Seize the Day, unless it's a Wednesday

In June, I was able to take a wonderful vacation to California wine country with one of my very best friends.  I haven’t been on vacation for five years, so you can imagine that I was especially excited. Due to my unbridled anticipation, I spent a shitload of time searching and pinning every single winery and bar I wanted to visit in both Napa and Sonoma valley.  I then sent all of these pins to my friend, making her seriously reconsider vacationing with me. 

All that wine looks like fun: Wrong!

One of the bars I found during my insane pinning sessions was Carpe Diem of downtown Napa. I am assuming you’re aware that carpe diem is popularly translated from Latin as “seize the day.”* As I celebrated my birthday while on vacation, I thought this bar would be a perfect place to seize my special day.  It looked oh so hip and cool online -- not to mention all that wonderful wine!  

Once again, however, images on Pinterest had deceived me, just like the time I thought slow cooker meatloaf was a good idea (yikes!).  No one was seizing the day at Carpe Diem.  A few older customers just sat around sipping on expensive wines.  To its benefit, the bar did play great music.  While deciding on my beverage from their expansive wine list, I heard The Head and the Heart, She and Him, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Metric.  I shared my approval of the music selection with the bartender and requested that he turn it up a little bit.

Upon my request, I was condescendingly asked in return, “You do know it’s a Wednesday, right?”

“Yes,” I replied, but then pleading, “… but it’s my birthday.”  I would have liked to add, “But it’s my mother fucking birthday, so let’s seize the day bitches!” I didn’t add that though; I smiled politely and tried my best to be cute and convincing. 

I apparently failed at my attempt because he continued, “No one comes here to listen to the music or dance, you know.  People come here just to sit and conversate.”

 

I did not speak with him any further, as he turned to attend to another customer, but inside I was screaming, “Conversate is not even a word you fucking asshole! It’s converse, dumb fucker, so fuck you! Fuck you too, PInterest!”

I wasn’t able to make the most of my birthday at Carpe Diem as apparently one does not seize the day on Wednesdays.  However, I still enjoyed my birthday because I had a great dress, great dinner, and a great date.  You usually can’t go wrong with good friends and good food, even if you run into a few misspoken pretentious pricks along the way. 

 

 

I still  found fun on my birthday, like playing in this downtown

fountain ... on a WEDNESDAY!!

 

 

*NOTE:  'Carpe diem' is usually translated from the Latin as 'seize the day'. However, 'carpe' translates literally as 'pluck', with particular reference to the picking of fruit, so a more accurate rendition is 'enjoy the day, pluck the day when it is ripe'. The extended version of the phrase 'carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero' translates as 'pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the future'.

My Husband Doesn't Support My Good Ideas

Currently, I don’t work during the summers.  Therefore, I am always looking for ways to keep myself and my children engaged.  In general, these are appropriate and child-friendly activities.  This summer, I have taken my children to amusement parks, lakes, library sing-alongs, and zoos.  One other activity that one generally can’t pass up during the summer is the county fair – all those tempting deep-fried foods, rides, entertainment, animals, vendors, and more.  However, I had a slightly different reason for desiring fair attendance this year.

Recently, my husband and I were traveling together in the car when I suggested, “We should go to the Wisconsin Valley Fair this week.”

“Well,” he said, not even feigning enthusiasm for my suggestion, “You can take the kids during the week while I’m at work if you really want to.  You know, I don’t think they should even go because it’s so busy and they are too little for most of the rides.”

“No,” I replied, “Not with the kids.  You and I should go because Bret Michaels is performing this week.”

“What?” he now asked, with evident aversion and perplexity. “You want to see Bret Michaels? Why?”  

Bret Michaels -- Hilarious and Really Gross Lay

“I want to fuck him after his set,” I answered, with a very serious and determined tone, “I think that would be hilarious.”  

 “What is wrong with you?” my husband asked.  I believe this question was rhetorical because everyone knows there is not enough time in the world for me to accurately respond.

“C’mon,” I tried to impassion my husband to my proposal, “it would be funny.  I would come home with some really great stories.”

This conversation continued, with my husband offering several reasons not to fuck Bret Michaels, both of us carrying on as though this would be an easily actualized goal for me. I should note that  I’m an overweight thirty-something who buys her apparel from Coldwater Creek, as opposed to the women who typically accompany Bret -- anorexic, alcoholic twenty-two year olds who shop at Hot Topic.

At any rate, after announcing that fucking Bret Michaels would be worth it just for the great tales I would come home with, my husband crushed my splendid plan by stating, “Some strange story wouldn’t be the only thing you would come with, Angela.   You better expect to come home with VD if you plan on sleeping with that dude.  I’m not interested in a wife with VD.”

