Category: Relations

A LONG WAY TO GO

Published on by Diary of Ann Franks10 Comments

This week’s #Let’sBlogOff topic is: What one thing did you really want when you were a kid?

When I was 5, I longed for consistency and fairness. I had multiple stuffed animals and it was heart wrenchingly important that each had their turn in the rotation to sleep directly beside me. Otherwise, I was hurting their feelings. This was a very weighty responsibility for a 5-year-old to self assign. I was just strange that way.

When I was 10, I longed to grow up faster – to be 14, like my brother. To be allowed to run around with him and his friends and be “cool,” instead of being told I was too young. (Lord, when was the last time someone told me I was too young??)

(See? Totally cool. The tank, the socks…the bolo tie I think he’s wearing with the tank…Okay, maybe I was too young to judge correctly.)

When I was 12, I longed for peace. I wanted mom and dad to get a divorce. I was tired of going to sleep at night to the angry sounds downstairs. (I have told each of them this, so I’m not opening any new scabs.)

At 14, I longed for familiarity. My folks actually divorced and no one really knew how to deal with it. The change cost me (not to mention them) friends we’d known all our lives. Our new home situation was now something other parents didn’t want their children around. Then again, mom DID let me watch Three’s Company, and Soap, so maybe they were right to be protective.

Around the age of 16, I yearned for acceptance. I wanted to be beautiful and would have traded my very soul to be popular. Instead I was awkward, shy, self-conscious and an absolute sheep. I should have longed for a brain, like the Scarecrow. (Sometimes the greatest gift is actually NOT being accepted. Take a brief dance break and cue Lady Gaga’s “Born this Way” or Pink’s “F-ing Perfect.”)

At 18, I longed to be 15 again. That was the last summer I didn’t have a job. A little notice would NOT have gone amiss, people. Something like, “Enjoy this one, because it’s the last!” Seriously.

At 21, I longed for independence, freedom, adventure… Barring that – important things like long hair, a Corvette and a tan.

By 35, I realized I’d left too many things to chance. Somehow I thought things I longed for would happen if I just continued to breathe in and out every day: To be a good wife and mother. (At some point I realized this may not happen in the preferred order, but I didn’t let myself even speculate on other possibilities.) To be a famous author. To produce “Out of Africa,” (Okay, so that was already done by someone else, but I still wanted the credit for it.) To have close friends (and be a good friend in return). To make my parents and family proud. To contribute in a meaningful way. To have no regrets.

Some of those longings have been satisfied over the past (unintelligible mumble) years. The majority are going to require a bit more tending – to say the least. They will require serious work, personal risk, courage and perseverance not equaled since the stuffed animal rotation of ’72-’74.

Wish me luck.

Maybe I should have just written about the pony I wanted at age 7 and left it at that. Or my current longing for all those naps I skipped.

To see what others have written on this Let’sBlogOff topic, Click HERE.

FEEDING FRENZY

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There is a plot afoot to starve me to death. I can tell because usually, we HAVE food in the house. Typically, the only issue is that I get a handful of chips or crackers or what-have-you and the rest gets sucked into the gaping maws of Hubby and his partner in crime – Austin – the minute I leave the house.

But this is different. Hubby has NOT gone to the store AT ALL. In at least a week. I’ve decided it must be some sort of last-ditch diet effort before we go to the beachy family reunion. The problem is, the lack of sustenance is making me a very dangerous human being. (Forget beachy, I’m leaning way more toward bitchy.)

Yesterday for breakfast, I had a trail mix bar that had been in the bottom of my purse for 2 months. For lunch, Hubby sent me to work with a Lean Cuisine. Chicken. It had the consistency of…let’s just say…NOT chicken. I popped a Valium and an anti-inflammatory just to get something on my stomach.

I SHOULD have had a good breakfast this morning. My co-workers and I take turns on Friday – as a little motivational treat. Usually, it’s some variety of breakfast tacos (from different origins). Thanks to the Jenny Craig Circle of Hell at home, I was a bit obsessed with the idea of food this morning. So what happens when I throw my stuff down at my desk and race over to where my co-worker has deposited his loot? I find the smallest damn breakfast tacos I have ever seen. One for each of us. One.

After inhaling the “teaser” tacos we pondered voting our inferior breakfast supplier out of our little club. Sure, it will be painful for him at first, but it may just save his life. You do NOT want to deal with four hungry (possibly hung over) women, one of whom is already undergoing a war of attrition on the home front.

