Time

It always seems there will be more time later. Time to hear a loved one's voice again, time to share a meal. Time to paw through a thrift shop together again, time to take another photo. But sometimes, time runs out all of a sudden.

If I had known my sister's last day was rushing towards me, if I had known time was about to run out, how very differently I would have treated the time.

My sister's time ran out on me and who would have ever guessed? On Wednesday morning, she never woke and no one knows yet why. It takes scientists and doctors, clinical and detached, to discover why her time ran out at 42. And I am left with regret. Her voice was only a phone call away; how I wish I had recently heard it. Her zany humor was available to me whenever I would have planned to spend a day with her. Did I think I didn't have time then? I don't have time now.

I found a note she wrote me when Lydia died. She was living in Florida then, but urged me to come see her at a moments notice, if I ever needed time to clear my head. Why didn't I? She told me if I needed anything at all from her, I could have her on the next flight out. I wish I had taken the time.

She told me I was "absolutely precious to [her]". If only the time was not up, that I could experience again her boundless love.

Goodbye, Traci. You are absolutely precious to me, too. I'm sorry I did not take the time to show you.

A Book All Women Must Read

I was diddling around in the library today, waiting for Kyla to pile a half-dozen cat books into her tote, when an interesting title snagged me from a nearby shelf: What Did I Do Wrong? When Women Don't Tell Each Other the Friendship is Over by Liz Pryor. I was hooked immediately. You mean this is a universal female experience? I had no idea!

Has it happened to you? Have you been merrily going along with someone, maybe even approached best-friend status, when the ass dropped out of the whole operation? The phone? Abruptly silent.
E-mails? Absent. Dinner invitations? You're eatin' alone now, friend.

I'm only half-way through reading the book, so I can't say for sure if there's any useful help here. But if you've ever been inexplicably dumped by a friend, there's commiseration in spades. Or maybe you're the dump-er. I've done that, too. There was that one very pretty, super-fun friend I met years ago when my daughter was a baby. At first, I thought she was a lot of spontaneous fun. Then, I realized she was a psychotic, unstable powder keg who couldn't have carried out a day as planned unless she was straight-jacketed and wheeled around on a dolly. There was another chic I was getting friendly with once until she went postal over my daughter not coming to her daughter's birthday party. Apparently, two months prior I had signed some sort of blood pact that I positively wouldn't have other plans that day.

All that is not too big a deal if it's a newish friend you've just had one or two coffees with. Beg off a few times and the hint is gotten. The book is about the stunner that happens when a very close friend just bails, leaving you wondering what the hell happened. That happened to me years ago and it still hurts. Could it be that she just decided she didn't like me anymore? That is such a bitter pill to swallow. Don't we all want to believe all people should like us? At least all people that matter?

The book says - and I concur - that society doesn't even acknowledge the pain that can come from the demise of a friendship. If it's a marriage breaking up, or a love relationship, there's a whole section at the bookstore on coping. Hell, there are even books about grieving the loss of your job. But a dissolution of a friendship hurts at least as much, not that I know about divorce, but I'm guessing. The basic message is essentially the same: You no longer count with me.

See, the thing is that women are rarely straight with one another. And even if we were, would that make it hurt less? Which is worse: having a friend dump you while you wonder for ages why, or having a friend tell you straight up that they are sick of hearing you whine about your troubles, sick of you using big words, think your husband is lazy and besides all that, they can't stand the way you chew?

It's not any easier to be the one who wants to end the friendship. There is no bloody way I would spell out exactly why I want to end the friendship. No possibility. I am like most women, finding myself a little too busy until the dump-ee gets the hint. Fortunately, I've hardly ever had to dump a friend.

Wait. No. It is easier to be the one who wants to end the friendship. The fallout from being dumped lasts ages and ages. It strikes at your self-worth. It makes you wonder if you are bad, annoying, ungracious, obtuse, ugly, foolish, arrogant, myopic, egocentric, harsh, careless, thoughtless or just have halitosis. Then you think, no, it's just that she is. And besides that, she has bad taste in clothes.

Maybe it is better if the dump-er just spells it out. Then you can flatly deny it and get on with your life.

Perfect Attendance

Well, Kyla's chorus group has finished up for the year. Seven months of Tuesday practices - on reprieve until next September.

