Month: October 2015

These are actual instructions for babysitting an infant.  My niece sent this to me as a joke because she was feeling pretty good about herself after sending me a slightly shorter version (2 whole sentences) for when I had her infant for a weekend turned almost a week during Storm Sandy.  So, let’s just say things did not go as planned as per my instruction sheet during a super storm with an infant, no power, depleted breast milk, and canceled flights for the boobs supplying that milk.

I’m still trying to rack my brain as to whether or not I knew this much about any 3 of my children as infants combined, let alone with the ones I had in my daycare.  If I was to guess, Blaine Campbell Vanderbilt is what I refer to as the “first pancake” or the first born child.  Like a first pancake, the first born is slightly misshapen, doesn’t come out quite right like the others on the griddle because we place too much emphasis on trying to get it perfect from the start.  By the third and fourth, we’ve got a good batter pouring momentum going, thus the better shaped pancakes.

My personal comments are in red because I always have something to say.  Must’ve been from sniffing all that Liquid Gold furniture polish.

Blaine Campbell Vanderbilt

*Cheat Sheet*

(The name was googled from Top Ivy League names to protect my niece from getting slapped by the Mother of this baby)

Pediatrician: 867-5309
*If she gets a fever (over 100.4) give her 2.5mL of Infant’s Tylenol every 4-6 hours. Call me if this happens. She just got a shot in each upper thigh, so there may be red marks tomorrow and soreness.

Schedule {varies based on her morning wake time and lengths of naps}
*Blaine takes 3 naps a day and goes to bed between 6-7PM based on length of naps
*Wake Times: usually between 2-2.5 hours. Do not put down for first nap earlier than 8:15 AM. Ex. Wakes for day at 6 AM, then she usually will be super tired fast, however we have to keep her up until at least 8:15 AM. If she wakes up for day at 7AM, Nap 1 is at 9 AM (this is ideal schedule, however has yet to happen…) Nap 2 is based off of when she wakes up from Nap 1. So if she wakes from Nap 1 at 10:30 AM, Nap 2 is around 12:30-1:00 PM. Nap 1/2 are anywhere between 30 min – 2 hour (so unpredictable!!). She needs to be in crib for at least an hour (use judgment, if she is hysterical after 40 min, just get her out). Sometimes she will wake after 45 minutes, squirm for 1-2 min, and then puts herself back to sleep for ANOTHER HOUR! Usually there are no tears when this happens, so again, use your judgment.  Forget the kid crying, I’d be crying at this point.
I sometimes struggle getting her to take Nap 3. This nap can be done in the stroller or car, however Nap 1/Nap 2 must be in the crib. Nap 3 is usually a short “cat nap” lasting between 20-45 min. If she misses this nap, her bedtime will likely come early.   HOLY SHITOID!  I’m exhausted already.  I need a shot and a beer!

**She usually has a poopy diaper before Nap 1 so be sure to change it before Nap 1. (oddly always has a blowout on her Jump-aroo!) Fun! Can’t wait to clean up that blow out. I’m thinking if this baby shaker gets the bowels moving, maybe I should patent an adult Jump-aroo for constipation issues and line it with disposable Depends.

Putting her to sleep for naps/bed: I usually nurse her for 4-5 minutes (sometimes less) just to get her a little sleepy (while she is grasping her lovey & dual sound machines going).  Dual sound machines?  WTF? My sound machines were a vacuum, washer, dryer, dishwasher, and house of screaming kids.  I have small bags of milk for this occasion, so you can have a bottle ready to ‘nurse her to sleepy world’. Then I cradle her, rock her in my arms, and put her in the crib drowsy, but she usually does wake up slightly when she hits the crib, but will get cozy and fall asleep. She may not want/need the bottle for this occasion. See how it goes… Oh, honey, trust me I will….

Bottles: Her final bottle of choice is the MAM bottle with nipple level 2. I have a total of 4 bottles ready for you (2 smaller purple ones, and 2 bigger yellow).  This baby is like a science project!
*Please prepare her first bottle with all BM (Frozen Breastmilk in bottom tray in freezer and labeled w/ date and # of ounces.) I don’t care about date as much; just go off of what ounce is appropriate for feeding. You may have to combine bags at times
BMilk in Freezer/Fridge: TOTAL ‘liquid gold’: 67 OUNCES  ‘Liquid Gold’ isn’t the furniture polish with toxic fumes any longer?   Now it’s hours of pumped breast milk.  Just reading 2 paragraphs of this baby’s schedule, I ask, “When the hell did you have time to pump 67 ounces of ‘liquid gold?!?'” Did you start the day she was born? 
*You will need to de-thaw the milk one day ahead. So I am de-thawing your milk for Friday 10AM (estimated first feed without mom) feed on Thursday at 10AM (allowing for 12 hours give or take of de thaw time). I am de-thawing a total of 24 oz for Friday. You will need to de thaw this amount {or more} for your Saturday/Sunday feeds. Always smell the milk to make sure it has not gone bad (will smell sour I presume?) You mean to say you are leaving a question mark on this item without having the definitive answer?  There HAS to be an App for that.
****MUST USE BMilk within 24 hours after it has de-thawed in the fridge!!!!  Aaah, just put it on the windowsill.  I used to heat up my kid’s hotdogs on the car dashboard at the beach.  You mean my “dashboard” dogs weren’t appropriate?