So now, I am hunkered down at my desk with room temperature venison sausage and a handful of crackers that somehow escaped the cupboard embargo. Things are not looking hopeful for the afternoon.

We ARE, however, sporting a new motto in the marketing department:

Don’t mess with breakfast.

A DOG NAMED BACON

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I got into work today and opened my email to find a message from the North Texas Basset Hound Rescue.  I LOVE the NTBHR because they are the ones who helped bring Robert and me out of the depth of despair following the loss of our beagle/basset by introducing us to Daisy.

So, anyway, the message is titled Favorite breed alert.  I open it and find a link that takes me to this:

This, my friends, is Bacon.  Yes, Bacon.  Isn’t that fantastic!!  One, he’s adorable, and two, he’s named after one of my favorite foods.  So, of course, I’m excited and thinking this is FATE, and this is the doggy brother we are supposed to adopt for Daisy; the one who will keep her company while we’re away and such.  Side note:  My hubby has been against the two dog concept from the get-go, but I think having a buddy to hang out with will help relieve Daisy’s anxiety about being home alone.  (Not to mention  MY anxiety and guilt about leaving her home alone.)  Did I mention I never had children of my own? Yeah. This is the result.

Well, I quickly shoot off an email with that adorable picture to my hubby saying “Look!  Bacon!! He’s up for adoption!” Hubby quickly responded with a brisk and spirit crushing, “No boys.”

No boys??  No boys??! Uhm, excuse me, but where would we be if I had turned to him eight years ago when he introduced me to his TWO boys – aged 8 and 11 – and said, “Oh, sorry.  No boys.”

What?

“Sorry, Mister, but I have a strict ‘no boy’ policy. Please step out of the dating pool.”

In hindsight, I may wonder sometimes why I didn’t consider a no boy policy, but the point is I DIDN’T.  And for a good while  – and still to this day – I can be really frustrated and confused and oftentimes aromatically assaulted as I adjust to the whole BOY thing.  So why does hubby get off scot-free?  Why is he so anti boy?  ANTI BACON, even?  

He says boys lift their legs on things.  That may be the only thing our boys haven’t done to our furniture.  (Just kidding.)  (Not really. I’m serious.) And besides that, house trained is house trained. Bacon would never think of doing such a thing.  I can tell.  He’d fit right in with our current level of male conscientiousness around the house. Plus, he won’t leave a refrigerator door hanging open or forget to rinse his dishes.

And his name is BACON.  AND he looks like this on a floaty in the pool:

I WANT him. Who could NOT want him?

Mmmmmm, Bacon. 

Click here for info on Bacon!

WEIGHT FOR ME

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My husband and I have been gaining weight. He’s gained in the double digits x (I’m not telling – I have to live with him) since we got married and I’ve gained “none of your f-ing business” lbs. As a guy, of course, the weight gain is pretty much fine and dandy. As a woman, the “slight” weight gain is totally unacceptable, a disaster, and will potentially result in a lawsuit against my doctor. He’s the smart guy that told me hysterectomies don’t cause weight gain, Haagen Dazs does. If there’s one thing you want in an OB/GYN, it’s a snappy sense of humor.

In an attempt to lose some weight and gain some health, hubby has decided to give up adult beverages for a month. I applauded his determination and was suitably impressed until he suggested I give up adult beverages for a month as well. After I caught my breath from laughing hysterically, I told him, “No way, Jose.” (I believe in teamwork and mutual support, but there are some things that are sacred and unbreakable – like my relationship with Chardonnay.)

(Does this make me look fat?)

In my own defense, I HAVE cut down on my adult beverage intake. I’m also drinking vodka/sodas because they have a lot less sugar than my Chard. The point is, (as I remind hubby when he glares at me and my bottle of Svedka) I FEEL as though I am suffering. The pounds should be practically dripping off me, but they’re not.

In the good old days of my youth, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, all it took for me to lose weight was one small adjustment like that. Maybe I’d stop ordering fries or onion rings with my cheeseburger, or stop buying chips with a sandwich. (Don’t hate on me. I have LOTS of other challenges in life that make up for 35+ years without weight issues. LOTS.) No one – especially Dr. Wisecrack (no pun intended) ever warned me I’d eventually lose that glorious weight shedding capability. The bastard.

So, here we are, hubby and I – one of us sobering up, and one of us having sobering thoughts about having to be in a swimsuit in a mere three weeks. Maybe I should quit drinking after all. Maybe I should get that stupid jump rope back out and jump my ass off. Literally.

Or, maybe I should stop eating and JUST drink.

