Irritations that No Amount of Gold Bond Will Help

Everyone loves to tell you “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff”. Unfortunately many things which I find irksome take place while I’m driving. And since my car doesn’t currently have air conditioning or windows that open, I can’t help literally, sweating the small stuff.

Of course I’m an excellent driver. I inherited this talent from my father who was the self-proclaimed best driver who had ever driven. (My husband might dispute this title as he once was a passenger when my father decided to make a U-turn around four lanes of traffic and an island. This took place 9 years ago. About a month ago, my husband finally stopped waking up in the middle of the night screaming and asking if the “bad man” was gone.)

There are some unacceptable combinations in this world: Things that must never go together- like a size 24 wearing a size 8 or an 84 year old driving 84 miles per hour. My father drove fast and he drove angry. He had road rage way before people “helped” by making phone videos and sending them to the local news. You haven’t lived until you’ve witnessed an elderly person yelling the word: “C—Sucker!” out his car window. (Sorry… Just reporting the facts here.)

I don’t think I’m quite that bad when I’m driving (though I’m sure he didn’t think he was that bad either) and yet I am a Daddy’s Girl. So forgetting for a moment that I’m already irritable when I get into the car because I have no air conditioning and the windows don’t open and that I’m resentful because I should rightfully be driving a brand new convertible (see my hair in photo above. Clearly it was made to cascade in the wind and obstruct the view of drivers behind me).

There are a few pet peeves I have with others on the road.

1) People who drive under the speed limit. It’s only 45 mph. You can’t do the whole 45? Granted, if I have nothing but open road in front of me I might, like Dad, be tempted to do 85. But I’m not asking that of you. The whole 45, not 41. That’s all I ask.

2) Texting, make-up application… I even hate when people drive with a phone especially if it’s up to their left ear because not only does it divide their attention but it takes away their peripheral vision. I saw a poor guy in a pick-up drive off into a drainage ditch the other day because a woman on her phone wanted his spot in the lane badly and had no idea he was already in it.

3) People who have to stop completely before making a turn. Why? Are you under the impression that your car will flip over and burst into flames if you’re doing 15? I assure you. It won’t.

4) People who back into parking spots on a regular basis. I don’t get the benefit. And it louses me up when I park normally in the spot next to them. I go to open my doors and their doors aren’t where they’re supposed to be… Neither’s their rearview mirror. It’s like a weird new sexual position. You end up with extra parts with nowhere comfortable to put them. Everything fits fine when you face the right way… And when people back into parking spots, it usually takes them 5 tries to get it right. (Just like… never mind.)

So maybe there’s a reason greater than us why my windows don’t open. It’s like the universe and Chevrolet have come together to keep peace in our society by preventing me from yelling out hip-hop lyrics or using hand gestures not found in the DMV manual.

If You Want to Talk Behind My Back, I’d Be Happy to Turn Around

I’m pleasant to everyone at work for my own selfish purposes. If you’ve every gone to work in a lousy mood it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting to stay irritated and/or miffed for a whole day. I’ve always wanted to do nothing but writing. So any other job I’ve ever had has always been a chore. Virtually all the non-writing jobs I’ve had over my working lifetime have been the same. Once you learn it you learn it. It never changes. So from around the third month at the job to say six or seven years into it, (should I last that long), the monotony and boredom have built to a fever pitch.

This all may sound negative but it’s really not. It’s survival. When I’m at work, I try to be as sincerely pleasant and helpful as I can be. The day goes easier for me that way. I can even be downright friendly within reason. A smattering of coworkers over the 23 or so jobs I’ve had I would even classify as friends. But as for the majority, at my latest stint for example: I’ve worked with them for five years and have averaged six words a day over those five years: “Good morning. Have a good night.” The end.

Last week my post was about how I float into other people’s cubicles at work uninvited and unannounced. I barge right into the middle of their conversation and offer advice that nobody asked for and, by the expressions on their faces, clearly nobody wants. (You’d think being aware that I do this would be the first step to correcting my behavior. Of course you’re assuming I think my behavior needs correcting.) So this seems like a clash. First I say I mind everybody’s busy and now I’m telling you I don’t want to talk to anybody. Basically, I talk to people when it suits me. And I butt into their business to keep them out of mine.