Preparing a bottle of Breastmilk ONLY:
*Please have her first bottle be all BM. (First bottle of shit?  YUK.  In my day, BM was the endearing term used with the children asking if they needed to shit.) If for some reason she doesn’t take it, put it aside, and we may have to do ½ BM ½ formula (see below for instructions) to ease her back into the bottle. I would prefer her to mostly take Breastmilk since we have so much to offer (and formula causes some diaper blow outs), however use the formula at your discretion if you notice that you are having a hard time giving her only BM. Please note there are different rules for leaving bottle out in room temperature when there is formula in it.  Make sure you google those rules!  How the hell did we keep our kids alive is what I want to know. 
Make sure milk is completely de thawed, and then I like to use the hot water in the deer park to warm the BM in the plastic bag. Then I pour the milk into a bottle from the plastic bag. Test the temperature on your finger to make sure it’s not too warm/cold.
*IF ALL BM, you can leave at room temperature for 4-6 hours. You are not supposed to put back in fridge once it is warm, use discretion.

Preparing a bottle of Breastmilk + Formula “1/2 + 1/2”:
When preparing the ½ BM+ ½ Formula, PLEASE MAKE SURE you prepare formula before adding the BM (so you can get an accurate measurement of water). If you want to prepare a 6 ounce bottle for Blaine, I would add 3 oz of water to bottle w/ 1.5 scoops of formula. Place finger (wash hands) on top of nipple, or put lid on, and shake shake shake it so all clumps are gone. Now, add the 3 oz of warm BM to this bottleneck and GENTLY shake that in (BM technically not supposed to be shaken). This doesn’t necessarily have to be 3 oz/3 oz. If convenient (for frozen BM inventory purposes) to use a 4 oz bag of BM, then that is great!  I spy with my little eye a family therapist in the near future….

Cleaning the bottles:
Please rinse with the BabyOrganics dish soap and scrub any residue. Then please use the Medela microwave bag to sterilize. Disemble all parts to the bottle, and put around 3 oz of water in bag, and put in microwave for 1.5 minutes. Then dry on the drying rack.  I can’t even….where’s the Xanax?

RULE OF THUMB FOR unfinished Milk from bottles:
*Room temperature for Breastmilk ONLY: 4-6 hours (do not put back in fridge and re heat)
*Thawed milk in Fridge: use within 24 hours
*DISCARD all formula bottles within an hour
http://www.kellymom.com is what I always refer to for any questions
{Sample Schedule:}:  Look!  Oh, Thank God there is a website for contributing to your OCD.  A Kelly Blue Book for infants.
**I am suggesting two 6 oz (morning/night) and three 4 oz bottles of all BM. Gauge this from how hungry she seems/how fast she takes the morning bottle. Always give her more if she is hungry. Saturday is the only day where I will not get at least 1 nurse session in, so see below.

Saturday:  Whaaaaat?  This schedule is only for a day?!?! It would take a week just to comprehend it! Just take the kid with you…..PLEASE.

Wake: 6-6:30 AM (prepare a 6 oz bottle of BM while she squirms) Coffee with Sambuca

FEED 1: 6:30 – 6 oz bottle of all BM. If she doesn’t take it, we may have to do ½ BM ½ formula. {This is usually a big meal for her, so I am guessing 6 oz, but may be less) Coffee #2 & 3 and a little more Sambuca

NAP 1: 8:30 {maybe save the leftover BM bottle from breakfast to use to ‘nurse’ her to sleepland….ONLY if ALL BM, NO FORMULA because it cannot be left out) Yay!  Mimosa time!

FEED 2: 9:30/10 (when she wakes from nap1) – 4 oz bottle of all BM (or do the “Milkshake” if you struggled with all BM earlier) Milkshake? Fine. We’re going to Dunkin Donuts and Blaine will have a coffee coolatta.  I’ll be sure to put it in her Mam Bottle, Nipple Level 2 that I’ve slit open with my car key so the coolatta can push through like a BM. 

NAP 2: 12/12:30  As will I.  I’m hung over from breakfast.

FEED 3: 1/1:30 (when she wakes from nap 2) – 4 oz bottle of BM It’s Dr. Tito’s time – Vitamin V with a splash of Vitamin C for a healthy immune system.  See?  I can google too 🙂

FEED 4: 4:30/5 – 4 oz bottle Happy Hour – Wine & Whine time

NAP 3: Squeeze this in either before or after FEED 4 (hard to tell here because it’s really based off of her two naps/earlier feeds)  Kid is going for a nap because I’ve turned your nanny cam off so you can’t stalk us from your iphone.

FEED 5: Bedtime bottle of 6 oz (do “Milkshake” here) after bath at 6:30.  I’ll wipe her face, neck and va-j-j down with some Mr. Clean.  She’ll be lemony fresh.