I’ll think about it at Happy Hour.

FATHER’S DAY CHORES

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Father’s Day is next weekend, the 19th. In the past that meant going to one of Dad’s favorite restaurants – Outback Steakhouse or Red, Hot & Blue. On Saturday I’d pick up something amusing for him – like lottery scratch-off tickets (always a big hit) or maybe a DVD of some TV show he’d just discovered – like Everybody Loves Raymond. (I don’t know why, but both sets of parents seem to discover TV shows a decade after they’re over.)

To me, family events like this always seem a bit of a chore. Not that I don’t enjoy my family. I’m just selfish and don’t like giving up any of my weekend for something I’m “supposed” to do. Plus, I’m not a great gift giver. I’ve NEVER known what to give people. I also never enjoyed trying to get two boys and a husband out the door in time to meet people half way across the metroplex for lunch – or dinner. (For some reason this is reversed in my house. Men are never waiting on me. I wait on them.) Really, that part alone was such a beating it just didn’t seem worth the effort to even take them along. Lord knows I threatened to drive off without them enough.

Last year, as usual, we had lunch with Dad and my stepmother, my brother and sister-in-law. During the meal, Dad went off on some crazy tangent about how the 50s were the best decade of them all, and why. Then, he moved on to bowling and everything he’d learned about it since he started working on the Bowling Museum. (Both discussions were actually connected, although bowling is NOT what made the 50s great.) After lunch we went our separate ways to await the next holiday that would bring us together. As we drove home with a sense of accomplishment, I sighed, relieved to be on the way back to the house for my other weekend chores.

Dad passed away unexpectedly in July. That makes this upcoming Father’s Day the first that I don’t have to wrangle people into the car or freak out about being late, get annoyed with Dad for repeating the same story I’ve heard a thousand times, OR for asking me (again), “You still haven’t seen Deuce Bigalow, Male Gigolo? Funniest movie EVER.” I also don’t have to stress over what gift to buy. His scratch-off lottery tickets are with him.

A word of advice: Spend time with the people you love. Don’t just squeeze it in.

Losing a parent is losing a part of yourself. Your history goes too. Who else can say “I remember when you were 4 years old and so afraid of the dark we had to sit in your room until you fell asleep.” Or from MY dad it’s more like, “Remember when you were 8 and I used to pants you in the grocery store?”

You miss those stories once they’re gone. But mostly you miss the person who told them. Turns out, you can even work up some serious nostalgia for being pantsed in the grocery store.

This year, I know a few things I never really knew before:
1. There will never be another individual in my life who finds no real fault with me, despite proof to the contrary.
2. Father’s Day is not a chore.
3. For the rest of my life, I’ll be watching Deuce Bigalow on Father’s Day.

WHAT CAN GO WRONG

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Back in my previous life as a producer of TV commercials, part of my job was to anticipate any potential disasters that could occur on the day of the shoot and be prepared with a solution. As a natural worrier, I was really quite good at this. I spent much of my life imagining the disaster ahead, so getting paid for it was a plus. I don’t think of my attitude as pessimistic, I think of it as preventative. You see, from the earliest days as a producer I learned if I was prepared for it, it didn’t happen. It was almost a game. Had I thought of absolutely everything that could go wrong? Yes, plus some. Did I have a solution? Yes. Did anything I’d planned for go wrong? No.

Sometimes OTHER things went wrong that I hadn’t considered. But it was usually something we managed to fix on the fly, with no real damage. So why didn’t the really scary stuff happen? Because I had imagined the worst and was prepared. I’m sure of it.

Following this “Worry about it, have a plan, and it definitely won’t happen” rationale, I will present a few of the things I fear:

  1. Stepsons will finish college (or not), be unable to find employment, will return home to live on my couch watching TV too loudly for the rest of my natural life. In the end, I will die in the living room and they will simply step over me (if I’m lucky) for the next few months until neighbors complain about the smell. (A little extreme, but you get the drift.)
  2. At least one of my stepsons will make me a grandmother in the next 5-10 years. (In which case #1 now includes a daughter-in-law and baby.)
  3. I will never have enough savings to retire, and instead will be the oldest marketing director on record in an office where the average age is 30. I will be referred to with alarming frequency as “Ann-tique.”
  4. Barbra Streisand will move next door to me.
  5. I will never be 100% pain free again. No neck pain, carpal tunnel, back ache or muscle spasms. (Sometimes, I swear, my hair hurts.)
  6. My husband will leave me for his girlfriend, Scarlett Johansson.
  7. My husband will NOT leave me for his girlfriend, Scarlett Johansson.
  8. I will be at a fancy hotel walking through the lobby and a pair of underwear will fall out of my pant leg. (Oh, wait. That DID happen. At the Ritz.)
  9. That more and more, people will ask who is the eldest – my brother or me. (For the record, he’s 4 years older.)
  10. Did I mention that grandmother thing? Yeah. That is TERRIFYING.