I then spoke in Bret’s defense, “There’s a remote possibility he’s clean, you know.”  

“Oh, c’mon!” my husband chuckled, “Have you seen the menagerie of whores he fucked on Rock of Love?  You gotta get a grip, Angela.”

I got a grip, and we didn’t go the fair.  I didn’t ride the tilt-a-whirl or enjoy a monkey tail or elephant ear, and, most importantly, I never attempted to seduce Bret Michaels that week.  One can only imagine the magnificent anecdotes I would have had to share here if I had, right? Why doesn’t my husband support my brilliant ideas? Damn him; I could be a more accomplished and celebrated writer today if only he had let me fuck Bret Michaels.  How else is a woman to keep herself occupied during the summer? 

 

 

I Need Supervision

I sat in the small room on a black plastic chair staring at white walls and irritating motivational framed art.  I patiently awaited the doctor as I looked away from the words about leadership and glanced down at my swollen ankle.  I shook my head in shame of how I had incurred such an injury. 

My current bruised and swollen ankle was nearly as comical as the bloody and scabbed knee I had from two weeks earlier when I fell off the merry-go-round while playing at the park with my sister and our two daughters.  I had argued with my sister about who would sit on the merry-go-round with the girls, and who would run and push.  I told her I would be the better runner because my shoes were more sensical.  She was wearing flip-flops and I felt certain she would fall face first in the wood chips surrounding the play area, still a bit damp and muddy from the rain the day before.  She argued that she had been in Cross Country so she should run because she would be able to push faster.  I persisted and I was the one who ended up running and pushing the girls while she rode next to them. 

My persistence that day led to a pair of muddy jeans and a bloody knee.  When I tried to jump up to join them, I landed in those same damp wood chips I was concerned my sister would meet.  She did not seem to share similar concern as she let out a hysterical roar of laughter and pointed at me.  “Ha! Look at your jeans, you idiot! They’re all muddy! I told you I should push!”  She laughed so hard that my niece and own daughter joined in, and their laughs roared to a fever pitch when I declared, “God damn-it! I’m bleeding too!” 

My knee, bloodied nearly two weeks ago, still bore a few scabs to accompany the now swollen ankle that currently concerned me.  I pushed my embarrassment down and smiled as the young male doctor entered the room, introduced himself, and shook my hand. 

He sat behind the small desk near me and placed his tablet on the surface.  “Well,” he said, “what brings you here today?”

“I have a playground injury,” I announced.

“Excuse me?” he said, “what did you say?”

“A playground injury,” I reaffirmed, offering no further explanation.

“What?” he inquired once more.

“I fell off the slide when I was playing with my daughter and I twisted my ankle.  I think it might be sprained.”

“Is your daughter okay?” he asked, “How old is she?”

“Yes, she’s perfectly fine,” I replied. “She’s two.”  If my daughter were injured, don’t you think she would be here with me? I wondered to myself, feeling the embarrassment I had tried to push away rise right back up in me.

“Well, okay,” he said, “Let’s have a look at it.”  He didn’t seem very enthusiastic about checking out my silly playground injury, but I’m telling you now that my fucking ankle hurt. 

He held out his hand and made a motion indicating that I lift my leg to him.  He took my foot in his hand and turned it, confirming “Yes, it is indeed swollen.”  He then flexed my foot back and forth to determine my pain tolerance and range of movement.

 

“So, you fell off the slide, huh?” he said, smiling and chuckling at me as he twisted my foot back and forth.

“Yep,” I replied, now with great self-effacing charm, “Would you also like to see my scabbed knee from when I fell off the merry-go-round earlier?”

“Hmm …” he nodded, as I pulled up my jeans to display my battle scars.  He placed my foot back on the floor and then announced, “I think your ankle might be sprained, yes, but can you walk on it?”

I nodded in the affirmative as he then offered the following professional advice, “Well, then, I think you just suck it up and stay off the playground for a while.  It appears your daughter may be fine on her own and you require the supervision.”

Thank you Dr. Smartass; thank you.

Blurred Lines and Tall Tales

Unless you have been living under a rock (yet strangely have access to this obscure little blog), you have probably heard Robin Thicke’s song “Blurred Lines.”  It’s a wildly popular hit single that has basically become the summer anthem of 2013.  It’s nearly impossible to hear this song and not sing along or shake that ass.  The single is undeniably sexy, and contains lines such as “must wanna get nasty” and “let me be the one you bare that ass to.”  This is why I was a bit shocked when this song recently came on the radio and my two-year-old daughter demanded, “Turn it up!” However, she does love to dance and thus loves a good beat (regardless of the asinine lyrics), so I did her bidding and we both sang “hey – hey – hey – hey” and wiggled in our seats while cruising in the minivan (yeah, I roll hard). 