So, we had the Awards Night. I admit I have been more excited than Kyla about the Awards Night. Because, you see, I knew she was lined up for a Perfect Attendance pin. Twice in the last month the directors checked her attendance records with me and I checked it off. Yes, she has been to every practice and every performance.

The irony in the whole thing is that I hate the concept of an award for perfect attendance. Perfect Attendance has little to do with commitment; it has a lot to do with luck. Can you squeak through seven months of flu season without picking up the bug? Can you resist the Rhino virus swarming on doorknobs and telephones everywhere? If Aunt Martha sneezes on you over Thanksgiving dinner, does that really reflect poorly on your level of commitment?

As homeschoolers, we have the good fortune of being able to plan a ski trip during the week when the slopes are empty. However, I planned ours not to interfere with chorus, because winning that darn pin loomed on the screen of my mind. As I considered how much more I was paying to include Friday, instead of Tuesday, it did momentarily occur to me that I was a gigantic horse's ass for shelling out all that dough so Kyla could possibly still win the ninety-seven cent pin.

So, there was the rushing around and getting to the Award Night and the clapping as children received their Certificates and Bars for participation. After each round, the director would say, "And have I missed anyone?" - No, no mistakes, everyone got their certificates and bars. And then, at the pinnacle of the evening, all that we've been waiting for, they read out each marvelous child who remained healthy all year. And I clapped for each one. Until the end of the list. They didn't call up MY CHILD! I stood up to gain the attention of the director, but she didn't do that, "And have I missed anyone?" thing again, she just started walking in the other direction! Idiotically, I strode across the room calling her name. By the time I had procured the eyes of every single parent, grandparent, aunt and uncle in the entire room, the director finally looked my way and I set her straight. To my hideous embarrassment, I called right out, "My daughter had perfect attendance!" The only slight relief came when another parent piped up, "Yeah, mine too!" So, after I paid the price by being a gigantic idiot bonehead in front of two hundred people, they gave Kyla her dime-sized "golden" pin.

I've decided. I will never again strive to have Kyla win that stupid pin. There could not be a more pointless award. I'm not sure why I lost sight of that.

I think next year I'll just order my own cheesy pin that says something like, "Outstanding", give it to Kyla and call it a day. And go skiing from Monday through Thursday when the slopes are empty and they practically give the lift tickets away.

Danish Mystery

Over the weekend, my husband went to our beach house for a clean-up. Somewhere along the line, he picked up a Pecan Danish by Entemanns. When he came home, he still had most of it left over. He invited the kids to have it for breakfast the next day.

Danishes and Donuts alike have always mystified me. How come they pass for breakfast? A danish is basically a piece of cake. A donut is basically a piece of cake. You can even get it with chocolate icing. Yet, if you had a piece of cake with chocolate icing for breakfast, you would have to go to confession. Imagine the mother who would pass out birthday cake to the kids for breakfast! Reminds me of that Bill Cosby snippet, "Dad is great! He gives us chocolate cake!"

How did pastries ever come to be viewed as breakfast food? I blame the British! It seems like the British would do that. Am I wrong here, people?

She was a good bathing suit saleswoman

I can't move my legs. They were just fine a week ago, but now I can't bend over to wipe up the splattered spaghetti sauce without contorting my face in agony. I'll pay a child a dollar, just to tie my shoes for me. And how did I get in this disastrous state? It all started with a trip to the bathing suit store in Columbia Mall.

My husband planted the seed, so I blame him to start. Then, that charming sales girl watered it. I had my right hand on a perfectly age-appropriate one-piece suit. My left brushed the considerably smaller bikini male fantasies are made of.

The short, bubbly sales girl came to my aide. "Hey, girl! Can I help you find sumthin today?" She asked jubilantly.
"Well, I was planning to get something like this," I started, pushing forward the suit that covered most of sins I've committed against my abdomen in the past 12 years.
"But, my husband would like to see me buy something like this." I touched the bikini gingerly, as though it might burst into flames at any second.

She sized me up. "Girl, you could wear that bikini. Let me see your stomach."
"I've had four babies." I apologized, as I pulled up my perfectly age-appropriate Lands End button-down shirt in inexplicable obedience.
"Girl! Make your husband happy and get in that dressing room! Get your hand off that old-lady suit and let me dress you!"