BED: no later than 7PM The one thing we can agree on.
NIGHTFEEDS:{unfortunately still occurring}
*Blaine has been waking between 9PM-10PM and this is usually a result of the fact that she did not get a good Bedtime feed. This may be different if she gets the bottle at bedtime, however, if she does wake, I suggest to prepare a 4 OZ BOTTLE OF FORMULA to give to her. She may or may not take it. If she does take it, this is all she gets for the rest of the night until 6am, and you can let her cry…. If she DOES NOT take it, then you may have to try again when she wakes next.  Blaine won’t be waking for her nighttime feed because she’s sleeping with Prince Nyquil added to her BM.
** Be careful of mosquitos in Botanical Gardens especially at the small park on the swing!! Also, they can sneak in the car. Blaine has her mother’s sweet blood.  Maybe Baby Blaine would benefit from a mosquito sucking out a little of that neurotic, sweet blood.

On a serious note, I just hope that Blaine’s parents know and care for this child with the exact same amount of fervor in the coming years. Truth is, infants are the easiest part.  All they need is to be loved, held and cuddled, kissed, fed, and cleaned.  That’s it.  It’s when they grow older you need to be able to recognize signs of low self esteem, struggle, drug use, medical issues whether it be physical or mental.  This is when you need to really know your child’s needs.  Recognizing is the easy part, it’s a parent’s devotion of maintaining that you love and care enough to help them through. 

This is Part 1 of a yet to be determined series.  Parents have had to adapt to so many changes since I began having children 28 years ago.  There is a question/scare mark over so much:  GMO’s in food, immunizations, school massacres, mental health, and suicide just to touch on a very few.

Until Part 2, this is the photo I sent to my niece after she sent me instructions on how to care for her baby.

CAPTION:  “NOT A PROBLEM.  I’LL TAKE GOOD CARE OF HER!”

 

 

I’m thinking our hearts are much like a hot dog. Some hot dogs are plumper, some kosher, some stick out of their bun because they’re so big, yet they’re all made up of pulverized mystery meat and molded into shape.  The heart is just like the meat of a hot dog because our kids take pieces of our heart and drops them into a Cuisinart and pulverize it.  The little bastards start this the day they are born and continue that shit until THE. DAY. YOU. DIE. What makes it even worse in my case, is possessing traits of an Empath, a gift and a curse all rolled into one friggin bun.  When my kids are full of anxiety – so am I; when they’re down the shitter – so am I; when they’re happy as a pig in shit – so am I, and I can pick up their emotions from as far as 1818.5 miles from Galveston, Texas to Block Island, RI. Truth.

Have you ever thought about the amount of packing you’ve done?  Life is all about packing – we discard what’s no longer useful and take with us whatever we need to the next level of our journey.  We packed as kids for sleepovers, vacations, college, a first apartment, a new home, to a new life with someone, for the hospital to bring a new baby home, seasonal clothes, seasonal decorations….those are some big life events right?

I’ve spent a helluva lot of time packing.  Packing my children’s clothes to donate, unpacking hand-me-downs given to my children, packing up seasonal clothes twice a year times 3 along with my own (a 2 day job as the clothes whore-der I am).  Packing my Mom’s clothes up after she passed away and my childhood home when my Father sold it. Clearing out personal belongings after a divorce.  Reflecting on it now, there was a lot of emotion involved in all of that and even though I’ve been truly blessed with incredible coping skills, I used to possess a genetic defect when it came to crying. It was a rare occasion for me to cry.  That drought ended the minute I helped the first kid pack and sent him off to college. I could fill a 12 person hot tub with the amount of tears I’ve shed in the past 9 years alone.  I’m sure mental-pause was a big contributor along with a few slippery curve balls to the head that I didn’t duck fast enough for.

Child #2 – College Drop off – I cried the entire ride to Providence, Rhode Island as well as the return trip, and continued until I hit the 48 hour mark.  I missed an Italian block party because I was ugly crier with that heaving stutter.  Then that kid had the nerve to go on not one, but two semesters abroad once again making me cry.

Child #3-  Is the instigator and baits me just to make me cry.  I have a new hole in my heart each time she walks out the door to head back to school, and since she got my car last summer we don’t have that pick up/drop off time together any longer.

So, if that wasn’t torture enough, in between all that, my son decided he was going to continue his education in Texas.  He packed up quick and took off in a 15 year old truck hightailing it knowing I turned into a crybaby.  I picked over 60 tomatoes from his garden that day, cleaned up every inch of the yard all in manic mode while I sobbed and exhausted myself enough to pass out.

My basement went from a finished playroom to a flooded-now-equipped-with-a-sump pump storage facility.  It’s nothing more than a stripped down dumping ground for everybody’s cast off shit including the kitty litter shit.  My middle daughter lived home for a year after college and announced she “kind of might” move in with her boyfriend.  That was to break it to me gently as her possessions slowly began disappearing and one day she never came back unless it was to visit or “borrow” the washer and dryer.

