'Decept' is Not a Word

It was Thursday morning and the Homewood Suites free breakfast buffet in Charlottesville, Virginia was hopping. Somehow, someway, even on day five of our U.S. history tour, the self-serve waffle-maker hadn’t lost its luster. 

Three of us were positioned near the center of the newly renovated dining area at a high-top table; me with my laptop and my young sons on either side of me with their By the Great Horn Spoon tests (optimal test taking environment - I’m sure this is exactly what their teachers had in mind when I asked them to sign the independent study form and compile their assignments for the week). My parents were seated at a table directly behind the boys and me, and my husband was seated alone with his laptop in the furthermost corner of the dining room.

“Togetherness” without all the pressure of being “together”.

I caught eyes, for the fourth time, with a woman who had almost settled her four children into the seats of a nearby table. They looked like they ranged in age from not-yet-one to six. Her husband was tending to the youngest.

Good man.

“Do you home school?” She asked me as she took her own seat.

“No,” I smiled back. “We’re doing home study for the week because we’re traveling,” I told her. “I don’t think I could handle doing it full time.”

“I think that every single day.” Twenty-first century, adult Laura Ingalls Wilder gave me a small smile as she turned her attention toward her table.

I smiled a “pretend-knowing-smile” at her. Yes, I am a mom – like her. But of two – not four. And my two are the same age. And they started pre-school, and were delivered there by our nanny, at age three.

My eyes returned to my laptop screen but my mind continued to wander.

We could be friends, Laura and I. She’s self-deprecating, one of my very favorite qualities in a person. I could wear long denim skirts like her. She probably doesn’t drink but we could just hang out during the day, until around four on Fridays.

 I wonder what her husband does. Maybe he’s in the military. His hair is short.

I bet they pray all the time. I wonder what they pray for?

Peace?

More babies?

I glanced back over at my new best friend. She was staring out the window with a far-away look in her eyes.

Maybe not more babies. 

“Lizzie?”

“Lizzie, are you listening to this?”

My six and half foot, 73 year-old father was now standing right behind me, bellowing.

From the very beginning of time, Dick Bell has been loud. And over time, he has become increasingly deaf. His left ear is completely dead and his right ear is partially dead, though he does wear a hearing aid in that ear that may or may not be running on live batteries. He also has a condition that my mother calls “selective hearing”. All of this deafness has equated to more loudness.

  

I didn’t immediately look up from my laptop. 

Two can play at this game.

“Lizzie?”

"Boo-boo, I'm supposed to be the deaf one."

"Lizzie?"

“Boo-boo, are you watching this?”

He kept getting louder. I looked over at Nick and we shared a smile.

I then looked up at the giant monitor mounted high above the fireplace. Whoever hung it was instructed to take full advantage of the vaulted ceilings. I saw what my father so desperately needed my attention for: a Today Show concert. The sound was low but Closed Captioning was on. I didn’t recognize the group.

“Boo-boo, do you know them?”

“No, Dad. I have no idea who they are.” I did feel a little old and out-of-it saying the words but it was what it was.

Now Vince and Nick’s eyes were locked on the screen.

“Look at his hair. What’s up with his hair, mommy?” Vince asked.

“He’s an artist. Get back to your test.”

I clicked open an email from my intern.

“YOUR ARM BE SWEAT-ING…” My dad’s voice boomed from behind me. 

What the fuck?

“AND YOU DE-CEPT ME, BA-BY?”

He may as well have been standing on a soap box with a freaking bullhorn.

I looked up. My father was reading the Closed Caption text at the bottom of the monitor aloud, presumably to all Homewood Suites guests currently taking advantage of the free breakfast buffet.

I turned around and grabbed his arm. I looked up at him from my stool.

“Dad, what are you doing? Stop… Please… Be quiet. You’re soooo looouuud.” I tried to whisper-yell to get him to bring it down a few decibels…like that has ever worked…with him or my children.

“That’s not even a word,” Dick Bell continued. "'DE-CEPT' is not a word, Vince and Nick.”

Vince and Nick were now howling with laughter which meant my Dad had an audience and I was completely wasting my breath.