Don’t get me wrong. I worry about bigger issues than these. Family, friends, terrorists, economy, the government… But I can’t control (or try to control) absolutely everything, no matter how much I’d like to.

So from here on out, you people are on your own.

Except for family and friends. You still scare me.

GRADUATION DAZE

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In two weeks, my youngest stepson is graduating from high school. I feel Jurassic. This is the kid that was 9 when his dad and I married. I amused myself with the idea of people exclaiming, “You can’t possibly have a 9-year-old!” The truth was, I could easily have had a 9-year-old at that time; and a 12-year-old. Which is good, because that’s what I got. Full time 24×7 motherhood to a couple of boys who had little recent experience living with a woman. Especially a demanding, impatient woman with high expectations and a zero tolerance policy.

Poor things. I think we all suffered culture shock, and I’m not sure we ever got over it. But somehow we all muddled through. His older brother, Derek, is at Missouri, finishing his sophomore year. That brilliant “only for special occasions” brain is finally seeing daylight. He’s going to knock their socks off.

Austin thinks he’ll stick around next year and attend community college to get some basics completed. His father and I are not complaining. I never imagined myself suffering from empty-nest syndrome. Frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t been counting the days in anticipation of a house that has no dishes in the sink, no cabinet doors left open, and my sodas still in the fridge when I want one.

Instead, I remember those little boys on the wedding day in their tuxes. Their dad’s best men. I remember how Austin turned green and nearly fainted during the ceremony. (I TOLD him not to lock his knees.) I think about the times I forced them to watch old movies with me, or listen to my running commentary during the Academy Awards. School concerts and sporting events. Meetings with principals (too many) and teachers (way too many). Then there were the groundings, celebratory dinners and funerals.

It’s been a busy 8 years. So busy, in fact, I probably haven’t told them I think they’re amazing.

Best men, indeed.

AND THE DIAGNOSIS IS…

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This whole post may be in bad taste. That said, I was on the phone with my mother yesterday and she was telling me a friend’s daughter had been diagnosed with some sort of mini-seizures. Apparently, the child may have had them for years but no one noticed until recently. From somewhere in the recesses of my brain I supplied the name of the condition. Petit mal seizures. Mom was impressed. So was I. Good news! My brain is not as pickled as I thought.

I googled “petit mal seizure” and read through the symptoms. Eureka! It is very possible my stepsons have had this problem all along, and I too, missed it. (Lord knows I tested them for everything else – ADD, ADHD, autism, depression, dyslexia…) The diagnosis came back the same every time: They’re boys.

I am only half-joking when I say the symptoms could easily be attributed to either of my “steps” AND to most teenagers of my acquaintance.

Symptoms include:
1. The person stops walking or talking mid-sentence. (I always thought they just lost interest.)
2. Hand fumbling. (Don’t get me started.)
3. Fluttering eyelids. (That’s usually the “tell” that they’re conscious.)
4. Lip smacking. (Only after eating cookies.)
5. Chewing. (I assume this is without food involved, so that’s a no.)
6. Staring episodes. (Both these kids space out all the time. I think they are either sleeping with their eyes open, or imagining what their lives will be like once we are dead and they inherit all our flat screens.)
7. Lack of awareness. ( They have both been unaware that sound travels since I first met them. Unaware that they are blocking the TV when standing 6 inches in front of it, and unaware that the refrigerator door does not close itself behind them.)
8. Sudden halt in conscious activity. (One of the boys once left the car parked and running, with the door hanging wide open for several hours until a neighbor called to let us know.)

I will hold out hope they will be miraculously cured upon reaching their mid to late 20s. But I’m not placing any bets. Their father still exhibits symptoms 1, 6 and 8.

Symptoms description from MedlinePlus.

PUTTING THE FUN IN FUNERAL

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Due to the passing of a friend of mine last summer, and my father (unexpectedly – the day BEFORE my friend) I have been thinking about funerals. Not obsessively or anything, just in passing. (Oops, no pun intended.)

