"Juicy Fruit, The SMELL is Gonna Move Ya"

I got in the car today and was greeted by the most delightful scent of Juicy Fruit gum. I hadn’t smelled it in over 20 years, but it came back to me instantly. My mom chewed Juicy Fruit a lot. She always kept a pack in her purse. I didn’t realize it when I was very young, but she probably used it to cover smoker’s breath, since we weren’t supposed to know she smoked. Mom/Juicy Fruit are ever linked in my mind.

As I drove I thought about my mom, and about how great God is. That He would make my entire car smell like Juicy Fruit when there was not a gum chewer in sight seemed like a special gift from Him to me. And on my daughter’s birthday, I’d been thinking of mothers and daughters all day. Very nice. I kept the windows rolled up, because I wanted the smell to linger as long as possible.

When I pulled up to my destination I realized that the Juicy Fruit aroma was the exact combination of scents formed by the 3 bags of groceries I had left forgotten for hours in the car on a 96 degree day. Apparently strawberries, corn, hummus, Caesar salad and peaches can meld into this olfactory sensation.

God IS still great. He DOES care enough about me to fill my car with a Juicy Fruit smell. And I’m STILL a dork.

At least I didn’t buy the fish.

If the Hat Fits, Don't Wear It

I read a poignant post over at Apathy Lounge about a Jr. High dance, and I wondered if I could plumb the depths of my own Jr. High dance experiences, or whether it would be too miserable. I know I’ve written about my “awkward stage” before, but a Jr. High dance? Excruciating. I am trying to muster up the courage to do it, but today will not be the day.

Instead, I’ll fill you in a little more on my Jr. High self. Remember this horrible school picture, that I have bravely posted no fewer than 3 times on this blog (“Anna, you are a strong, confidant woman. Breathe. Anna, you are a a strong, confidant woman”)??? Well, my friend Cindy kindly pointed out there is more to this picture than I have shared with you.

On picture day in 8th grade, I came downstairs in my wardrobe staples: cords, my ruffly white blouse and my quilted purple jacket. These were some of the few clothes that fit because I had grown several inches and gained 30+ pounds in just a few months. The braces and perm? Just added bonuses.

There was another article of clothing that morning that I have failed to share with you: a hat. A teal blue wool Liz Claiborne hat. Not a “let’s go sledding hat with a pom pom,” but an “I’m pushing 40 and am on my way to brunch at the club,” kind of hat.

My dear mother had bought it at my urging on one of our shopping trips to her favorite store, Lord and Taylor. She bought herself a jaunty burgundy wool cowboy hat that same day. I should have realized hearing all the “oohs and aahs” when she wore her hat to church that a hat could cause a stir. A stir indeed.

But when I waltzed into the kitchen that morning, there was no stir. Perhaps my sister was already at school, for she surely would have commented . Perhaps my mother was just letting me show my independence as she had when I dressed myself in my neighbor's mother's blouse for my 4th grade picture.


I don’t know. Perhaps she was too enamored with her own cowboy hat to know that it was her duty to intervene and to save me from myself. She said nothing, so off I went.

As I stepped into the school, the murmuring began. It was one of a handful of times in my life when I’ve been so clearly inappropriately dressed, that I wished the ground would swallow me up whole. My stomach felt sick. I felt so exposed. What had seemed like such a great idea at home, suddenly became questionable.

So why didn’t I remove the hat immediately? Well, permed hat head springs to mind. But truthfully, I was torn. I liked my hat. I thought I looked kind of cute. I mean, what if hats were cool?

Hadn’t I been the first one in the school to wear a denim Calvin Klein miniskirt the year before with my bobby socks and Keds? Weren’t all the girls wearing them now? Could I perhaps be a fashion icon, who needed to take a few risks in order to leave my mark?

Looking back, I think I was going for a bit of a Molly Ringwald vibe. The problem? This was 1981 or 1982 and “The Breakfast Club” and “Pretty in Pink” didn’t sweep the nation until 1985 and 1986. I was screwed.


So, if you look at my Jr. High Yearbook, you will see me with the hat on in the group or “club” pictures, but not in my school picture. It was what I considered a reasonable compromise on one of the most stressful days of my life.

By taking it off for the portrait, I think I gave myself a sliver of a chance for a social future. I still was never invited to a boy/girl party, but there were probably numerous reasons for that.

And now I’m a mom, and I give my kids great latitude in their style of dress and the opportunity to make fashion mistakes. I know it’s a part of growing up. Just ask my husband about the time he wore pants to school with a pair of shorts pulled on OVER TOP of them. Ouch.

And when my kids have rough days, and feel humiliated, I remind them that no one else will remember their foibles as much as they will.

