The Late Arrival

Spending the last 3pm of the year sucked into the Twilight Zone marathon. Facebook and Twitter are buzzing with New Year's Resolutions, 'What I'm Going to do Differently in 2012'  and general forward-thinking-good-intentions. So much planning makes me a little woozy.  For now, I'll choose to thank God for keeping my family intact; and for keeping us from contacting any morticians or composing funeral programs; and for sustaining everyone's health, including our dog's.  I'll be thankful for our home, that we have a Peter to rob when Paul comes knocking, that we've got jobs to (occasionally) complain about and that we've got food in our shelves and refrigerator. Which brings me back to those resolutions: 35lbs or looser fitting jeans by this time next year.  Whichever comes first.

"I had to walk to school. In the snow. Uphill. Both ways." I've never clucked that at my daughter, but I make darn sure that she knows we're blessed. Our family does and has things that would have been unthinkable to my husband or me as children. We've taken a family trip to Disneyworld. Sure it was over three years ago, but we did it. We've never had to negotiate with WE Energies to avoid a gas or electricity shut-off, but I remember my mom wrangling those kinds of phone calls more than once.  So, despite the stats that say ours is the first generation that is not doing better than their parents, in many respects, I think we are.  In fact, Georgia reminded me of it just this morning. Out of the clear blue, she asked: "Was Grandma GeeGee poor? Grandma GeeGee is my late mother. Georgia never got to know her, but I tell plenty of stories about Grandma GeeGee, and stories that help Georgia understand how much easier her life is tha...

The National Battle of the Bulge, otherwise known as the New Year is upon us: Enter the onslaught of celebrity endorsed weight loss commercials. Slim-Jim Jennifer Hudson now screeches alongside her meatier self from American Idol days. Teeny tiny Janet Jackson does a sexy voiceover for a weight-loss magical food program. Nice, but believable?  Seriously, is there anyone who really believes they can lose weight through a particular diet or weight-loss pill, powder or drink just because a celebrity gets pseudo-motivational and says: “If I can do it, so can you.”   As the Unofficial Spokesperson for Regular People, I must first say Ugh on all our behalf. And secondly, No. No, Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. Celebrity, you can do it because you’ve got nannies who are at your kids’ beck and call while you work out six or eight hours a day.  Regular People work in eight hours a day at a desk, or on a sales floor, or in a warehouse or behind a cash regis...

We made it through the Christmas weekend, enjoyed family, unpeeled a few presents and ate.  And ate. And ate. Now it's back-to-work and back to some sense of schedule.  Truthfully, there's a part of me that hates to see it go.  I mean, it's kind of ironic that we get thrown back into the fray just as soon as we've unfrayed from the seasonal fray. But that's the way real life is...and I guess I'm just realizing that the seasonal fray of obligations, overpacked schedules and general racing around isn't real life after all. And I'll be okay with that...until about 364 days from now.

What's the ZIP Code for Crazytown? Because I moved here about a week before Thanksgiving and I still don't know what it is . Almost daily texts, email exchanges with and phone calls to my BFF have convinced me that Crazytown is population two.  She's unpacking boxes right next door to me.  From what I can tell, we're sitting on a prime piece of real estate. Between the two of us, in the past few months, we have: Loaded an offspring into the car and then gotten in to drive.  On the passenger side. When no other licensed driver was around. Wandered around in a parking lot in search of a car. For an hour. Put a dog on "time out" in the crate.  And then freaked out ten minutes later because the dog suddenly disappeared. Been en route to...to...to, uh...someplace and forgotten what the destination of intent was. Seriously considered wearing Pajama Jeans. One of the days, I'm sure we'll move away from Crazytown.  But at least we're her...