Before I knew what was happening, I was standing in the poorly-lit cubicle, appraising myself in a bikini small enough to fit in a napkin ring. The bubbly sales girl tossed an endless stream of suits over the door, many of which require hair-removal procedures named for South American countries. Eventually, though, through her barrage of compliments, I convinced myself that I probably could wear a bikini, if I would just get back on track with my workout.

Ah, that is the point, my friend. I jumped back into the weight-training routine I once did many babies ago, as if I had never taken an ice-cream-sundae-filled vacation of several years. And my quadriceps are definitely holding it against me.

It is good, though. (At least it will be once I recover. Mental note: go easier next time.) I've got a concrete goal. I want to live up to that suit! Here is the suit that will either kill me or spurn me into a hardbody:



Wish me luck!

Protest: Down with snacks!

I know I'm risking unpopularity by saying this. My husband told me, "You are in the minority." I'm sure he is right. All the other soccer moms go along with the program. Yet, perhaps somewhere across this great nation there are 3 or 5 other soccer moms who feel as I do. It is for them that I write. For them, I risk alienation on sidelines from Mt. Airy to Hagerstown.

I really resent the concept of the soccer snack.

It probably started out innocently enough. Perhaps there were a few coaches or generous team mothers who often brought a boatload of Oreos and Gatorade to the games. This made the other parents feel guilty, so they decided to share the task of feeding overpriced junk food to the athletes. So, they started out with a voluntary sign-up, which wasn't really voluntary, given the peer pressure.

What have we now? We have an obligatory list onto which our names automatically are written, which binds us to cram one more task into our overwrought brains. Now, not only do we need to discover where on God's green earth West Mountain Elementary School is (past the 12th dairy farm on the left), we also need to bring goodies for everybody. And a chair. And sippy cups for the preschooler. And water. And wipes. And bug spray. And a potty, just in case.

The thing is, lots of people bring snacks anyway, particularly if there are little siblings. When buying snacks for everybody, there's always that concern of just how healthy will the kids tolerate vs. just how junky you can go before the parents disapprove. And then you have all those food allergies out there, threatening to swell the goalie at the mere suggestion of peanuts. Couldn't we just bring snacks for our own families if we want?

One year, we had a coach who seemed (thankfully) to be fairly against sugary snacks, so he suggested that we all stick to the same snack: oranges. This was better in some ways. However, have you ever bought 12 oranges off season? It equals the cost of throwing a smallish party. And then you have the sticky-hands factor, so bring wipes and a trash bag also.

The idea originally was to spread around the cost and effort. Only now, it increases everybody's cost and effort. It's similar to the idea behind governmental health care. Instead of no one person paying more than others, everybody pays. Besides, do the kids always need a snack?

P.S. to my kids' fine coaches. Ignore this. I'll bring the snack as scheduled, as every good soccer mom does. I stop just short of real activism and merely bitch about things.

Wit with Words

I was visiting a writer's forum that I frequent at Writer's Digest online. One poster came up with a hilarious post titled, "Nome de Plume" (although it technically should have been Nomes). The premise was to come up with witty pen names for imaginary book titles.

At first, I couldn't come up with a single one, though I laughed out loud at those that others offered up. But I guess I put it in the crock pot of my mind, because as I was cleaning the kitchen this morning, they were coming fast and furious. Here are some of them:

"Revitalizing Americas Farms" by Bill D. Barnes
"Public Transportation Options" by Anita Carr
"Fun with CB Radio" by Mia Handel
"Disguise Your Baldness" by Donna Hatt
"How to Cope with Disaster" by Kerry Ohn
"Developing Patience" by Terry Long
"Winning Through Passivity" by Dwight Flagg
"How I Handle Difficult Women" by Frank Lee DeBeers
"Attracting Songbirds" by Robin J. Cardinal
"Win at Poker" by Holden Card
"Weather Forecasting Made Simple" by Will D. Weatherby

and, okay, this one is kinda dirty, but:

"Overcoming Erectile Dysfunction" by B. Holman

I had an absolute ball with this. Think up some of your own. I bet my mother would be great at this. I posed it to my daughter and she came up with this one:

"How to Cook a Perfect Homemade Meal" by Amelia Cook

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.