“YOUR ARM BE SWEAT-ING AND YOU DE-CEPT ME, BA-BY? What does that even mean?” Dick Bell directed his question to no one in particular as he stood, completely dumbfounded, in the center of the dining room.

I looked past my dad at my mom whose eyes didn’t leave her crossword puzzle. 

I looked around the room, locking eyes with several hotel guests. I was not met with a single “knowing smile” or even a “pretend knowing smile”.

Finally, I turned around and looked over at Laura who was already looking at me. I don’t know if hers was a look of confusion or disappointment but I did know then that it was highly unlikely that we would one day be friends.

***

The below is a link to the performance my father so enjoyed. The band is called The Weeknd. No, that is not a typo. I did not drop that last “e”. They are apparently deeply committed to both song-making and wordsmith-ing. They were performing their hit song Earned It from the 50 Shades of Grey soundtrack to promote the film’s DVD release.  

http://www.directlyrics.com/watch-the-weeknd-performs-earned-it-on-the-today-show-news.html

And in case you don’t believe me:

Mommy, what are my balls for?

Just a couple years ago at Griffith Park Observatory. That's one big ball.

You know that saying “You can run, but you can’t hide”?

Well, that shit is real.

***

I started running about three months ago. Not literally running - though I did sign up to do a 5K in a few weeks…more New Year’s resolution making gone awry. I don’t know who I think I am during winter break. That short reprieve from my ordinary existence before the New Year makes me think there are 36 hours in each day.

But I digress…

So this metaphorical running of mine started about the same week my family moved into our current rental house. Long, boring story seemingly without end there but the relevance of that rental house to this particular story is that the house can best be described as a cavernous, open concept, echo chamber. It is clean with modern finishes and absolutely nowhere to hide. Like I can stand in the kitchen, look down the hall and see the damp towels and pajamas that my matching nine-year olds have left in a heap on their bathroom floor.

That story definitely needs an end. Soon.

Now for my running story:

It was probably around 6:45 a.m. on a weekday morning back in early November. I heard the shower turn off, then the sound of singing. My kids love music. And my Nick always has a song in his head, just like his mother.

I remember a few summers ago while vacationing on Lake Tahoe with close family friends, I climbed back in the boat after water skiing and asked my best friend from college:

“What song was in your head while you were out there?” 

“No song,” she replied.

“Really?” I honestly couldn’t believe it.

“Really, Lizzie. And what song, may I ask, was in your head?”

“Hey, Jude.”

I had lived 37 years thinking everyone went through life with their own soundtrack pumping in their head. I can’t imagine living any other way.

And there I go digressing again…

Where was I? Oh, yeah.  So it’s about quarter to seven on a school day. I was drinking coffee and emptying the dishwasher while listening to Nick sing. Very standard stuff.  Then the singing stopped.

“Mommy?” That sweet sound echoed down the hall. 

“Yeah, honey?”

“What are my balls for?”

My chest instantly tightened.

“Uuuuuuummmmm…”

What the fuck.

“Uuuuuuuuuummmmmmm…”

This never would have happened in the old house. In the old house, at least five minutes would have passed between the time Nick stepped out of the shower, finished drying his balls, got dressed and came downstairs for breakfast. He would have completely forgotten how utterly perplexing his balls were during that time.


I started combing my mind for words.

“Well, honey, when you’re older…”


When you’re older, what? You need them to make babies? You’re going to tell a kid who doesn’t know what sex is that his balls are for babies.

I played the conversation out in my mind:

"My balls make babies? How do my balls make babies, Mommy?"

"Oh, the sperm in the balls, honey."

"What’s the sperm?"

"Oh, the sperm for the sex."

"Isn’t the sex hugging and kissing?"

"Yes, and the balls and the sperm and the babies."

WHAT THE FUCK!?!

Where is Jeff?

Jeff is in Portland.

“Uuuuuuuuuuummmmm…”

“You know what honey?” I tried to sound as casual as possible. “It’s kind of hard to explain. You should ask Daddy when he gets back.” (Sorry, Jeff. My back was against the wall.)

Somehow, someway, it ended right then and there. 