17 + x = 25 If I had only paid closer attention in Algebra, I'd know what "x" is; and I'd know how many days there are until Christmas. From what I can tell, it's close. Like breathing down my neck, whispering in my ear in an inappropriate way close. Given that, our frasier fir, once aromatic when replanted in our living room last week, and is now on the verge of collecting dust like my elliptical, was introduced to the ornaments only a mere hour ago. I like to think that I'm organized. Like, maybe I'm not organized about myself (e.g. packing a healthy lunch, eating a healthy dinner, regularly working out, hanging up my clothes...well, you get the idea); but at least I'm organized about family stuff . Birthdays stuff. Kid stuff. But not this year. To be honest, I'm not sure if it's peri-menopause, stress, work, trying to get this blog off the ground or a combination of all of the above, but all of the sudden, Christmas is staring me...

It has been two straight weeks of birthdays, which equates to planning, phone calls, hemorrhaging cash, running around on my lunch breaks and more running once I get home. Then the whole thing starts all over approximately ten hours later. Maybe six hours if I stay up to watch Steven Colbert. These are the times when I flash back to "for better or for worse" and remember his mom tearfully signing our marriage license as a witness. I suspect her tears of joy weren't only because she knew that we'd have our ups and downs, but probably because someone else would have to deal with him. Okay, okay. That last comment was spiteful; but at times like this, I just wish I could dump him on her doorstep and say "Um...he's broken. You made him...so, uh... he's under warranty, right? Why don't I just come back to pick him up once you get him straightened out?" But that's the thing about marriage: you're a grown up, which means that you figure this ...

Everything happens for a reason.  While those reasons may not be revealed to me on this side of Heaven, I do believe that I might’ve tapped into why I was born in…well, I’ll go ahead and say it -- in 1969 versus biblical times.  You know:  B.C. and early A.D. B.C. living wasn’t for wusses. I am a wuss, I don’t like walking in soggy grass or camping.  Dust or rocks in my shoes can shut down my day.  Slaying, plucking and/or skinning what was only hours ago a family pet, building a fire, roasting and then serving said animal as supper doesn’t even make it onto the radar.  And don’t get me started on how women had to handle that “special time” of the month.  Although I must admit that seven days of isolation outside the city walls does have its appeal. Freaking out was not an option.   Check the Old Testament: how often was God speaking from a mountain, or sending angels to deliver messages to His chosen ones?  A lot, that’s how often...

Did I mention that today's the coldest day of the year?  So cold that even  Charley wouldn't leave home without the sweater Grandma made just for him.

I watched Tyler Perry's "Daddy's Little Girls" last night. Or at least some of it. But what I saw hit me pretty hard. From what I could surmise, the story revolves around a single dad with sole custody of his daughters. He loses custody (kids were playing with matches) to his ex-wife, who's far from the ideal mom. The dad character is a hard-working guy. He's smart, truly loves his girls and is pretty easy on the eyes. In other words, he reminded me of Jamie -- except Jamie's not black and I'm not an evil ex-wife. Throughout the movie, the dad hits different walls, including romantically. At first, his love interest - a high-powered attorney who's also black -- wants nothing to do with him because she's got preconceived stereotypes about black men from "the hood": bad credit; Baby Daddies'; lazy; ex-cons...and pretty much whatever else you see black artists doing on hip-hop videos. She tells him all that, pretty much verbatim, a...

Because of December birthdays and our work schedules, we run around like headless chickens during the first weeks of December.  This means that we miss the warmer temps, and we're usually in the middle of the cold snap by the time our schedules allows us to go Christmas tree shopping.  Not a big deal, but it's usuallly so cold by that time that I just want to get out of the car, snag a tree, and get back in the car post-haste. It was no different a couple of years ago.  Jamie, Georgia and I piled in the car in the biting cold weather, and by the time the car heated up, we were at the Christmas tree lot.  We unpiled, and grabbed whatever trees were close for inspection; and this is how inspection goes: I see a tree.  Jamie holds and  spins it around so I can give it the once-over.  This all happens in between keeping an eye on our daughter and telling her to stay close and/or stop sticking her hands in the snow because her knit gloves will get wet...