Yeah right.

I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I still remember:

1. Jenny J. eating paste in Kindergarten.
2. Karey G. with little booger plugs in her nose on the first day of school 2nd grade.
3. The time my dear brother thought he got me a “Chicago” record for Christmas, but it really said, “Chico.” He was devastated, and I still feel bad thinking of it.

And to further illustrate this point, when my friend Cindy ran into a Jr. High acquaintance about 20 years later, whom I had not seen since 8th grade, she told him that she and I were dear friends, that she had been in my wedding, etc.

His response:


“Hey, isn't she the girl who wore a hat on picture day?”

Darn.



p.s. I’m digging into the archives for my Jr. High yearbook so I can show you a hat picture.

A Make-over Do-over?

Just got back from purchasing this bench to replace the coffee table in my family room. I had toyed with the idea of painting the wooden table that's already there a dove gray to lighten things up in the room, but I thought this might be taking my dumpster diving cheapo tendencies too far, plus I had a Crate and Barrel gift card burning a hole in my pocket.

I also didn't know if Tom could handle my painting one more stick of furniture in this house. Soooooo, I ordered this pretty bench, to be picked up next Tues. I think it's meant for the bottom of a bed, but it could look cute as a coffee table.

After my dinner of potstickers, soy sauce, brownies and a Mike's Hard Lemonade in front of the t.v. as Molly played outside (can you tell Tom and Jake are out of town?), I realize I may have made a mistake.

I thought we were more than ready for non-washable off-white linen since there are no longer toddlers in the house, but I didn't consider how hard it would be for ME to keep from committing party fouls.

I did a lot of wobbling and spilling in a mere 1/2 hour, something I wouldn't have noticed had I not just purchased the aforementioned non-washable off-white linen bench soon to be used as a coffee table.

And I don't even want to THINK about how Tom's blood pressure is going to rise every time we have family movie night. He's already a bit of a popcorn control freak, giving the kids individual baggies instead of a communal, tippable bowl and only allowing clear liquids outside of the kitchen.

The old thrift shop table, all $24.00 of it, may need to stay. I'll keep you posted.

Hanging with Michelle, Sasha, and Malia...

My ears are still ringing from last night’s Jonas Brothers Concert. I proposed taking Molly and a friend to the concert in lieu of having an 8th birthday party. Concert tickets were on her cute and largely ignored 3-item Christmas list , so I figured it would be a hit.

Some impressions of the evening:

Expensive. Her concert t-shirt cost $35 dollars! Unless you are Tom, and you are reading this, in which case it cost $3.50.

Between tickets, public transportation, parking, snacks and souvenirs, the evening cost a lot more than any party would have. My whole dining room set cost $44, so I’m sure you can see how I found it a bit annoying to spend so much on one night.

I also worry about the longevity of her new t-shirt. After all, she was Hannah Montana last Halloween, a fact of which we no longer speak in this house.



Some highlights:

1. Getting a crush on Nick. I asked Molly why all the younger girls favored Nick, “The Cute One,” but now I get it. He’s adorable! He played the grand piano, rocked the drums, strummed the guitar, wrote the songs AND gave a heartfelt (?) pep-talk to “each and every one” of us to not let “them get inside your heads” when things get tough. I don’t know who “they” are, but I ate it up.

His own example, delivered in a pseudo-twangy, soulful southern accent (aren’t they from New Jersey?) as he shared his struggles with diabetes, had me wondering how much a box of tissues would cost. By that point I would have paid $150.00.



2. Feeling sorry for Kevin, “the Other One.” You know how I am about underdogs. Kevin definitely doesn’t get the screams and squeals his brothers do, which made me sad, but considering he did get engaged last week, he’ll be the first Jo Bro to get to remove the purity ring, so I guess that helps ease the pain.

3. Realizing I’m just not a dancer. I tried to be fun and stand and sway on occasion, but I just looked like a dufus. For the most part I stayed rooted to my seat, fingers pushing my earplugs as far into my ears as possible.


Yep, earplugs allowed me to hear the music while also making me feel just a little bit buzzed. This helped me find my own little happy place while surrounded by thousands of screaming girls and flashing strobe lights.

One drawback of my happy place? A flatulent pre-teen in front of me kept letting them slip as she jumped up and down, right at my face level.

I have a feeling Mrs. Obama, Sasha and Malia were protected from such indignities in their pricier seats. A pro of having seats in the stratosphere? When Kevin, Joe and Nick started spraying (Water? Foam? Jonas Juice?) on the crowds, we were spared entirely.