Fast-forward about three months to last Thursday at about 4:40 p.m. I’m in Ralph's on the phone with my Dearest of Dear Friends (DODF). Also very standard stuff. But I had some ground I needed to cover.

“Do you know what a nocturnal emission is?”

“Is it something that has to do with a car?” DODF was quick to reply.

“No, but good guess. It’s a wet dream.”

“Then, why didn’t you just say wet dream?”

“Because in the video that I watched this morning at the school district office, they used the term ‘nocturnal emission’?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

I then gave DODF the Reader’s Digest on the puberty video I had previewed that morning. The fourth grade, puberty video that will be shown to my sons: two, bona fide late bloomers, just like their mother.

“I still don’t understand why they didn’t call it a wet dream. Who makes these videos? We didn’t have these things and we figured it out.”

Oh, how I love the perspective of my friends who do not yet have or do not want children of their own. They, therefore, are not reeling in today's “Supposed Tos”. The “Supposed Tos” that we as parents of young children must navigate almost every single moment of every single day. The “Supposed Tos” that sometimes keep me awake at night, threatening to cloud my better judgment as I try to be the best parent I can be to my beautiful sons.

My beautiful sons who increasingly find themselves reeling in their own sets of “Supposed Tos”.  

“You’re right, DODF; but I didn’t know anything about anything when I was their age.”

“Dude, Dick and Carol told you something.”

“Apart from explaining to me that oral sex WASN’T talking about it when I was like fifteen, their lessons in sex education consisted of four words: KEEP YOUR PANTS ON.”

“I don’t remember talking to my parents about any of this either,” DODF admitted. “But that video sounds stupid and like it’s just going to confuse them even more.”

She was right. I was silent. Now reeling in the “Supposed Tos” in the frozen foods section at Ralph’s.

Apart from a few brief conversations with Jeff, I have remained silent since then; but the permission slip for the boys to watch the video came home yesterday. My three months of running will likely stop tonight, around the dinner table.

And by the way, I know Jeff and I will handle it. Though how well we handle it may be debated by our sons, hopefully with some humor, at some point in the future.

And it’s not the nocturnal-emissions-part that gets to me. It’s the growing-up-so-fast-part.

And the making-sure-I-am-equipping-them-with-the-right-tools-at-the-right-time-so-being-a-kid-is-as-much-fun-as-it-can-be-part.

That's what gets to me. That has me reeling way more than the “Supposed Tos”.

A super helpful image DODF (best friend from high school) texted to me following our phone conversation.

And I found this when I Googled “Supposed Tos”. Who knew Ashton  (a.k.a.: Chris) had it in him?

http://www.thecollegeprepster.com/2013/08/the-supposed-tos.html

And while not my cup of tea, there is a band called Nocturnal Emissions. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cn7UJ0IOf98


And Happy Anniversary, baby! 15 years tomorrow. Wow!

In The Moment

“Oh my God! Oh my God! There’s Road Bike Dad! That’s Road Bike Dad! We have to say hi! That’s his new car!”

I had just pulled into the left turn lane. The light was red and there weren’t many cars on the road. Not surprising as it was after 9 p.m. on a Wednesday night in the deep suburbs. Mayor Mom and I had just finished a couple hours of laughing and hitting the tennis ball around with Fun Mom and her husband. My cold was still bothering me and I was ready to go home - didn’t even hit the clubhouse for a glass of red after we played, much to Mayor Mom’s dismay. That is how tired I was. Plus, I have this stupid no weekday wine resolution hanging over my head…why do I make these resolutions? …and why, oh why do I feel the need to say them out loud?

“Who is Road Bike Dad? What are you talking about?” These random bursts of enthusiasm were not atypical for Mayor Mom but they were usually prompted by the sighting of a casual acquaintance or friend in a restaurant or the grocery store. I started looking at the cars around us, confused to say the least.

“Road Bike Dad! Ball Buster Mom’s husband! He just got that car and he is so excited about it!!! We have to go see him!!!” Mayor Mom was flailing around in the front seat in her giant, white puffy vest used exclusively for inclement California weather exercise. The vest practically swallows her whole.