And just like they couldn’t care less about my unsolicited advice, I couldn’t care less that they couldn’t care less.
A coworker came to me the other day on the verge of tears. She said that she had walked in on a cluster of fellow employees (apparently innocently walked in on them, not like me cannonball-diving in) and everybody looked awkward and stopped talking while their eyes shifted all over the place. She told me that she’d sensed for a long time that these women didn’t like her and now she was sure that her worst fears had been confirmed.

In my most compassionate, heartfelt tone I said: “Who the fk cares?” To not further hurt her feelings, I had to clarify that I meant “Who the fk cares” if those idiots talked about her not “Who the fk cares” about what you’re telling me. Of course I actually felt about 50/50.

The best thing you can do for me if you don’t like me and keeping it to yourself is out of the question, is talk behind my back. Especially if you’re just one of those “Good Morning”, “Have a Good Night” people in my life. In fact, if I drift into one of your private conversations to offer my uncalled for opinion and you want to get rid of me, start talking about me. I’ll be happy to leave… or at least turn around.

If Only I Had 2 Cents for Every 2 Cents I’ve Put In…

There is an art which I have yet to master. No, I don’t mean the art of writing. I mean the art of minding my own business. Every year on Yom Kippur, I throw bread into a lake. To Jews everywhere this symbolizes casting away our sins. To others, it symbolizes feeding the ducks. (Occasionally I’ve been chased by zealous park officials: Apparently tossing away sins is prohibited there.) Every year, for as long as I can remember one of my “sins” that I throw away is “minding my own business”. Unfortunately, it usually limps out of the lake and boomerangs back to me about two days later.

Don’t you hate those people who, when you’re having a conversation, just show up out of nowhere and start commenting? That’s me. And it could be about anything from gardening to why the husband of the woman talking ran off to Brazil.

I just float in like Tinkerbell to save the day:
“You told us months ago that he’s been learning Portuguese. Come on Alyssa, the red flags were everywhere! You probably didn’t give him enough attention and oh yeah, ditto for your tomatoes. That’s why they’re not growing. It’s all related somehow.”

And I’m sure after I put in my two cents and finally leave the room, they look at each other and say: “I’ll bet she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.” That’s where they’re wrong. I realize it. My problem isn’t ignorance, it’s arrogance. I just always think I have something vital to contribute to their otherwise humdrum conversation. I know more than they do. There are thousands of topics in this world I’m sure I know nothing about, from UN policy to opera, but that doesn’t stop me from playing “Jeopardy!” or from being an authority. As my ex-boyfriend used to say:

“Hi I’m Lori and I’m pretty sure I’m some sort of a genius.”

That’s not why we broke up. I mean, he had a point. I think this is a trait I inherited from my father. You’d be working on something: Putting a toy together, washing a dish… and he’d nudge you aside and say: “Better let me do it.”

And you’d think this would make me more compassionate and understanding toward others with the same affliction and yet it doesn’t. Quite the opposite. If I’m having a private discussion and a third party interjects, I’m incensed. How dare they interrupt? I get annoyed and obnoxious: “All who want your opinion raise their hand.”

But when I “intercede”, I’m a master at it. I don’t even have to do it in person. Often I butt in over the cubicle wall. You know when you’re sitting at work in those “sound-proof” “offices” with no door or ceiling? I eavesdrop. Everyone eavesdrops. The discreet, professional thing to do of course, is to pretend you don’t hear a thing and go on with your work.

I’m a busy woman. I have no time for either discretion nor professionalism. It works well in my work environment. My coworkers have chosen to embrace my true self as a buttinsky, yenta, and general annoyance. People have gotten so used to me listening-in uninvited that they’ll just use me as the wealth of information that I am. They know that Big Brother may be watching, but I’m always listening. There will be two women talking in a low voice two cubicles over: “Did they say that meeting is supposed to start at 9 or 10? I can’t remember what time they decided on…. Lori?”
See? I may be rude, indiscreet, and unprofessional, but I’m the company’s most vital resource. I seriously doubt if they could function without me.

I’m What You’d Call an Athletic Klutz- Are You?