Now that same daughter is returning her wordly possessions back to our underground cement shit-pod because she’s moving to St. Croix just in time to ruin MY big holiday, Halloween.  Then there’s #3 who has been prepping me about staying in New York to get her Master’s degree.

Now that I’ve given my history on packing, along with my emotional flaw of not being able to shove my kids out of the nest, maybe my 3 kids will get off my ass about why I don’t ever go down the basement let alone have the ambition to pack up, clean up, and organize the basement shit-pod as I’ve done for the past 24 years in just this house alone. Asides from my pink tinsel Christmas tree adorned with cheesy flamingos and Darien pink and lime green balls, there is nothing of importance down there except maybe the geriatric commode that I use as a flower planter.  Everything that means anything to me has two legs, a smart ass mouth, and usually leaves with a rolling suitcase or duffel bag.

Coincidentally, I was already writing this post while laying in bed alongside a mountain of kleenex on a sick day, when my daughter sent me a text message that morning which read, “Wanna send me a love email?!? Mom’s wise words of wisdom on moving and how everything will be ok?!?  I could use one .. ha ha ..” This from the defector who will be ruining my Halloween when she moves to St. Croix.  So, as the saver of everything, I re-sent her an excerpt of a New Year’s letter I had sent to all three of my children in December 2012.  As I told her, at least I’m consistent because what I wrote 3 years ago still applies today.

Being the middle child, you’ve had to endure some situations with your siblings and have done it with grace and kindness.  You’re the on-the-move child much like your brother & me.  If you keep moving, it makes it easier to cope & ignore what’s really bothering you.  I will say the same to all three of you – DO WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY.  I will never get in your way or guilt you.  I may gently guide you if I think you’re truly making a huge error in judgement and only when I know from my past experience that the end result won’t be a good one.  You’re on a good path to independence and I commend you for sticking it out with a shit paying job.  In the end, I’m sure there will be a reward for you.  Any job you do is worthy job if you do your best!  Carry on.

The simple truth is I love and adore my 3 children.  I embrace and cherish all their differences.  I am proud of the adults they have become, and if I didn’t like the little bastards so much, I wouldn’t suck so bad at launching them.  Besides, does she seriously think my ass won’t be hopping flights to St. Croix or buying an in-law bungalow next door and doing my laundry in her house….or “borrowing” her underwear, eggs, toilet paper, paper towel, toothpaste, kleenex, shampoo, conditioner, body soap, cleaning supplies, etc?  Matter of fact, I plan on waltzing down her driveway decked out in one of her brand new outfits, wearing one of her thongs over it as payback for all the years of borrowing my underwear and clothes.

Keyword-Falling

So, my brother, Peter, got married this past Saturday.  It borders on miracle that it was pulled off. This is his second marriage since as his first wife passed away way too young.

Peter, the hopeless romantic, proposed to Holly on Christmas Eve (naturally….Holly…..get it?) because he is and always will be a total goober for love, a trait I admit that we share.  After all, he had all the synchronicities that Holly was the one.    He lived on “Holly” Pond when he met Holly.  His daughter and son-in-law bought a home on the corner of “Holly” Lane. Even though he has asked me not to talk about such things as synchrinocities, coincidences, and most especially spirit presence, I am pretty damn sure after this weekend he won’t deem me the family “Witch” anymore because it wasn’t me who was driving the bus with the shenanigans that occurred coming up to this wedding.  I just helped clean up one mess and smirked a lot.

I’ve been told by Peter among others, I have an annoying characteristic of reading people, and its usually by those who don’t want me to get inside their heads.  The latest example happened when I was out to dinner with friends last night.  Two gentlemen were dining across from us, and I asked if the younger man was asking the older man for his daughter’s hand in marriage.  It’s funny how people react when I just blurt this stuff out.  They don’t even have time to recover and figure out a cover.  Needless to say, I was correct.

So, Columbus Day weekend was chosen for Peter and Holly’s  wedding date. Ugh-shit really?  Columbus Day weekend is usually a gorgeous weekend, and I would know this because it was THE same weekend I got married 30 years ago to 1X.  Memories…..light the corners of my eyes….and burn right through my retinas.  I had also heard through the family grapevine my niece’s husband was going to be at his Step Brother’s wedding in California.  Now they had two good reasons to change it ya? Not on your life.

All during the wedding preparations, I never heard about any prenuptial drama then again I’m not sure where the hell I am or what I’m hearing one minute to the next.

So, with absolute no help from me, I’m headed to beautiful Stonington/Mystic area on Friday to check in to what turned out to be a one step up from a Motel 6 – don’t take your flip flops off ever, keep your toothbrush in one of those toothbrush condoms at all times hotels.  My brother booked the room for me because I can’t think beyond a single day anymore and most people in my life understand why that is and now I think he gets it as well.  It was bad enough that my family drove the bride & groom crazy with our lack of family RSVP’s.  Who can’t come because they’re working.  Who can’t come because they may be moved to St. Croix by then.  In the end, everybody could go and their meal selections had to be sent via text message.  We are one tacky crew, but our intentions are always good.