“What car?”

“That yellow Corvette! Right there!” Mayor Mom was leaning forward, pointing through the windshield.

I looked over and saw the back end of a yellow Corvette and attempted to process the idea that Mayor Mom was presenting.

Ball Buster Mom let Road Bike Dad get a used, yellow Corvette? This can’t be right.

“Come on! We have to say hi! Oh my God! This is so funny!” Mayor Mom giggled away in excitement.

And now I am being asked to chase down this Corvette at 9 o’clock at night to do what? To say hi? I barely know this guy. She’s just so excited. Why is she so excited? Seriously, I don’t understand why she’s so excited. Should I be more excited? Is this me not being present? I do need to be more present instead of always worrying about what comes next. Another one of my resolutions that I have also said out loud. To too many people.

Jesus Christ. She’s still giddy over there. This must be really important to her. Don’t be a douche, Liz. Help your friend do her thing.

I looked around and saw that I had a clear opportunity to get out of the left turn lane and move into the next lane over. I signaled and moved over. We were now in the lane next to the Corvette but still two cars behind.

I was now equally committed to the mission.

The light turned green. My confusion continued to mount as I pressed my foot on the accelerator.

I know Ball Buster Mom pretty well. I enjoy her company. I have met Road Bike Dad a few times. Nice guy. Each time I meet him, I think about one of the first times I met Ball Buster Mom. She was telling a few of us about a gnarly accident Road Bike Dad had: thrown-from-his-bike-gnarly. And it wasn’t his first accident. Scared the shit out of me. I know their twin girls, too. Great girls. My family has actually vacationed with the girls – not their parents – along with a couple other families. These things somehow happen in tangled suburban lives.

And for the record, Ball Buster Mom’s name could also be No Bullshit Mom; Yah, That’s Not Happening Mom; or if pressed: No Way in Hell That’s Fucking Happening Mom. 

I turned to the Mayor who was now fighting with the window button.

“Let me get this straight. Ball Buster Mom’s husband just got a used, yellow Corvette? Is he having a mid-life crisis?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a CONVERTIBLE!!!” She gushed. Mayor Mom was clearly all in on the purchase.

“Why do you know all about this car?” I finally asked.

“Oh, Fun Mom and I saw him yesterday after tennis. He showed it to us in the parking lot. You should have seen his face. He just lit up when he was talking about it. He said Ball Buster Mom wasn’t so happy about it but he was so excited. It was so cute. Can you unlock this or whatever and let me put my window down?”

“Oh, sorry.” I reluctantly depressed the window lock button.

She’s rolling down the window. This isn’t just a casual, allegedly coincidental wave “hi”.  Mayor Mom is rolling down the fucking window so she can say hi to a guy she saw less than 36 hours ago and once again express her enthusiasm for his vehicle purchase. Who does that?

Oh shit! She’s OUT the window. She’s hanging out of the fucking window. Mayor Mom and her giant, white puffy vest are hanging out my car window. And she hasn’t been drinking.

We stopped at the next light side by side with our target. I craned my head to peer around Mayor Mom so I could be in the moment and offer my own, enthusiastic, bright-smiled, “hello” to Road Bike Dad.

And there, he wasn’t. In the driver’s seat of this particular used, yellow, convertible Corvette sat a husky, bleached-blonde, seemingly well-worn gal wearing sunglasses (at night). Her window was also down – not to offer a hearty greeting to her fellow drivers – she was smoking.

“That’s not him,” Mayor Mom uttered as she and her giant, white puffy vest shrunk back into the car and sunk deeper and deeper into the passenger seat.

“I can see that. Can we put the window up now?”

The rest of the drive home was spent howling with laughter to the point that I nearly took out several, orange, road construction pylons. The kind of laughter that truly cleanses the soul. The kind of laughter that only comes along when you are truly and completely in the moment.

So thank you, Mayor Mom, for helping me honor at least one of my new year’s resolutions. And on behalf of your entire community, thank for being you. I don’t think you realize the power your endless supply of bright smiles and cheerful “hellos” hold.

And Road Bike Dad, congrats on the new wheels.