I’m one of those nuts who loves exercise. I’ve been doing some form of it or another since I was a teenager. I love exercise but does exercise love me? The jury’s still out.

We all know that a lot of athletes are prone to injury. That’s not my issue. I’m prone to klutziness. There’s a huge difference. I imagine that a lot of injuries can been prevented. If only athletes, I don’t know, stretched out more, waited longer for prior injuries to heal, drank V-8, that injury could have been prevented. If only klutzes paid attention to what they were doing, they wouldn’t be klutzes.

I’m such a dedicated athlete that the other day I ran to my yoga class no less and then ran back after the class. It would have been a perfect “Rocky” moment if only I hadn’t tripped on the way back, flown through the air and landed on the sidewalk. Normal people fall and turn around to see what they tripped over. I don’t even bother. I’m neither looking for the “real” cause or to take embarrassment off myself by looking to blame an outside source. If ever I was running along a path and there was an eight foot hole due to a worker’s negligence that I catapulted head-first into, I’d still have no case. All of my loved ones and biggest supporters would be the first to tell the cops and lawyers: “Oh don’t worry about it. She does this all the time.”

When I fell the other day, after making sure all of my body parts and electronics were in tact, I called my husband. I think he showed great restraint when I reported the grim news. He actually asked me if I was okay before saying: “Not again.”

Some years back (you’ll see how many since it involves my Walkman), I was lucky enough to fall only a few short limping blocks from my chiropractor. As I was in there cleaning myself up, I realized that I had lost the battery cover to my Walkman. The key to keeping your material losses to a minimum when you’re a chronic klutz is landmarks. I’d remembered as I was sailing through the air, catching a glimpse of a statue out of the corner of my eye and, luckily I was pretty sure it was St. Christopher and not St. Peter. So all I had to do was send my husband on an errand to retrieve the battery cover. I told him it was somewhere between St. Christopher and the chiropractor. Try putting that into your GPS even if it had existed.

I suspect that I’m not alone and that there are thousands of athletic klutzes out there. I’d like to say we’re so embarrassed to be athletic klutzes that we’re in the athletic klutz closet. It’s just hard to deny what you are when you spend most of your most impressive athletic moments in the public eye, lying face down on a sidewalk or treadmill, in a pool of your own blood.

What athletic klutzes want you to know is that we are just like other athletes. We have the passion and competitive natures of other athletes and we will, for the rest of our lives continue to be athletes whether or not it leads to our early demise.

Ever Have One of Those Days?

People proclaim they’re having “one of those days” too quickly. I’ll go to work and someone will say: “I’m just having the worst day.” and I’m like: “It’s only 8:45. You’re giving up kind of early aren’t you?”

I always feel like saying: “You woke up at 6:30, what horror could possibly have befallen you in 2 hours and 15 minutes that left you totally devoid of hope for the rest of your waking hours? Has there been a death? Were you involved in a freak toaster accident that claimed your thumb? I mean it couldn’t have been all bad: You’re here so you didn’t get a contagious disease along the way. Your clothes are in tact so you probably didn’t get mauled by a wild animal in the company parking lot. So why are you wasting my time being melodramatic over some stupid crap like your hair wasn’t behaving (clearly), the shirt you wanted to wear was in the laundry and the new shirt you put on, you spilled coffee on? (I’m just assuming that shirt you’re wearing had to be a last resort.) So what? Haven’t you ever heard of making lemons into lemonade or urine into urinate or whatever the hell the Pollyanna expression is?”

You want to hear about ‘one of those days’? I’ll give you “one of those days”. I got up, got ready and left for work. I got a few miles from my house when I realized that I was pretty low on gas. I calculated that I could probably make it to work on the remaining gas, but since I was approaching a gas station that’s usually one of the cheaper ones and I was a little early that day… Unfortunately, however, not early enough to go back home and get my wallet which was inside my pocketbook which I apparently left on the couch because it wasn’t sitting next to me, riding shotgun as it usually does.