In all, the concert was fantastic. Molly and I made some wonderful memories, and I won't be running around like a crazy person getting ready for a birthday party. I hope to regain my hearing in a day or two, by which time I’ll be ready to watch the 5 episodes of “Jonas," Disney’s new tv show, that I’ve recorded on the DVR.

And as for the raunch factor? Thank goodness, it was very, very low! Not even in the same league as Disney’s Gymnastics Superstars.

Just Keep a Knockin'...

I am glad our doorbell is broken. It hangs there, but it probably hasn’t worked since the Carter administration. If it worked, I could never ignore the kids who come knocking, like right now. Usually I'm glad when kids stop by to see if my kids can play, but If I'm not in the mood to interact, I somehow lose my sense of hearing.

A doorbell is so loud, so insistent. With a knock, there’s a chance that I could be on another level doing important things --what was that crazy 60’s architect ON when he designed a 5 level split level??-- and “miss” it entirely. In truth, I’m usually blogging or drinking a diet Pepsi out of range of the windows, holding out until the knock stops.

With the exception of certain unnamed heavy-fisted young knockers, “Your car was there so I didn't give up! I knew someone was home,” the knocks eventually dwindle after a while.

I’ve been on the other side of this with my friends in the ‘hood who share the same model house that I do. I have one friend who hasn’t answered the door to me in the 6 years I’ve lived here. Of course, when she doesn’t answer my knocks, I’m sure she’s in the basement or the shower. I hope.

Do It Yourself Party-- Black Side Tables

I love checking out Kimba's blog for great before and after shots at her "Do it Yourself" Parties.


I'm not sure if this counts as "Do It Yourself" because Tom actually painted these for me, but I'll share anyway.


I found these smelly, broken, little guys on a trash heap in the rain. They were once on either side of a mirrored vanity, but the mirror was long gone. The veneer was chipping off and the knobs had to go.

I thought of spray painting them white, but with Tom's recent comment that I was going a little overboard with all the white in the house, Tom sanded them lightly, painted them black with an oil based paint we already had, and we switched out the knobs with the old wooden knobs from my last dumpster dive .

They are now cute bedside tables in our guest room. Total Cost: $0

Check out the other projects on Kimba's website.

The Lack of Good Humor Woman

Dear Jake and Molly,

The ice cream truck came today. Yep, right to the bottom of our driveway. I cringed when I heard the music. I wasn’t sure where you were, but I knew you would come running, quoting back to me my big promise to buy you ice cream every single time the ice cream truck came around.

You see, my memory was that the ice cream truck came to my house about 4 times my entire childhood. When it did, my mom would buy me an orange Push-Up. I would sit on the curb barefoot with my skinned knees pulled up to my chest as I savored my treat. Sometimes a little would drip on my terry cloth shorts.

With regret, I’d eventually lick the little plastic disc clean, and hope the ice cream man would return—someday. As a kid, I vowed I would always say, “YES” to the ice cream truck.

If I had realized that when I became a mom the ice cream truck would show up several times a summer, as well as park in front of our beach rental each and every day of vacation, I might have amended my statement.

For a while, however, I held fast to my promise. I remember the first time we saw an ice cream truck cruising through a local neighborhood…not our own. I was so excited I could barely stand it. We chased it down in the car and I was your hero.

Another time, we heard the music from our screened porch. I sent Molly, barely a toddler, running for my wallet, and I sent you, Jake, up the hill to stall. I set off on foot in the other direction to make sure there was no way the ice cream man could get away. It didn’t matter that dinner wasn’t finished—I was being FUN MOM.

Today, I wasn’t feeling so fun. I knew that between my working and our wacky summer schedule, we’ve been eating a lot of junk, and I was loathe to bring more of it into the house. Also, I knew we had a freezer full of frozen treats already, and I didn’t want to spend $4 each on those neon green concoctions the ice cream man tries to sell these days.

What happened to classics like Chocolate Éclairs, Nutty Buddies and Push-Ups? I mean, what’s an Atomic Sourball? And Ice Cream shaped like Sponge Bob and Dora? Puh-lease.

Truthfully, I was grumpy because I had just tried to renew our library books online and found I couldn’t because I owed too much money. And no one had read any of the books anyway. Oh, and I had just started my period. Is that too weird to hear from your mom?

And? I was in a hurry to get my act together so I could join a few friends at the local wine bar in the hopes that although FUN MOM was gone forever, perhaps we could re-locate FUN ANNA.

I know, it probably doesn’t seem fair that I got my wine, but you got no ice cream.

When you appeared out of the neighbor’s house the second the truck pulled away, oblivious to the hoopla that had just taken place in our very own cul-de-sac, I didn’t try to flag the driver down, and I kept my mouth shut.

I’m sorry. Sort of.

Love and Hugs, Mom