Understated? Not so much. Fun? Infinitely so.

And Ball Buster Mom, it could be much worse:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2e5qfcbtfEI

My Treasures.

Vince joined me for the evening dog walk Sunday. Nick had joined his dad for the drive to the airport: the conclusion of Nana’s annual summer visit.

Good ol’ Nana. Played some golf, partied pool side, caught some fireworks, hit the beach, and had a few meals out.  Then she hopped on a red eye back to Indiana, went straight to work, and played in a golf event last night.

What I would give to know I’ll be getting after it like Nana does when I’m 62!

Vince held Stitch’s leash until the neighbor kid two doors down asked if he could join us. The neighbor kid wanted to hold Stitch’s leash and Vince obliged him.

How nice of Vince! I thought to myself. Until the first shiny object beckoned Vince from the gutter...

“Mommy, look!”

The neighborhood scavenging had begun.

I looked down.

“Dude, it’s a penny.” I couldn’t even feign enthusiasm. It’s not like he’s three.

“I know but I’m still getting it.” Vince leapt off the sidewalk and grabbed at the grimy, oily street.

“I agree that you should pick up all found money but the penny is face down. That’s bad luck,” I tried to reason.

“I don’t believe in that,” Vince was quick to reply as he scooped up his penny.  In this moment, very clearly his father’s son.

“Suit yourself.”

And so we continued down the sidewalk – a parade of sorts. Butter was in the lead – a completely erratic, seemingly methed-out Grand Marshal – tugging desperately on his leash in his attempt to sniff out whatever the hell he’s always attempting to sniff out. Per usual, Stitch was barely a step behind me, once again demonstrating his preference for me above all other beings. Neighborhood kid was several steps behind Stitch, utilizing the full expanse of the retractable leash. Neighborhood kid was also rambling incessantly, in a display of stream of consciousness reserved exclusively for the elderly, the clinically insane, and the early elementary set.

A few highlights:

1. “My Aunt and Uncle have two birds that had babies. Surely, they must be rich! They are small Macaws!”

2.  “I have $20.32 saved that I’m going to give to my mom and dad to buy the trailer we’re gonna get when my mom sells her old car and my dad sells the wheels he just cleaned up in the garage.”

And my favorite:

3. “You should take Butter to Pet Co. for training. That’s where I took my dog and he can do all kinds of stuff. My guy there can help you.”

Precocious little shit.

Vince trailed a little further behind the neighborhood kid on the sidewalk, dashing into the grass or the street, looking for filthy, useless crap.

“Mom, look!” Vince ran up to me from behind and thrust something white in my face. I thought it was a wad of paper.

“What’s that?” I stopped.  “Butter, heel!  Heel!  HEEL!!!”

Like that’s going to work.

I gave Butter’s leash a tug.

“It’s a shell.  See.  Look!” Vince was very enthusiastic.

I took the small, white object in my hand. Vince was right. It was a shell.  A piece of a shell. To be honest, I think it was one of those small, man-made shells you purchase by the bag at Michael’s or Pottery Barn – the way to beach up your decorative glass vessel without getting sand between your toes. I didn’t have the heart to tell Vince it was a fake.

“That’s cool, honey. Where’d you find that?”

“Uhhh. Back there somewhere.” He casually nodded back over his shoulder as he grabbed the faux shell from my hand and ran ahead.

I watched Vince closely as we all walked along. His eyes darted from left to right, scanning the ground. He’d stop occasionally, his eyes catching on something out of the ordinary. He’d bend over and take a closer look. Sometimes he’d reach down and pick up the object but ultimately reject it.

“Mommy, I hate it when you see a shiny object and it ends up being a piece of tin foil or a candy wrapper.”

“Trust me, honey, we all do.”

Just before we crossed the street to walk up our own driveway, his third and final discovery of the walk was made. He came running up behind me.

“Mommy, look!”

“What is it?”

Vince placed a rusty piece of broken metal in my hand. It actually had some weight to it.

“I don’t know but its metal.”

“It’s kind of heavy.” I had to admit it felt substantial in my hand.