 

 

More shocking than her demand for increased volume to this sexy single was the proclamation that followed as she informed me, “This is Daddy’s song!”  Daddy’s song? What? The sexy summer anthem that talks about liberating good girls who are really animals by nature? This is Daddy’s song? The fuck?

This didn’t confuse me because I’m some sort of jealous wife who believes my spouse should only think about sex as it relates directly to me. Rather, it puzzled me because I would have never associated my husband with such a sexy, confident song.  Truth be told, my husband doesn’t exactly ooze sexuality or confidence.  I realize that sounds like a totally bitchy statement, but let me provide you with a little scenario.  Before we were coupled, my husband and I were close friends.  I always thought he was a very pleasant individual, and hoped that he would find a girl to make him happy (at that time not even considering said girl could actually be me).  As I hoped he would find a satisfying relationship, I would often encourage him to approach women.  On one of these occasions, he told me, “Angela, enough! For real, what am I supposed to say? Hey, want to come over here and share some awkward silence with me?”

Daddy’s song is “Freakish” by Saves the Day, okay? Not Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines”!

 

 

But, maybe, just maybe, Daddy was living some sort of secret life I didn’t know about.  Maybe he could actually be confident, suave, and debonair.  So, I let my suspicions get the better of me, and inquired about my husband’s activities when I was recently away for a week .   “Emily,” I asked my daughter, “Did daddy have any women over while Mommy was on vacation?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a smile and a giggle.  It appeared that Emily was aware of her father’s awkward nature, and thus found some humor in her reply.

“He did!” I said, shocked, but also not truly believing a word my daughter was now telling me.  Despite the fact that I gave no merit to her response, I continued to play along.  I then questioned, “How many women did Daddy have over?” 

“Eight,” she answered with another big grin.  For some reason, her favorite numbers are eight and nine.  When we recently had a garage sale, she attempted to charge every customer “nine dollars” regardless of their actual purchase. They would look at me, and I’d have to explain she had favorite numbers and then confirm that no, they really only owed me fifty cents for whatever crap they were taking off my hands.

“Eight!” I yelled, with even more animated astonishment.  “Hmmm … what did Daddy do with these women?  Did he hug them and kiss them?”  If “Blurred Lines” was Daddy’s song, he must have hugged and kissed these women, right?  The lyrics do say, “You wanna hug me. What rhymes with hug me?”  Pure brilliance! Give that man a Grammy! (sarcasm font)

“Yes, Mommy!” she answered, “He kiss the women.”

Later, I informed my husband of this exchange with my daughter.  It wasn’t a confrontation; it was simply a comical conversation.  He looked to my daughter and said, “Oh, Emily! You are full of beans!  Did we also ride a unicorn on the moon while Mommy was gone?”

“Yes!” she nodded her head and squealed in delight.

We both laughed at our adorable little daughter, and then my husband told her, “Alright Emily, it’s time to tell the truth.”

“Okay,” she said, “I tell the truth.”

I then proceeded to ask her about my husband’s escapades during my absence.  “Alright, Emily, did Daddy really have women over when Mommy was on vacation?”

“Yes,” she stated quite matter-of-factly.

I knew that my mother and his mother had both been over to help out with the children while he was working and I was away, so this answer was acceptable.  “How many women, Emily?”

Despite loving the numbers eight and nine, she did tell the truth this time and replied, “Two.”

“Were they beautiful young women, Emily?” I then inquired.

“No, Mommy, they old ladies.”

Old ladies! Yes! That’s what I was hoping to hear!   I knew my husband was still the freakish, awkward, but loyal and loving man I married, and my daughter is just a silly, imaginative wonder.  I was very satisfied with the truth, and very amused with Emily’s tall tales regarding “Blurred Lines.”

 

 

Employee of the Year

If you live in Wisconsin, you have surely found yourself at a water park at least once in your lifetime.  You have splashed in the wave pools, floated down the lazy river, and slid down tube slides with names like Anaconda, Black Death, and other such terms meant to simultaneously incite terror and excite your endorphins. 