I have attended fewer than a dozen funerals in my life, and frankly, they have been pretty much what you would expect. Pretty solemn. Rarely, someone who knew the departed would speak and elicit a little “acceptable” audience laughter.

My father’s service in late July changed my funeral paradigm. I wanted to speak, but my brain was not functioning. I have a whole new respect for family members who speak at funerals. There was not enough Valium in the world to get me through that experience.

Thankfully, friends of my father performed the eulogy. There were three speakers, all of whom were close to him and able to share fond memories. However, one individual in particular went above and beyond. Briggs grew up with dad in Maysville, Oklahoma and attended OU with him. He appreciated dad as a friend, an artist and a non-linear thinker. He was a gold mine. The man knew almost every embarrassing/hilarious story involving my father and was perfectly willing to share each of them with us. In church!

It was fantastic. Briggs was sometimes emotional while speaking, but fought his way through and delivered one story after another – zinger after zinger. I sat in the front row with my family, alternately wiping away tears and laughing so hard I thought I would fall off the pew. I cast a few nervous glances at the poor, unsuspecting minister, afraid he would walk out, and half hoping he would because Briggs was obviously editing out some good parts.

My friend’s funeral that afternoon was similar. Several speakers, all of whom knew her well and were able to tell stories that brought an amazing mixture of laughter and tears – an incredible gift – just when you thought you would never laugh freely again. It was such a relief to have a similar “vibe” to both services. That day we all agreed – family and friends – if we didn’t keep laughing, we would never stop crying.

If you don’t have a friend who can do this type of eulogy at your service, get some new friends. PAY someone. Hire them. Do whatever it takes. It is a tragedy to sit through a service that feels like one-size-fits-all.

How lucky my father was. And Leah. We should all be so blessed in our friends.

So, who’s doing your eulogy?

Here’s a link to some of Bill Rogers’ art work. (Gallery.)

Side note: I have Briggs’ typed and hand edited eulogy from the service and will treasure it. The stories he couldn’t tell, the paragraphs he crossed out, the words he highlighted as inappropriate for the venue. (Thank goodness.) Even a few sentences here and there directly addressed to my father. It’s the most hilariously inappropriate and yet heart-warming combination of emotions I have ever had the pleasure to read.

CLEAN UP! THE MAID IS COMING!

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I had a maid when I was single and living in a two-bedroom apartment. She came once every two weeks. I was completely spoiled. Then I got married and moved in with my husband and my stepsons who were 9 and 12 at the time. Much to my husband’s dismay (he’d never had a maid before) I brought Atilana as part of the deal. Every two weeks she would come to dig us out of the unsightly mess we had created. Laundry was the main selling point for a man with two boys who changed clothes as many times a day as Anne Hathaway hosting the Oscars. The super-great amazing thing about MY maid, is that she actually washes clothes, irons and / or folds them and puts them away. Ask around.  There aren’t many who will do more than maybe shift your already washed clothes from the washer to the drier.

With joyful hearts, the husband and boys anticipated the maid’s bi-monthly arrival. What they did not understand was the preparation that goes into having a maid. The night before Atilana was scheduled to clean, I would clear off counter tops, start a load of laundry, lay out fresh sheets for the bed, take out a load of trash, force the boys to put all their clothes that were on the floor into the laundry basket, and straighten their desks. To the mystified men in my life this was completely insane when in just 12 short hours, a maid would be arriving who needed something to do. I, on the other hand, wanted to make certain we didn’t frighten the maid away with our disaster area. 9 and 12-year-old boys have serious hygiene deficiencies and an aversion to drawers and closets.

Eight years later I still race around the house muttering “We can’t let her know we LIVE like this!” Sure, to the men it looks as though I am doing the maid’s job, but they don’t realize that under all that major cleaning stuff is the minor cleaning stuff that is even LESS fun. Dusting ceiling fans, blinds and floorboards, cleaning the inside of the fridge, polishing silver, TOILETS. I won’t even go into the inability of a 9 or 12-year-old to take proper aim. To this day, if I threw Cheerios or Fruit Loops in the toilet as targets, I cannot fathom any degree of success. But with luck, my angel of mercy will continue to clean up after all of us.

I know my clean up sessions are not as thorough as they used to be. After all this time she has probably caught on to our imperfections. When someone scrubs your toilets by hand and folds your undies, there probably aren’t a lot of secrets you’re keeping from them. Let’s all agree to stop the pre-cleaning madness. Embrace the disgrace! We need to just give up, admit we are pigs (or live with them) and hand over a little extra cash to assuage our guilt.

Now, hand me the Comet.