“I know.” He looked into my eyes with his bright eyes and satisfied grin. In Vince's mind, he had just hit pay dirt.

I smiled broadly back at him.

***

Monday afternoon, when I went to retrieve the mail, I found the penny, the broken shell, and the rusty piece of metal inside the mailbox underneath the day’s mail.  I scooped them up, along with the mail and headed back up the driveway.

“Hey, Vince!” I hollered as I walked in the front door. “Guess what I found in the mailbox?”

“My treasures!” He yelled back from the den. “I put them in there to keep them safe while we played Nerf guns. Nicky, come check them out. I found this piece of metal…”

Vince's treasures.

For my treasures, who turn 9 today. May your every day hold as much promise as that dog walk!

My treasures.

stupidity

Just when I think there is no possible way her head could be lodged that far up her ass, it somehow nestles itself further still. 

I happened upon this today:

You come across (online comments) about yourself and about your friends, and it’s a very dehumanizing thing. It’s almost like how, in war, you go through this bloody, dehumanizing thing, and then something is defined out of it. My hope is, as we get out of it, we’ll reach the next level of conscience. - Gwyneth Paltrow

20 minutes on Twitter : a six-month tour in Afghanistan...

Totally Tomayto : Tomahto, Gwyn.

You’re out of touch and I’m out of time.

But one more thing!

Serendipity

Serendipity: "fortuitous happenstance" or "pleasant surprise"

I love the word “serendipity”. I love to say the word “serendipitous”. It is my absolute favorite $5 word.

I think it always will be.

As far as I’m concerned, witnessing or rather feeling a moment of serendipity is about as close as we come to real magic here on earth. “Magic”, in turn, is another word I love. But let’s face it, it’s been cheapened by the pink, fairy-princess business and all those Disney Mongers…you know who you are…

But I digress…

On to a moment of serendipity…

It all started back in November, November 30^th to be exact, at my sons’ elementary school’s holiday boutique.

I was standing over the display table of a local, trendy, jewelry-artist-come-school-boutique-vendor in our school’s Multi-Purpose Room (MPR). In keeping with the spirit of giving, I was about to order a custom, stamped plate necklace for myself. I was trying to decide what word or phrase I should have stamped on the rectangular, gold plate. Hot Mom was standing next to me.

“Look at this,” I held up a sample piece that the artist had on display. “How about this one?”

“#SorryNotSorry,” Hot Mom read the stamped plate hanging from the necklace and giggled a little. “That’s cute.”

“I think it’s funny,” I smiled broadly.

SorryNotSorry…a kinder gentler version of “F-You”. I am sold!

I made up my mind and the local, trendy, jewelry-artist-come-school-boutique-vendor was writing up my order in no time. She handed me my pink invoice.

“Alright,” I turned to Hot Mom. “What do you need?”

“I’m done. I was looking at this bench but Handstand Mom talked me out of it. She said she could find a better one at a flea market or a consignment shop and paint it for a lot cheaper.”

“Of course, she can.”

Freakin’ Handstand Mom can make anything look good…for nothing.

“What else do you need?” Hot Mom asked.

“Well, I wanted to get those lunch boxes for Vince and Nick,” I had a short, check list of items to get through in the MPR.

“The PACK-iTS!?! They are right over here,” Hot Mom walked me over to the vendor stand.  “I love them… I have this one for baseball games and this one for wine and these ones for the boys’ lunches…” Hot Mom was pointing at or picking up almost every sample on display. 

Jesus Christ. Is she getting a cut of these things?

“You know, I’m surprised you didn’t get ‘Self Care’ on that necklace since it’s all you can talk about.” Hot Mom changed the subject back to my previous purchase.

My eyes widened. I made a small yet audible and completely overly dramatic gasp.

“You’re right! How did I not think of that? I have to change my order!”

And so my order was changed to Self Care to capture my current life slogan. The words and concept that my Dearest of Dear Friends (DODF) had introduced to me several months before, at a time when I was feeling a little lost and awfully low:

“Focus on Lizzie,” she told me. “Take care of YOU. Do what is important to YOU. Say ‘NO’ sometimes. Put your needs first sometimes. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. Figure out what it is you can do to make you happy. That’s all you can control in life, really. Do some ‘Self Care’.”

