critic. She breathed for me and for every one of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I do not dwell on her loss, but I miss her like a phantom limb, once a part of me, now apart.


While I was with “Girlfriend” (Evelyn’s term of endearment for both of us) we talked about Evelyn’s Momma, who lost her own mother three years ago. Evelyn’s Momma had her own Momma for seventy-seven, and she misses her every day. She still wants to call her to brag, or just talk, after seventy-seven years. I figure that if Evelyn’s Momma feels that way, I’m justified as well. Evelyn knows what I’m talking about; her essay "Miss NonCongeniality" in our July 4gaby issue pretty much hit home. I can’t pretend not to feel what I feel AND make “chitty chat.” If you see me a little red-eyed, or catch me listening to Sarah McLachlan’s “I Will Remember You” in the month of July, don’t worry. I’m getting on with my life, I’m too busy not to, but I won’t wear a mask to make others comfortable. My Mama always told me to be myself.






(And just because I'm being myself, don't forget to check out my other blog, Losing Mary at http://losingmarycarman.blogspot.com/ Thank you.)

Monday, Monday, Monday...

My cake...21 years ago...

Yes, I am fully cognizant (thank God) of the fact that I am posting a blog titled, "Monday, Monday, Monday..." on a Friday. But Monday is my birthday and it’s funny how your focus heads straight to a birthday no matter what your age. When we're young we're so excited for the day - another year older, more possibilities, more responsibility, more permission, presents and my personal favorite always - cake. As we get older we realize that less responsibility would be nice, I don't really need your permission, less presents would mean fewer bills, and I find myself searching for a low carb birthday cake that tastes good (good luck with that).

Hubby is a bit of a party pooper when it comes to birthdays (ours, not the kids), something he will readily admit. He just doesn't see the need for a celebration. I, however, have often pointed out to him that I would prefer to party like its 1999, which coincidentally coincides with my having a good figure, and no gray hair. So thank goodness, Mary is coming to celebrate my birthday a couple of days early. There's something to be said for someone in your life that you can hear the opening chord of a song and start laughing together (I should really tell y'all the story of "American Pie" by Don McLean some time). We will kick back tonight the way you do with people that you are completely comfortable with – and that you will never haggle over an inheritance with. We will laugh until tears roll down our faces, talk until we drive hubby back to his man cave, and completely, completely be Mary and Evelyn, not wife, Momma, chauffeur… and it will be glorious!

A very wise woman once said that if you have just a few true friends in your life, then you are blessed. I am blessed that her daughter is one of my true friends. I had another kick me in the gut day this week sorta like what I referenced in my essay, “Miss NonCongeniality”. But I got through it… with a little help from my friends. As we get older those kick me in the gut days can happen pretty fast and furious, but the kick back days, they really, really help. So if you’re around tonight and you wanna see some serious kick back going on, stop in. My house will be the one with the music blaring and the raucous laughter by two women who do NOT look our age, and we dang sure won’t be acting it…tonight. 

Baby, You're A Firework...Please Not....

Once upon a time, July 4th was one of my most favoritest holidays of the year. I'm a summer baby, it comes exactly one week before my birthday, there are no pesky presents to buy, great food, and who doesn't love fireworks... um, that would be ME! Oh, I used to adore fireworks, but that would be before I moved to a state with slack fireworks laws.

Here's what has happened since last Thursday:
"Quick, bring the dog in. They've started shooting off the fireworks. Wait, where's the cat? Move the food so he doesn't eat all the hot dogs again. We currently have 12 buns and three hot dogs left from the dogs last trip inside. Have you tried turning up your music to sleep? Yes, I know you have to work tomorrow. I am not in charge of the universe despite appearances to the contrary."

Every year we get to listen to people shooting off fireworks on all sides of us. Now it would be one thing if we had purchased a home next to the fairgrounds. But we live in a neighborhood. And it's not just July 4th that gets the action. Memorial Day (yes, because the loss of soldiers should be commemorated by fireworks), Labor Day (celebrating the use of your hard earned money), Christmas (frankincense, myrrh, and fireworks), New Years (thank goodness you lived to see a new one with all your limbs intact) and various dates which I can only assume coincide with birthdays, good report cards, the squirrels leaving your plants alone...

I realize I sound like a party pooper, but for those of us who simply don't have the overwhelming desire to hear them at 1 AM, is it really so much to ask that one weekend night be assigned to the task (sorta thinking like Halloween - a designated date/time)? Surely there's a better way! Thoughts? Am I completely off track and out of step?

The Ramblings of a Woman Trying to Make a Happy List

On Tuesday, I was fired up about making my ‘Happy List’. Yes, I was going to conquer the paper, become queen of my own destiny, start making a mental foundation for me to stand on, but what happened – well, life got in the way!

My life gets more like a cheesy soap opera with every passing day (which incidentally my daughter has asked if we could start following one -- as if there is not enough drama in her life already!). The only thing is, I am not wearing Versace, I don’t have the hunky husband who earns a million after tax, and brings me flowers home every night (yes, I know it is only because they are having an affair), and I am real, every bit of me. I have no extra silicone padding on my chest or extra filler in my lips, I'm just plain old me.

So what happened – crap, lol (just proving I have a modern sense of humor).

Upon my enthusiastic return from the West Coast, (Santa Barbara, I love you! Can I marry you? Is that legal?), I get mail from an old friend, which sent me into a tizzy. Reminding me of why I am where I am today. Cold sweats ran through my body but I suppose it could have been worse, they could have been hot flushes. My brain started to race, and I was hooked. Like a fish, being reeled in, I needed to fill in the blanks of the missing soap opera. The only thing is now I, sort of, wish I hadn’t. The past is written and it cannot be changed so why stay locked in it? I think it’s called morbid curiosity. Morbid – ha – oh yes, definitely the right description.

My happy list is even harder to write after this encounter. The past has gotten in the way once again. I realized I still have a lot of unfinished business to deal with, but what comes first, the chicken or the egg? Do I go through a type of painful re-birth of myself, hacking away at the old demons in order to be a stronger me or do I plop an existing egg on the floor and crack it open? What a mess and the blooming happy book doesn’t give me the answer or I haven’t got to that chapter yet!

But wait, that is it. My light bulb just went on. Life is not a book to follow. It can be re-written but the originals are still out there in indelible ink and no amount of erasing can get rid of it. My guru book is right after all (phew), your happy list evolves with you, it changes as your life changes, as you meet your goals, or not as the case may be. I suddenly feel a bit better with my dilemma, but that happy list is still unwritten. 

So here is how my list is going to start:

What makes me happy?

1. To not be afraid of the past.

2 To like who I am.

3.TBA

4.TBA   …………………………and so on! 

Now I just have to figure out how to achieve this – life is an ever-decreasing circle I think!