Assuming I’d calculated my gasoline reserve correctly, I then focused on the fact that my chances of getting shot before I got to work were pretty good, seeing as I drive pretty fast and the windows don’t open in my car. So if a cop happened to decide to pull me over I would likely be shot or at least dragged out of the car and thrown to the ground for disobeying orders since I had no driver’s license to hold up to the window and couldn’t roll down the window to tell him or her why. The second I opened my door to explain, they would assume I was making a run for it (I watch Cops) and have to take me down.

I rolled into work uneventfully unless you count the laser light show going on on my dashboard. I was probably about 8 minutes away from having to put it in neutral and using all of my 125 pound bulk to push it off the exit. I spent the first half hour of my workday strolling around the office among my esteemed coworkers with a cardboard sign that read: “Need gas money to get home. Anything will help. Gd bless you.” (I was going to write: “Will work for gas money” but these people work with me and know I won’t work for anything and I needed my plea to be convincing.) It was the day before payday and a sad scene it was. It took six of us to amass the 4 dollar booty I left with. (My contribution was my hairy, sticky, cup holder stash). The irony of it was, this was the first payday eve day in months when I actually had the money for gas but of course it didn’t matter because I happened not to be sitting on my couch where it currently was located.

After positive-thinking my way to the gas station on the way home, I got on the highway. A female passenger was yelling at me. Since I have a window that doesn’t open and love watching sports on TV, I’ve become somewhat of a proficient lip-reader. “Oh, geez… She did not just say ‘you left your gas cap open’?” So I pulled over to the shoulder and exited the car in oncoming traffic. (Normally I would get out the passenger side but it had been the type of day that I was willing to risk it.)

I only had a half-day at work and was supposed to have a rare lunch date with my husband but he got stuck on an appointment so I was on my own. I decided to go for a run. There are no sidewalks close to my house so I sometimes run in a development nearby. My husband had given me a little mister (wow, does that look wrong when you type it).. A little spritzer bottle… for when I run in this sweltering heat. So after doing my run, I thought I would treat myself to the spritz on the cool down as I walked home, except a piece of the spritzer bottle was gone. I either had lost it in the house before I left or along the run. I walked home and it was nowhere to be found. So I walked back… about a mile in the sweltering afternoon heat… and retraced my two mile route… and yes, I found it.

Now that my wallet and I had been reunited in my living room, I decided to get back in my hot car (no functioning windows or air conditioning) and get a respectable amount of gas. While I was pumping gas, I mindlessly went to scratch my neck. My hand slid on either my sweat or the spritzer water and I accidentally scratched a pimple. So there I stood, at the gas station, pumping gas to wind up this glorious day, trying to ignore the fact that I was bleeding profusely.

And that ladies and gentlemen is how you turn lemons into lemonade. Or urine into urinate… Whatever the hell the expression is.

(If you’re interested: Please take a look at my eBook to the right about my infertility journey when you get a sec.)

Companies Get So Miffed when I Can’t Pay Them

My entire world runs on electricity. At least my entire household. Without electricity, I can’t microwave my Stouffer’s macaroni and cheese, watch Chopped on cable television, watch The Big Bang Theory on regular television. There are no lights, no hot showers, no heat, no air conditioning, no plugging in my snoopy night light with any satisfactory results. I’ve considered alternate methods of energy. (I tried making toast by tossing a slice of bread on the counter and surrounding it with 1200 pinwheels I got at the dollar store.)

I seem to remember learning somewhere back in junior high school that monopolies were against the law in the United States so I guess somehow the energy empire that looms over my house must have found a legal loophole and registered as a non-profit agency. I can see their argument: “We keep rich people warm in the winter and cool in the summer.” It’s humanitarianism at its best.

Never mind about the pages of inexplicable explanations of charges on their bills. Never mind that I get a love note from them every week or so about what I owe or that I’m carrying on an affair with my invisible meter reader. (I call him “Jacques”. Is that wrong?) Now I have a deposit of $300 on top of my regular monthly unpaid bill to contend with.

Apparently, to get even with all of us poor souls who promptly pay our electric bill– in full–exactly, to the day, one month behind, religiously, every month, the energy empire strikes back. Suddenly they decide to assess a deposit based on whatever and toss that on top of the heap of charges. (I’m only 5’2″ so I don’t know for sure, but I sense it’s up there somewhere on top of that pile.)