I no sooner check into the toothbrush condom hotel and my brother needs help with the flower arrangement delivery to the wedding venue.  He’s high energy (putting it mildly), and I can’t even recall where or how the hell we got anywhere.  All I know is at one point he handed me an Alex and Ani bracelet with the Mystic charm on it as a thank you.  I said I didn’t do anything to be thanked for…..I should’ve known.

We go to load the spectacular flower arrangements into his car and it’s cluttered with crutches, a scooter and his Mother-in-Law-to-be is asking what to do with the wheelchair. I’m confused – who the hell is needing all this damn geriatric equipment?  Is the whole damn Avalon assisted living compound coming to this wedding?  Oh, I didn’t tell you Peter says, “Holly missed the last step into our driveway and broke her ankle.”  After the initial shock wore off, followed by speaking a few words of encouragement to the bride on how great her scooter wedding will be (she didn’t buy it), we loaded the arrangements into both our cars leaving the bride in the front seat with her patriotic foot – red toenail polish, white bandage wrapped around a blue foot.

We pull up to the wedding venue and Peter has the first two arrangements and is rushing up the stairs.  I had a BAD feeling watching him and then in that slooooow motion he falls up the stairs shattering the glass of both arrangements with his sausage fingers all in the mix.  I put mine down on the stairs and ran to find someone with a band aid and mop-eeen.  All the while this is happening, Holly is in the car pulled up far enough that she can’t see what’s going on…not yet anyway.

In between humping the remaining I don’t know how many damn arrangements up those hexed stairs with shin splints forming, it’s determined by the wedding hall employee (former nurse) that Peter needed stitches since he’s bleeding like a stuffed pig, and I’m sure the damn baby aspirin he eats daily as a blood thinner didn’t help matters.  This would be the same young woman who convinced Holly to go for X-rays on her ankle only a few days prior so she was at the eye rolling stage.

We finally had to come clean and break the news to Holly that the bleeder needed to make a trip to emergency care, and asked the woman from the wedding hall to drive Holly back to the room so she could get ready for the rehearsal.  I drove Peter to an emergency walk-in 20 minutes away.  This was where it got real interesting because the tables were now turned.  My brother was asking me what I thought about the “trip” down the stairs and the “shove” up the stairs.  All I know is I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.  We made fast friends at the Emergency Care, nurse Judy giving us our own Kleenex boxes because of our hysteria.  Once they learned the bride had broken her ankle and we were completely missing the rehearsal, they took pity and processed the sausage thumb pretty quick.  Turns out, Peter’s sausage thumb didn’t need stitches because there wasn’t skin to stitch since he sheared the tip off.  So, they dressed it up wedding formal nice with some foam skin growing crap and wrapped it up gift worthy.  I jokingly asked if I could score a few splints and bandages for the remainder of the weekend.  I did lift a few of those handy umbrella bags on the way out the door so the jerk had something to put on those sausage links to shower so he wouldn’t smell on his wedding day.

I haul and drop his ass off to the already ended rehearsal and fly back to Motel 6 to change for the rehearsal dinner because all I had the entire day was a Starbucks latte and a piece of lemon cake, and a headache from laughing.  As I’m driving to the restaurant it’s pelting rain and I no sooner plant my strappy sandals on the flooding pavement, open my umbrella, there’s bolts of lightning feet away.  To the heavens I say, “Okay! You’re taking this a little too far!  We get it.” I knew who was behind this, and it turns out I wasn’t alone in my thinking.  I was greeted by my nieces and nephews giving me the look of who was behind these wedding debacles.  We were beginning to wonder if the bride and groom were even going to show up at the rehearsal dinner at all.

I woke up at 3 am the next morning having to shuffle my shin splinted, fat ass in search of antacids.  It was a 50/50 shot – I was either having a heart attack or suffering from a mixture of 2 double seabreezes, 1 sauvignon blanc, 1 bailey’s, along with the unusual combination of food I had scarfed down due to starvation, and I’m not a foodie by any stretch.  Obviously my stomach was acting like a cement mixer churning it all because to the dismay of some, I woke up.

The day of the wedding I hid for fear of anything else that could go wrong and showed up right along with every other guest.  The wedding was thoughtful, beautiful, the weather was perfection, and the bride didn’t scooter down the aisle but looked magnificent perched on a bar stool.  She danced her first dance on her broken ankle.  Their love song selection prior, during, and after the ceremony did impale some of the divorcees like a deer on a wrought iron fence with the spear finials because they told me so, not that the running mascara on their faces wasn’t enough of a telltale sign.  They were still crying trying to re-group at the cocktail hour, and as much as I can sympathize with them, I know unless you move forward you’ll always be stuck in the past and you’re not going back there.