And I did. You can figure a lot of shit out just by doing Self Care.

Fast-forward to December 29. The season of giving has come and gone and I realize I have received no custom, stamped, Self Care necklace in the mail. It was not meant to be a gift for someone else so I’m not terribly concerned… but I want my freakin’ necklace.

SELF CARE!

I first contacted the local, trendy, jewelry-artist-come-school-boutique-vendor via her blog, which made me want to buy even more unnecessary objects to adorn myself with but I resisted…though I did make several mental notes!

A few days later, I sent her a text:

Hi XXX! Hope you had a good holiday. Checking in on the status of my stamped ‘Self Care’ necklace that I ordered at the school boutique. Thanks. Liz Pieri

To which she replied:

It’s shipping this week. I had to remake all of your (school’s) orders the ups store I was shipping from was stealing my packages.

I chose to overlook the run-on sentence and feel sorry for XXX.

I responded:

What a nightmare! I hope you are compensated and not too discouraged. Looking forward to receiving. Happy New Year!

Fast-forward to January 10.

My DODF was bracing for impact. Something she and her husband had been wanting and working for, for years and years, seemed to be slipping further from their reach.

I went to my mailbox and there, among the bills and countless solicitations, was my necklace. Back inside the house, I dropped the stack of mail on the kitchen counter. I excitedly ripped open the package and stared at the necklace for a while.

This isn’t your necklace. It never was.

DODF sent me this text, upon receipt of her necklace in the mail:

U just have no idea how lucky I feel to have u. Thk u.

And to DODF, I say, BACK ATCHA!

Alas, I do so love serendipity. 

And that Self Care shit works!!!

And if you are a big, fat nerd like me, curious about the origin of the word serendipity, get your Wiki on here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Serendipity

DODF and me, circa '03. We date back to '89. 

Reckless Driving

You are going over 85. You are going to get a ticket.  Then you’ll be REALLY late. You need to slow down. There could be a cop anywhere.

I was approaching an overpass.

They always tuck themselves away under these stupid things..like I don’t know their game by now.

I looked to my right, carefully examining the area beneath and around the overpass.

All clear.

It’s 8:31. You could make it by 9. If you are going to be a few minutes late, you can just call the office. They were very nice about it last time.

I lifted my right foot just slightly off the gas pedal to slow my car to 80, my standard, open-ish highway cruising speed.  I suddenly flashed back to the worst in the series of speeding tickets and assorted moving violations I earned in my early twenties.

***

“Miss, do you have any idea how fast you were going?”  The California Highway Patrol officer addressed me from my grandmother’s Oldsmobile’s passenger side door. 

To say that my grandma and I rolled deep in her beige, 1982, Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera featuring beige, vinyl interior; cassette tape deck; and white wall tires was a gross understatement.  Especially when you consider that we rolled together in the early 90’s, about a decade after the car rolled off General Motor’s assembly line.

My grandma was in her early 80’s then, and had lost her driver’s license, among other things, to dementia. 

“It couldn’t have been that fast,” I was quick to respond to the officer.

In hindsight, I’m sure these words sounded more like: “I have absolutely zero idea.”  I know that’s what my 20 year-old self was thinking.  My 20 year-old self that was now late for my Literary Theory class which I currently hated just slightly less than the California Highway Patrol.

“License and registration, please.”

I reached for my purse and pulled out my wallet.  I carefully pulled out MY driver’s license as opposed to Anne Darcangelo’s: my best friend’s older sister’s best friend who was 22 at the time. While she was a brunette and several inches shorter than me, Anne’s ID somehow did the trick…until that bar in Newport Beach…but that’s a story for a different time… that involved a different law enforcement officer. 

“I’m on my way to class.  I just dropped off my grandma,” I told the cop as I handed over the goods. He took them back to his motorcycle, parked behind me on the side of the freeway.

It probably sounded like a load of shit to the cop but it wasn’t. That was my Thursday routine then: drive out to my grandma’s in Pasadena, take her down to have her hair washed and set, then take her to the grocery store to do her weekly shopping. It was my grandma’s one outing during the week. On Sundays, my dad would come take her to church and out to lunch, and maybe to run a quick errand.