I called to complain to the tired and useless. That week of the month is always a solemn one for me and everyone I love. It’s when pre-menstrual meets peri-menopausal meets cut-off notices meets “I don’t get paid for another week.” It’s my perfect storm.

I spoke to the “supervisor” whom I’d swear was the same chick who just transferred me to her with a fake accent. (It was like eating at Outback with the server who said he was from Sydney.)

I politely disputed the $300 additional charge suddenly assessed to my account for no apparent reason. If memory serves, and I think it does, I implied that my deposit had been extracted by a doctor as he had discovered it behind a polyp at their collective company colonoscopy. If you’d like to hear my words verbatim, feel free to check the tape. I’m sure our conversation was recorded for “quality assurance”. It’s more likely to capture threats by the likes of me against their poor front line customer service suckers. I can picture coworkers coming to work bright and early the next morning and seeing the yellow tape outline in the parking lot. “Hey, isn’t that John? Yeah look, there’s the outline of his headset.”

Let it Go? That’s the Least of My Issues

Let it go… Let it go! It’s a conspiracy. Every where I go I hear that song from the movie Frozen. The supermarket… the post office… Target. It’s like this never-ending flash mob of 7 year old girls taking over the world from which there’s no escape. Does anybody else keep hearing that song or is it just me? Maybe fate thinks I’m dense and it has to hit me over the head with this message. What’s it trying to tell me? What can’t I let go of?

It’s ironic because I really don’t think I have a problem with letting things go. In fact, it’s just the opposite. I can’t hang onto things. Keys, glasses, yes. But mentally I’m even worse. I can’t remembering anything. I’m neither elderly nor do I have a drug history and yet I barely remember anything. I could work with you for 12 years, saw you yesterday, all day, until 5pm. So of course I know you. Maybe we even speak frequently. Maybe I’ve met your husband or your mother. And Monday, when I get back to work, I’ll know you again. But if I see you somewhere else in between, I can’t put it together in my head. You’ll come over to me in a restaurant or a mall and say: “Hey Lori!” And I’ll carry on this conversation with you. I’m talking normally, but in my head I’m totally unhinged. “She looks sooo familiar. I know I know her from somewhere.” But I swear for the first incredibly uncomfortable minute and a half, I have no idea whether we work together, you’re my neighbor, my cousin or my high school math teacher. (Okay, I could probably rule out the last one since you don’t look anywhere between 80 and 102.)

So you may be talking but I’m having my own game/quiz show in my head. I’m only listening to you at all in hopes of grabbing a hint as to who the hell you are. Did she just mention where she works? Wait, she said Dr. somebody. Is she my gynecologist’s receptionist? Then, since multi-tasking is for suckers, I have to tune out what she’s saying altogether so I can squint at her, trying to imagine what she would look like with her hair in a bun and my insurance card in her hand. Or maybe she recently had surgery. sWhat would she look Did she sayThen I have another terrible thought to contend with: What if I don’t like this person when I’m conscious? What if this is the lady who was driving 23 miles and hour, whom I passed, flipping her off on the way?

There’s only time where I let myself off the hook… With our neighbors. We’ve lived on the same block in the same house for seven years. Most of our neighbors have been there at least as long. And we don’t have that many neighbors… only about eight. But they all look alike. And we’re in the Southern part of the US where nobody looks like anybody in the Northern part of the US except us… being that we’re from the northern part of the US. They all have blond, straight hair. The men are all tallish and have that reddish, sunburned look to them. Here, it makes you think they work outside and/or they drink. In New York it means they drink and/or have high blood pressure. Naturally all their kids look alike too. And they all have last names as first names like “Carter” or “Donovan”. If a little blond boy ran off the school bus and into a house on any given day I couldn’t tell you for sure if he’d gone home for dinner or was robbing the joint.

You know what? I just realized what the cosmic world is trying to tell me to let go of? The movie Frozen.