With that said, my new Sister-in-law has many wonderful adventures that lie ahead with this family who has embraced her wholeheartedly with so much love and admiration.  In my heart I do believe my Sister-in-law, Barbara, has been with our family in spirit on multiple occasions since her passing and has made her presence known at my niece’s bachelorette party, in my great niece’s crib, preventing my getting a ticket twice within 14 hours, pennies left on a pillow, my nephew’s house (her childhood home), via song choices that “just” happen to come on the radio at inappropriate moments, and the crowning moment of this push & shove wedding.  For as many of my family members that embrace these signs, there are just as many who are uncomfortable with it, and I respect that.  In my world, spirits just want us all to know that you continue to be loved  and watched over by them, and have brought peace to so many that are grieving.  Some might even give you a little push or a shove so that you will acknowledge.

I will be writing about a woman I met over a loveseat.  Her name is Marion, a Medium and Spiritual Healer.  My Mother , Jenny, inserts herself quite a bit through Marion, and she describes Jenny as Lily Tomlin in Saturday Night Live, jawing on the phone – one ringy dingy – two ringy dingy, with pink curlers, smoking a cigarette or with a group of women doing the same.  That would be a most accurate description.

 

I will be a reader at my Brother’s wedding today, and I received said reading so I could familiarize myself with it beforehand. When I started reading it, I said to myself, Oh, dear Lord they have got to be kidding.

Mistake #1 – they chose me to read this.

Mistake #2 – was giving me time with it. If they had any good sense at all, they would’ve given it to me at the rehearsal.  Oh wait!  I missed the rehearsal along with the groom-to-be because I had to take him to an emergency care center.

Falling in Love is Like Owning a Dog by T. Mali

On cold winter nights, love is warm. Oh yea, and so are hot flashes

It lies between you and lives and breathes Oh, and snores like a buzz saw

and makes funny noises.  Oh, like flatulence?

Love can wake you up all hours of the night with its needs. Oh, Sweet Jesus I’m not even going there

Love can give you a sense of security:

When you’re walking down the street late at night

and you have a leash on love, Oh, or shackled & drawn

ain’t no one gonna mess with you. Oh, ok killer -taco bell dog

Love needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy. Oh, NOT touching this one

Love does not like being left alone for long. Oh, because you’re looking at what happens

But come home and love is always happy to see you.  Oh, I give it a month then it’s back to the old chew toys

Love may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life, Oh, or accidentally throw something that perhaps makes contact with your head

but you can never be mad at love for long. Oh, really?  Apparently someone doesn’t watch 48 Hours…

Love leaves you little surprises here and there.  WHAT???? No! No! No!  There are Depends so you don’t leave little surprises here & there. Matter of fact I was so worked up about both of you leaving little surprises, I bought you his ‘n her Depends as a wedding gift.

Love makes messes.  What now????? You already left little “surprises!!!”

Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.  Oh, like what? Therapy?

Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper

and swat love on the nose, Oh, or a salad bowl to the back of the head

But then love gives you big kisses,

And you laugh at the little things.

Sometimes love just wants to play.

Running you around the block, leaving you panting. Oh, bless you two because I can’t make it to the refrigerator without panting

It pulls you in several different directions at once,

or winds around and around you, yea, Oh, just like a swirling vortex of insanity

until you’re all wound up and can’t move.

And love brings you together.

People who have nothing in common but love stop and talk and greet each other on the street. Where the heck do you live? I don’t know of any such person in the Northeast. In fact, when Northeasterner’s see another human approaching, their neck swallows their head like a turtle to avoid any eye contact whatsoever.

Most importantly, love needs love, and lots of it.

And in return, love loves you and loves you and never stops.

My Sister-In-Law to be is so sweet and geniune, I will read this today MINUS my snarky inserts because she has endured enough with this whole wedding fiasco.  Holly is a beautiful soul – always graceful and kind, the quintessential lady, and that’s no easy feat when a) marrying a man whose family suffered the loss of their Mother too young, and b) marrying into our family period. Holly is who she is, and is embraced by all for exactly that reason. 

However, I cannot promise I won’t roll my eyes, start laughing uncontrollably or long pause on some of those lines.  I can’t be who I’m not either.

Stay tuned for Part 2…Falling In Love….crutches, scooter, wheelchair, half a thumb’s up.

 

 

 

Cell phones = The Devil

These are solely my observations and if I’m off base, by all means feel free to call me out and share your perspective.

When you’re in another person’s company, especially a person you have chosen to spend time with, do you ignore your phone, tuck it away and give them your undivided attention?  Or are your loved ones/people in general no longer worthy of uninterrupted time from you?  Unless you have a wife in her 9th month of pregnancy or a loved one close to taking their last breath, why would you ignore the still warm and breathing person you’re with.

In August, me and my group of friends did our rooftop bar crawl in the NYC meat packing district.  Our first stop was the rooftop of the Standard Highline.  It was a spectacular evening, view, cushy astro-turf, furniture, and pitchers of Mona Lisa’s (adult Italian Koolaid).  My crew was watching me watching people –  Gay, straight, beautiful, Asian, it didn’t matter.  Every couple had one thing in common, can you guess what it was?  They were all on their phones.  If they weren’t scrolling on their phones, they were taking selfies with the incredible view as a backdrop then naturally had to show everyone on social media that they were having an amazing time….ON THEIR PHONES.  Right after the selfie shot, of course they had to post the selfie, followed up by now having to see how many likes they got.  It is now the way of life to instantly alert everyone that your life is beautiful (or portrayed as such)  so some depressed, lactose intolerant sitting home with a shovel in a gallon of ice cream can feel even worse about their lives.