I was at one of these waterparks with a group of friends when we were all happily playing in the large wave pool.  We bobbed up and down in the waves and splashed each other as we gleefully smiled and giggled.  We were all enjoying ourselves when I spotted “it” bobbing on the waves – edging ever nearer to me.  The object seemed determined to approach me, skillfully making its way among skinny teenage girls in bikinis and overweight old men in highly inappropriate speedos.  Were my eyes deceiving me?  I hoped this was the case as the small white object heaved itself up to the top of a wave and then dipped momentarily back underneath the water.  As the wave brought the white, cotton item back above the surface, however, it became abundantly clear what now floated just inches from me.  I looked around for anyone to save me from my most certain impending doom. 

No Hero Here!

 

I spotted a young employee – wearing sunglasses and the red swim trunks that identified him as staff.  He had a whistle around his neck that made him seem important despite his scrawny body and teenaged acne.  I hollered up to him hoping for a hero, “Hey! Hey, kid!  There’s a tampon in the water!” I yelled frantically while pointing at the foreign object, which I assumed was dispelled as some female plunged down one of those terrifying slides like the Anaconda. 

I hoped he would dive into the water and scoop up the object, promptly removing it and thus freeing me to enjoy the rest of this time with my friends.  Rather, he looked at me, looked at the object, and then shrugged his shoulders as he stated, “Meh.  It will be floating down the lazy river pretty soon.” 

I yelled back at him, “Ugh! That’s soooooo gross!” but he once again only shrugged and ignored me.

Was something wrong with me? Did I need to just calm the fuck down? I mean, what’s a little tampon floating in the water really?  At least it wasn’t a turd.  Maybe I need to just learn not to sweat the small stuff.  “Keep calm and carry on,” right? No; no.  That shit was gross, and that little fucker was lazier than the river the tampon was soon to be floating upon, according to his expertise.  

So, no, I didn’t keep calm and float on.  I left the wave pool and continued to complain about that lazy little bastard who just shrugged his shoulders at me. As  I now recall my encounter with the employee of the fucking year, I can only hope that if you have likewise been to a waterpark and are able to readily recall your time in the wave pool, may those memories not be sullied by a defector tampon because “Ugh! That’s sooooo gross!”

Sing, Momma, Sing

I lay in my bed, ready for rest at the end of another day.  My daughter lies next to me in her striped cotton pajamas.  I look at her and immediately feel warm and whole.  I feel as though I could be stripped of my clothing and robbed of my possessions and yet I would be complete and joyous as long as I were still called mother.

She looks up at me with her beautiful blue eyes, so bright and radiant they are as welcome sunshine breaking through layers of thick, grey clouds.  She smiles the most tender, genuine smile; her upturned lips speak of love with no necessary vocal accompaniment.  All I need do is look at her to know I am adored and admired, and in my return gaze I know she is assured the same.  She knows, without any fancy words needing to traipse off my tongue, that she is safe and secure, and, above all, deeply loved.

She takes her tiny hand and places it in mine; the soft tips of her fingers gently stroke my palm while that wide smile of hers yet remains. It is an irrefutable truth to say I have never known love like this before.  Nothing in this world – not the gentle ocean breeze or a soft, amber sunset – compares with the love between mother and daughter.

Through the silence that now holds us together – two beings forever united though the umbilical cord has been broken – she softly speaks to me.  Her smile grows a little wider before she requests, “Sing, momma, sing.”

I know the song she is now requesting; I know exactly the tune she desires to hear.  Just as the depth of our love need not be vocalized to be acknowledged, I simply know the melody she now seeks. It is a familiar tune I have softly sung to her time and time again. I continue to hold her tiny hand quite appropriately as the lyrics fall from my lips: Your little hand’s wrapped around my finger, and it’s so quiet in the world tonight. This moment – her smile, her touch, her joy, her abundant love – is perfect, and I want to know if I can trap it.  Can I keep this moment forever? Can I somehow bring it to permanence and make it concrete?  I want to seal my daughter’s love in a jar with a heavy lid.  I want to place it on a high kitchen shelf to be brought down when she’s age fifteen and yells that she hates me because she has an earlier curfew than her best friend.

I know, however, that I will never be able to hold these precious moments down – pinning each smile like butterflies in a collection.  If I could, I would label her laughter, her songs, her happiness in this moment like monarchs and mourning cloaks.  As a substitute, I will collect these moments in my heart and hold them there forever, each memory remaining alive.  As I take a snapshot of her smile in my mind, I continue singing the tune I know my daughter yearns to hear: To you, everything’s funny – you got nothing to regret – I’d give all I have, honey, if you could stay like that.

I now come to the chorus and sing louder, feeling every single line and chord to my very core – truly sharing the lyricist’s desire.  Tiny tears form in the corners of my tired, smiling eyes. These tears appear every single time despite the frequency of such words being sung to my delighted daughter, who also seems to hear my heart beating with love as I string each word together in this beautiful and true tune.   