And Let the Grilling Begin…

(New Posts added all this week. If you’ve already read the following, scroll to the asterisks to see newer stuff. And buy my ebook… you know I always have to get that in)

If you’ve been following this Laughing IS Conceivable blog (and if you haven’t… where ya been?… and welcome) you know that I love Memorial Day Weekend. If you’re not from the U.S. and don’t know what Memorial Day weekend is all about, it’s just what it sounds like: Brave men and women fought and died for our freedom in wars throughout the ages so that generations to come could buy bras on sale and eat with plastic utensils as we get 3rd degree sunburns and watch our neighbor drive around the cul-de-sac on his lawn mower with a beer in each hand and a toddler on his lap.

So the reason why I love the long weekend is because the annual tradition at this blog is to focus on grilling of a different kind. All year, good, hard-working, honest infertile individuals and couples are trying to have a baby. As if it weren’t enough to go through the physical aspect of it all and the emotional aspect of it all…staring at calendars, going through tests, being probed, being referred to a specialist, then a different specialist, being told everything looks fine and nobody knows why you’re not pregnant or everything doesn’t look fine, and needles, surgery, financial ruin….As if all that weren’t enough…NOW you have to deal with people!

People close to you. People almost close to you. People who used to be close to you. People who wish they were close to you. People you couldn’t pick out of a three person line-up.

All of a sudden you’re a Kardashian. Everyone feels entitled to know every minute detail of your most personal business.

“Don’t you want kids?” “Aren’t you trying?” “Do you have enough sex?” “Did you go to the doctor’s appointment?” “What did she say?” “Are you taking those supplements I gave you?” “Your sister has three kids, why don’t you have any?” “Have you called Dr. Oz like I told you? How about Dr. Phil?” “Is it because you’re too fat?” “Is it because you’re too skinny?” “Why, why why?!”

This whole week coming up, as we do every year around here, we’ll use this wonderful American tradition of barbecuing to turn the paper tableclothed tables on those who have grilled us all year long. How sweet revenge is especially with grill marks, slathered in barbecue sauce with a side of slaw. So stack up those styrofoam plates and get ready to do some serious grilling. And who knows? Maybe this year, we’ll even singe some eyebrows.

And if you get over your own BBQ guests in a hot minute, please do step away & take a look at my eBook. A free chapter is available at the book cover to the right ( The whole damn eBook is free at the Kindle Library.

So Here Comes the First Victim/Dinner Guest…. Marietta
Besides the usual BBQ fare: Hotdogs, hamburgers, and ribs… I think it would be a good idea to throw some neighbors on the barbie.
Afterall, a lot of them have no problem grilling us all year long. (“When are you going to have kids? Are you trying to get pregnant? Did I tell you my sister’s pregnant with her third?”)

So, maybe on Memorial Day Weekend, we should invite our nosiest neighbor over for a barbecue, scrape a spatula under his or her ass and flip ‘em onto the grill. (more…)

Happy ‘Lori’s a Lump’ Day

****This Post will briefly mention children****

I think I work pretty hard. I work full-time, I write full-time. I’m a wife full-time (well, I’m not seeing anyone else), and I’m a mother full-time. So twice a year, my birthday and the Saturday after Mother’s Day, I’m entitled (according to me) to turn into a lump. Think of a lump of sugar or a lump of coal. That’s me: No getting dressed. No hair up. No skin-tightening make-up. No bra… let the gravity chips fall where they may. I’m Jabba the Hutt. I’m Patrick Starfish. Those who choose to look at me just have to deal with it. And since those are only two days out of an entire year, I’m not dumb enough to only take those two measly days. I turn each of my two days into a full weekend extravaganza. I warn my kids all week: “Okay, I’ll get up and get those cheese crackers for you now, but come Saturday, kindly direct all comments, complaints and requests to that man over there.” And of course, “that man over there” is my lovely husband who has his “I think I’ll go out for a pack of cigarettes even though I don’t smoke and come back on Monday” face on.

When your kids are seven, this is what “mother’s milk” is: Mother milking her days off. If it’s something I really enjoy like strawberry picking with them, I’ll participate. But no fairs where we stand under a hot tent for an hour while they meticulously arrange paper, glitter, and a popsicle stick. (And if there were any solidarity among women, they wouldn’t have glitter anyway. Every man can tell his wife: “What do you mean ‘where’d that glitter on me come from?’ Don’t you remember that stupid fair last month? I have no idea how it got in my chest hair and my belly button. You know how glitter is.”)