What I want to know is where’s the Instagram of you not making it to the bathroom in time and having to throw your pants out in the garbage, sneaking out of the bathroom wearing your jacket as a skirt, and you’re a man.  Where is the post you had to go to the Vaginologist because your who-ha accidentally ate your tampon?  Where is the photo of all your kids beating the shit out of each other and crying while you’re trying to take the family Christmas card photo in the matching ugly Xmas sweaters?  Where’s the school picture of your kid when his/her head hasn’t grown into those bucky beaver teeth that could do a cord of wood in an hour?  Huh? Huh?  I want to see those pictures.  Those Posts. Every day life of shit happens.  Not just the version you wish to portray.

Now this here is a real gem – the Queen of Versaille texting behind her daughter’s casket.  This photo stirred so much negative feedback, a newspaper writer responded on her behalf with, “There’s no authoritative manual that tells us how to grieve.”  Apparently not ass wipe, and if that wasn’t tasteless and disrespectful enough, there’s always the family selfie shots and photos of the casket.  Who the hell warrants enough importance to be texting at your child’s funeral honey?

The Word on Selfies – Go ahead, take shit boats to make sure you get 300 likes on social media.  It’s teaching the next generation that life is all about the physical image you portray online that’s important versus the inner person you can become.  Loving this article, “Selfies are Deadlier Than Sharks.” Hey!  As long as the selfie doesn’t show any billy goat hairs emerging from my chin, I’ll back off a cliff to get the perfect photo.

http://www.foxnews.com/health/2015/09/22/selfies-more-deadly-than-sharks-reports-show/#.VhD9MEXw8Vk.email

Then there are times when cell phone placement or absenteeism isn’t necessarily out of respect for your companionship.  Over the years, I’ve watched significant others and their placement of cell phones whether it be face down or purposely left somewhere out of reach.  Like I said, this isn’t always out of respect,  and there’s a real good chance there’s a juicy chapter in that phone.

My daughter’s childhood friend posted something in regards to people embellishing their lives on Facebook, but she knew it was only a smoke screen for what their life was really like.  I responded with:

This is what I know:

• You love (your boyfriend) to the point that you squeeze him til he screams for a breath of air.
• Your sister works at a pool joint & puts up w/no b.s.  Can’t pull one over on her. EVER.
• Your Momma just wants peace in the world & likes everything that isn’t negative.
• My daughter loves her boyfriend awful.
• My other daughter don’t want no one to know nuthin.
• Me – Drinks well with many others. The rest will be published.
• CONSTANT posts from “Real men don’t cheat” means your man dung you wrong.
• Posting photos. Careful there people. You never know what’s in the background. Perhaps your shadow while taking a picture of a tv screen when you’re supposed to be AT that game.
• Family portraits when the world knows your separated means nice try liar liar pants ablaze.
• MY PERSONAL FAVORITES -#1- CONSTANT selfies- Get a shrink. Get good medication. If people need social media to reaffirm how good or beautiful they look all the time then you gotta start loving yourself.
• #2 – What’s with that stick your hip out pose? Keep that shit up & you’ll need hip replacement! You look stupid. Just f’ing smile. It doesn’t make your boobs look bigger either.
• #3  – Airing the dirty laundry. Just call the jerk up & rip them. No one cares to read your posts while you’re sticking pins in a voodoo doll.
• #4 – Quotes – They tell ALL about your life or lack thereof.
• #5- Gym check ins. I’m sitting here making animal figures with my silly putty stomach.

I know who is religious or spiritual.  Who is against animal cruelty & for God sake you don’t have to post a picture of a puppy being hung to prove it. It just gives another sociopath kid/adult an idea. I know who hates Obama, who is a racist/reverse racist, a police supporter & non supporter, who has cancer, who has angels, who died, family members in heaven…who is a good soul, who is not, who is a liar, who needs intense therapy, who’s struggling with something & who’s mentalpausal.  It’s all there….welcome to social media. And I came up with all this whilst removing 3 dozen acorns with my toes at the bottom of my public pool.

Personally, I gain much knowledge from my personalized Facebook feed.  There are wonderful articles from Collective Evolution and Spirit Science, Living a Life of Purpose just to name a few.  I love seeing family photos, new babies, Throw Back Thursdays, friends goofing on each other with funny posts that apply, and more importantly I can keep tabs on friends who’ve moved. I will hit the “Unfollow button” on disturbing posts because people don’t realize how much it effects people like me.

My hope for my children’s generation – I hope as you grow older and more forgetful, you’ll be able to recognize your friends by their posted pictures because Lord knows it won’t be from the annoyance of having to actually communicate face to face and listen to each other like in the prehistoric times circa 1990 and prior.

I like talking to people face to face.  I appreciate eye contact and that’s difficult for some people.  I like the personal touch of hugging someone after a conversation or giving their hand a squeeze. Is there an emoji for that?