Some days, I couldn’t wait to drop her off. I was too busy. I wanted to get back to school. I had things to do. In reality, some days I just couldn’t bear walking behind her down the aisles of the grocery store. She’d stop, over and over again; look down at the list in her hand; look further down at the contents of her cart; then look at the grocery shelf before her. She was not quite sure how to put all the pieces together. I knew this was supposed to be “her time” but I didn’t always have the patience.

I regret to say that there were days when I would go to the grocery store without my grandma. I would drop her off at the salon, and go take care of her shopping before I returned to the salon to pick her up.

I would hold the door open for her as she slowly stepped into the car. Then, I’d close the door behind her and be in the driver’s seat, buckled up with the car started before she was done fastening her seat belt. She’d reach into her purse, perched on her lap.

“Ok, I have my list for the market in here somewhere,” she would start to dig around as I pulled away from the curb.

“No, Grandma.  Not today.  I already went to the market for you.”

“You did?”  She would turn to me with a look of confusion and disappointment.

“Yes, Grandma,” I would keep my eyes fixed on the road in front of me.

Then, finally: “Alright. You have things to do.” she’d say. “Thank you.” 

She would lower her head a little and hang on to her purse a little tighter.

“Your hair looks nice. It will look nice for church.” That was my attempt at softening the blow of cutting her afternoon short.

“Thank you.” Now her eyes were fixed on the road in front of her.

How I sometimes rushed through that period with her. I eventually moved in with her but we had to put her in her first nursing home that same year. The year her dementia became so bad that one afternoon, she walked out her front door of 25 years, down her drive-way into her cul-de-sac and couldn’t remember which home was her own. I was at class. One of the neighbors called my father.

The officer reappeared at my passenger side window.

“Miss, you were going 92.”

“No, way.” My 20 year-old self didn’t miss a beat.  My grandma’s Oldsmobile may have been in mint condition but in my mind, there was absolutely no way I opened that engine up to 92 miles per hour. 

“Miss, I have it on my radar. Do you want to see it?”

I threw up in my 20 year-old mouth.

“No,” I managed.  “That’s ok, officer.” I knew then I had screwed myself. The only question was how royally.

“Miss, anything over 20 miles per hour over the speed limit is considered Reckless Driving. Do you know what that means?”

“Um.” I stopped breathing.

“It’s extremely unsafe and there can be severe penalties.” He answered his question for me.

He paused and watched my face contort in response to my upper intestines swallowing up my lower intestines or whatever it was that was now happening to my digestive tract upon receipt of this final blow. 


How will I ever explain this away to my parents?

“I’ve written you up at 82,” he continued, as he handed me my ticket along with my license. “You need to slow down. It doesn’t matter where you think you’re going, you aren’t going to make it alive driving that fast.”

“Yes, officer.  Thank you, officer.  I’m sorry, officer. Thank you, officer.”

I sat there motionless in the driver’s seat for several seconds, staring at the “82” on the ticket. 

***

My 41 year-old self looked at the clock.

8:47.

I picked up my iPhone, scrolled through the previous day’s “recent calls”, and soon pressed the screen.

“Good morning. Dr. Hung’s office. This is Lisa.”

“Hi, Lisa. This is Liz Pieri. How are you?”

“I’m good, Liz. How are you?”

“I’m late. I’m sorry. I didn’t give myself enough time.”

“That’s ok. How late do you think you’ll be?”

I quickly made a generous estimate.

“No more than 10 minutes late.”

“I’ll go ahead and check you in. We’ll be here when you get here. Drive safely.”

“Thank you.”

My 41 year-old self placed my iPhone in the cup holder and inhaled and exhaled deeply, settling into the driver's seat.

They’ll be there when I get there.

And I will get there.

Found an image of grandma's ride in baby blue.
I should have asked to see that radar gun. 92 miles per hour? No freakin' way!

While less pretty, I found my "CHiPs" almost as intimidating as these two.
Am I looking at a 28" waistline?