And no bouncy houses unless I’m allowed in there. And during these days, bouncing in a bouncy house takes on a whole different sinister shape… see my earlier “no bra” comment. Small children could be scarred for life… emotionally and physically.

I celebrate Mother’s Day on Mother’s Day- bring on my gifts, cards, flowers and cake but the next weekend is “Lori’s Day”. I have no interest in spending my special day of relaxation competing for a table at the pancake house or a hundred other places with every other mother out there.

For the most part, I will be spending Lori’s Day in bed letting gravity take its toll. You may approach the bed only to bring me approved snacks. Let’s start with ice cream and work from there. You may bring in the ice cream and then return ten minutes later to return the remainder to the freezer. (Who am I kidding?) TV will be whatever I say it is. No Sam and Cat. Probably no SpongeBob. Sports, sports and more sports. Turner Classic Movies and free-flowing US and People magazines in and out all day long. Murder She Wrote marathon. (Shut up who asked your opinion?) But only if they’re the old episodes before she moved to NYC. The charming, tranquil town of Cabot Cove counter-balances all of the sugar and caffeine that I’m downing.

And I fully intend to continue this ritual well into my children’s adult years. The rules will stay more or less the same with a few updates: “You are not to approach mommy on these days unless you have become a professional massage therapist or manicurist…” Or probably by that time… plastic surgeon.

What Would J say about mother’s day? (Not that J)

I’m a talker. If you’ve read any of my stuff that shouldn’t surprise you. I write just like I talk. And I talk fast. And the problem with people who talk fast and a lot is that eventually they talk themselves into trouble. Enter my friend and coworker Jancy. She is the anti-Lori. I’m the anti-Jancy. And the way we each handle the Mother’s Day debacle epitomizes that.

At one point in time, Jancy and I had a lot in common. A few things, in fact, we had in common with each other that we didn’t have in common with the vast majority of our coworkers. Neither of us had kids. Neither of us was Christian. So we both had Mother’s Day wishes and Christmas wishes to contend with. Jancy did it expertly. I did it like an idiot.

Every year before Christmas, Jancy would be a woman of few words… and of course, Lori would talk herself into a deep, dark, bottomless pit through which she’s still tumbling. Jancy is from India. I think most people wouldn’t automatically assume she’s Christian as opposed to any other religion. Yet people would say: “Merry Christmas” to her non-stop for the entire month of December and Jancy would say: “Thank you. Same to you.” And be rid of them.

I, for some unknown reason, feel the need to enlighten people. Well not really “enlighten”. I always have to set the damn record straight. So people would say: “Merry Christmas” to me and I would say:

“I don’t celebrate Christmas”. Then they’d want to know what I celebrate. Or they wanted to know why I don’t celebrate Christmas. Or they’d say they understood that I didn’t celebrate Christmas but still wanted to know why I didn’t buy a tree. And on and on and on and on. It would have been faster if I’d just converted to Christianity.

Then there’s Mother’s Day. People would say to Jancy: “Happy Mother’s Day” and she would of course say: “Thank You. Same to you.” Then they’d leave and she’d close her door and move on to the next ignorant well-wisher.

Not me. I’d see the greeting approaching and suck in my breath.
“Happy Mother’s Day”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well, my mother died decades ago and I don’t have any kids. I mean I’m trying. I mean I’ve been trying for a while. We’ve had all the tests done. My husband’s fine. His sperm seem to be plentiful and swimming in the right direction. I have all my parts, don’t get me wrong, and I think they’re working. Maybe my eggs are just old. Anyway, I’ve gone through four cycles of artificial insemination and had an egg retrieval and we’re doing IVF…”

In the time it took me to tell that ridiculous saga, they could have walked across the parking lot, gotten into their car, and been half-way home. But no, I had to be a schmuck and prolong the agony for everyone concerned. Well at least I know there goes one person who will never say “Happy Mother’s Day” to me again.

As for Jancy, if I show her this post, she’ll tell me it’s good and keep on moving. She won’t even mention that I’ve spelled her name totally wrong so people would know how to pronounce it. Which, by the way…. is driving me crazy. Let me just set the record straight: It’s Jhansi.

Next Page »