Oh darling, don't you ever grow up
Don't you ever grow up, just stay this little
Oh darling, don't you ever grow up
Don't you ever grow up, it could stay this simple
I won't let nobody hurt you, won't let no one break your heart
And no one will desert you
Just try to never grow up, never grow up

As I tunefully sing my daughter to sleep with such sweet words, I wish I could protect her as the lyrics promise.  However, my heart, which is exceedingly full of love for this beautiful gift of a girl, also aches with another knowing.  I know, despite my deepest desires, that she will grow up, she will be hurt, she will be deserted, and her heart will be broken.  I will never desert her, but I may even regrettably be the one to hurt her. 

For now, though, I wipe those future fears and worries away and hold on to this moment, hold on to my daughter’s hand, and hold on to her tiny body as she gently falls to sleep to this happy, hopeful harmony.  I will sing for you whenever you want, dear daughter, whether you be sweet, simple age two as you now are, or a troubled, angst-filled teen of fifteen.  I will sing for you at age twenty-two and I hope to sing to your daughter too.  I want you to sing for yourself when you are feeling sad and low, and hear my voice through a whisper even if we are miles apart. 

I know you will grow up dear daughter, but I never, ever want us to grow apart. So you now sleep as I dream of all the love you have brought to my life and lock this memory forever in my heart.  Just try to never lose this joy, never lose this joy.   You are loved.


 

Samantha Macelli was a Bad Influence

I sat at the lunch table mindlessly chewing my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pulling at the stem of my slightly bruised apple.  I then heard Stephanie saying my name, “What about you, Angie?”

“Huh?” I asked, between bites of my Wonder Bread.

“Have you ever had a hickey?”

I was ten years old.  I had no damn idea what a hickey was, so I took another bite of my sandwich and avoided an immediate answer by slowly savoring the creamy Jif.  I knew they had been talking about what boys they liked, and assumed that a hickey was something cool a boy gave you and something I probably ought to have had by the oh so mature age of ten.  I didn’t want to seem like a little kid or like I wasn’t desired by the opposite sex. 

“Uhm … yeah,” I softly replied.  

“Yeah, so have Stacy and I,” Stephanie stated with a smile that informed me my reply, although a lie, was the appropriate affirmative response.

Shortly after my fib and Stephanie’s boastful statement, the bell rang out for the end of lunch period.  We all got up, returned our trays to the lunch ladies or disposed of our paper lunch bags and headed back to Mr. Smith’s classroom. 

I didn’t feel right the rest of the afternoon as I sat at my desk and completed grammar assignments or attempted to listen attentively to Mr. Smith’s lectures on history.  My stomach turned the rest of the day nervous and anxious as to what I had confessed to.  What’s a hickey? What’s a hickey? I have to know.  Oh, god! What if it’s gross? Stephanie didn’t seem to think it was gross, but oh god!  I need to know what a hickey is … NOW!!  It’s all I could think while I should have been memorizing the names of presidents. 

At that time, there was no World Wide Web, or “information superhighway,” as I first remember it being marketed to us when I was in high school.  Had it been this day and age, I could have just asked Google to give me the answer.  That wasn’t an option, so I remained in the dark.  I was too afraid to ask the other girls, whom all seemed to already know.  I was certainly too embarrassed to ask my mother. 

I had my “a-ha!” moment about several weeks later while watching an episode of Who’s the Boss? where Alyssa Milano’s character Samantha was given a hickey by her beau.  She wore turtlenecks all week trying to hide the lip sucking montrosity that is a hickey from her father. She also made up a new dance craze where you tilt your neck when he saw her sans turtleneck.  “Gross!” I yelled aloud, and could not believe that only a few weeks earlier I had lied and said I was given one of these disgusting things. 

I have never, ever in my life allowed any boyfriend of mine to give me a hickey.  I think they are absolutely revolting, and I was always reminded of my dishonesty whenever a young man started kissing my neck.  I would freeze up in shame and disgust and tell him to stop before he left his mark. This was way before the Twilight madness too, so vampires weren’t considered sexy and I didn’t want anyone nipping at my neck!

My own daughter will be wise to wear a turtle neck in an attempt to hide the mark of her indiscretions should she ever come home with a hickey, especially if she is only age ten.  I was ten years old! I was only in the fifth grade when my friends asked if I had ever had a hickey.  I can only hope that they were all lying too and had asked because Alyssa Milano was the coolest and they must have seen the same Who’s the Boss? episode when it first ran.  I can tell you that I am the boss of this household now and ain’t no ten year old coming home with a hickey.  Gross!