For the longest time, I had an actual red dot age spot right smack in between my eyebrows and some wise ass would always ask if I owned a 7-Eleven, and then one day it was just gone. Wish I could make that happen for a few other things that are now attaching. Just as we say death comes in 3’s, so did Red Dots for me.

Red Dot to Airport:  This 4am trip took the prize.  My pick up was 3:40am and of course being the anal retentive punctual person I am, I loaded in on time from the Marriott.  One more client was supposed to be picked up along with me, but he wasn’t there yet so we hopped over to the next hotel and picked up big boy, the Gurgler who sits behind me.  We go back to the Marriott, and the driver is calling the missing client, Tyrone, on his cell and it’s going straight to voicemail.  How I knew it was a Tyrone is because the van was equipped with a mounted tablet that displayed all your personal information for the entire world to see.  Tyrone was clearly on CPT (colored people time) and since our driver was a kind of brotha himself (Jamaican) and understood such things, we waited.  Tyrone took his sweet ass time sauntering out and hoisting his double wide ass in next to me taking up all of the two remaining seats leaving me a solid 6 inches.  No greeting, no apology, no nothing.  Oh, happy day – the Doo ragger next to me and the Gurgler behind me. I don’t know what the hell orifice those noises were coming from all the way to LaGuardia, but something was about to implode and it wasn’t going to be pretty. I was just hoping there were no leave behinds from the Gurgler in the Vanna White after he was offloaded.

I must have some sign over my head that reads “Therapist” or “Minister” or both.   Jamaica hadn’t even put the gear in drive after offloading Doo and Gurgler, and began telling me his woes and about how he likes older women.  He was 37 and was married to his first wife for 18 months, and they had two children which I told him was very impressive since last I heard it takes around nine months to produce a baby.  Then he was married to a woman 14 years older, but he couldn’t stand her kids. My guess is because her kids were his age and they fought like siblings.  Now he’s on number 3, an American woman versus Jamaican. Number 3 was trying to get her dog walking business off the ground, but since Americano’s ass was fused to her sofa and t.v., it wasn’t likely she was into exercise, dogs or walking.  He tells me he’s really trying to make this marriage work by working multiple jobs, but he got to make “hisself” happy if you know what he means.  (Oh yea I know wha you mean you little hound dog you). He was all about making “hisself” happy and he don’t care if his wife catches him because he’s tried to make her happy and it ain’t working, so in order words, Jamaica was justifying his hall pass. Mind you, this all transpired the 12.3 miles between LaGuardia and JFK.

Knowing what I know about a lot of shit, in the .3 mile before I jumped out of the moving van, I straight up told Jamaica, “Find hisself !!!!  Hell! Three marriages in 37 years was almost a marriage a decade starting at birth, and leave that non-working lazy Americano ass on the sofa and figure hisself out.”  For any man to be married that many times and especially to one 14 years older, has some Mommy issues and should put himself up for adoption to find a Mother not a wife.

Jamaica got my name, number, and address but it wasn’t from me.  It was all in bright lime green on his tablet.  I just hope he never shows up at my doorstep with the Red Dot Vanna White loaded with his 2 kids, sibling/step kids, 2 Jamaican women, and 1 Americano holding a leash with a t.v. set attached to it.  Nothing would shock me anymore.

Red Dot Home – I had a flight home that landed 45 minutes early, and I called Red Dot, and the nice dispatcher told me my pick up was already at the airport and to call when I had my luggage.  Now how lucky am I? Apparently, not so lucky. Forty five minutes later and the luggage belt hadn’t even coughed out one suitcase from my flight, and of course I was anal retentive in getting to the airport early so I’m sure my bag was the first one on, since it was definitely the last one off.  Finally I get my bag and call again and they tell me where I’ll be picked up.  Everybody from my flight and the two flights after me are going, going, gone and I’m the last standing human icicle on the curb.  I call again and am told my driver was in the wrong place.  Ya think? but who am I to bitch just coming off a week in Aruba.  Then I meet Ephraim all apologetic, animated, and offering me a bottled water.  I noticed his English was very strained and since I was the only one in the van, I asked him where he was from. That’s all I ever have to do is ask one question.  Yes, I got a 45 minute version of how Ephraim literally won the lottery to come to America from Ethiopia to live the American dream.  I know how much he makes an hour, where he lives, where his sisters live, his hopes, his dreams of being a plumber, and his views on Americans. Someone shoved me a little levity up an orifice that night. It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip considering I got home 2 hours later than I would have if my flight wasn’t 45 minutes early.

I wasn’t home a full 24 hours and was already exhausted with my life of non-authorized, non-licensed, non-paid therapy that went into in full swing.  I ripped into a friend for her fucktardia-ness behavior, and it was warranted. I clenched my teeth, and kept a mental vice grip on the memories of my Tiki Cabana and dirty bananas served at 10 am.

In case anyone should wonder about my recall abilities, I’ve written most everything down somewhere on something.  Just ask my friends who had to come put it all in chronological order by subject matter.  I save my signature line, “the disk is full” solely for work shit.