"Growing Old Gracefully" by I.P. Freely

Staying home during the pandemic was well-suited to the combo of my tiny bladder and huge water consumption. 

But things have started to open up a bit here with spring weather, devoted mask-wearing, and vaccines. We even signed Andrew up for t-ball. Last night was an hour-long practice. That, coupled with the drive across town, put my bladder right in the danger zone. 

After practice, we realized we needed to eat. You know I like eating and despise cooking, so we grabbed some food at an outdoor space in our town. 

I drank nothing with my meal and kept my legs crossed.

It was taking a while to get the bill, so I told Tim to wait for it and drive Andrew home in his car, while I raced  home to the bathroom. Those final seconds unbuckling Andrew from his carseat have gotten me in a wee bit of trouble before, so I was glad to be on my own. Tim eyed me suspiciously as if I were trying to pawn Andrew off on him for a few moments of alone time (who, me???), but he acquiesced.

All was fine until I reached our neighborhood. The trash cans were lined up for the next morning. I noticed one had a glass vase, that looked to be about the size of a large milk jug, sticking out of it. Not content to let it go a landfill, I decided to grab it. Perhaps it would like nice in our house, or I could give it away on our Buy Nothing group. 

As I pulled it out of the huge, wheeled trashcan, I stared in wonder. It was like a magician's scarf that just kept coming. What I thought was a sizable vase or jug seemed to grow as I reached deeper into the can, trying not to pee myself because of the numerous muscles involved. I placed it in the car, thanked my pelvic floor for making it this far, and climbed into my car. 

Then Tim drove by. 

He slowed down and asked what I'd been doing, but I silently waved him away with flailing arms, knowing if I had to explain why I'd been digging in the trash, I was going to wet myself. 

Moments later, I was in the garage. So many small victories: I'd attended a sporting event with my precious kid. I'd stayed out of the house for more than an hour. I'd saved the environment with my eagle eyes and brute strength hauling the vase into the car. The only thing that stood in my way was Tim, about to get Andrew out of the other car. I waved him aside again, my body bent, my face set in determination. I had the garage to traverse, then the kitchen, then a 1/2 flight of stairs down to the bathroom. 

Damn you, split level.

Then, as if he didn't know me at all. As if he hadn't been dealing with my tiny bladder since early 1992. As if he'd never been on a road trip with me. Or seen 3 babies' heads crown in my nether-regions, doing untold damage. He decided  to delay me with a smirk and, "You didn't LOOK like you were in much of a hurry to get home down on the road there." 

At which point I started to laugh. I thought of the world's biggest vase in my car. 

All was lost. 

I  crumpled to the ground, trapped between the car and the garage wall. The kitchen was close, but it might as well have been a continent away. I let loose a torrent like no other.  Andrew watched from his carseat. Tim looked on in horror and pity, trying to hold me up, but also avoid the splashing. 

A voice through the window: "Mommy always says she's going to pee herself, but this time I think she really did."

Anyone want a little vase? 

Photo credit: Newly-minted 5 year old. 

Always Rockin' It

I went to my 30th high school reunion Saturday night. It was hard to get motivated to put on fancy clothes when I'd spent Andrew's nap time snuggled in bed with a good book, but I rallied and had a wonderful time.

There were lots of hugs from old friends, and I even danced for maybe the second time this millennium, throwing my hands in the air and trying not to wonder if I looked like a doofus.

The next morning, I hopped in the shower. My showers have to be fast, because there's usually a pint-sized observer outside the glass door, either wailing or trying to climb in. I have the routine down:

1) Wash key areas.

2) Take the razor and do a swipe in each pit, 3 swipes for each leg, below the knee only.

3) Wash hair as needed, which considering I am a gym dropout, is not often.

When I got out of the shower and put on deodorant, I thought, "Good grief! Somehow dog hair must have gotten stuck on my deodorant.  WHY is there not a single dog-hair-free zone in this house?!"

I grabbed reading glasses from the counter for closer inspection. Dear Lord. That big tuft of hair was not from the deodorant. Or the dog. It was firmly attached...to my armpit.

I'm guessing that months and months of careless shaving left me with quite the overgrowth in one concentrated area.

Clearly, a single swipe of the razor was not enough.

BTW, I  thought you might like to see the SLEEVELESS dress I wore Saturday night. I will NOT zoom in. I will NOT zoom in. 

What's in Anna's Head

So I've written before about some of the crazy stuff that goes on in my head.

Like when I wake up and think maybe, just maybe, I've lost 10 lbs in the night. Then I step on the scale and become, well, genuinely disappointed.

How if I get an email or a phone call that indicates that someone "needs to talk" to me, I immediately assume I'm being fired, chastised, blamed or upbraided for some unknown offense.

Or how when I was all of 10 or 11 years old, I'd keep my movie ticket stubs in case I needed to prove my whereabouts if hauled into the police station for some crime I didn't commit. This from a pre-pubescent girl with a Dorothy Hamill haircut and terry cloth jumpsuit.

Or when I'm at an awards ceremony and hear, "The next recipient knows what it's like to grow up a poor, African-American boy in rural Alabama..." and I'll think, "ME? Could it be? Me!!"

Or how whenever someone didn't want to date me, I'd just assume he was gay. Not that this didn't happen to me a few times over the years (Hello, Ill-fated Study Abroad romance!) but it certainly couldn't have been true EVERY time. Could it?

Well, lately I'd kind of convinced myself that one of my friends, who wasn't ever available to hang out with me, must be suffering from debilitating depression, and/or agoraphobia. How else could she possibly stand not being graced by my presence or that of my charming family? Let me tell you it's kind of hard to keep this fiction going when she seems to have a rather full and fulfilling life even without my taking a central role in it.

So, on this beautiful Friday, I'm just wondering if anyone else is up for sharing some of the weird/unfounded/narcissistic stuff that pops into your head?

Anyone?

Crickets.

Random Musings of a Lame-o Luddite

I am feeling scattered. I keep thinking I'll write a coherent post, but a couple of times lately I haven't even been able to successfully put my user name and password in to access my blog. Seriously. I keep screwing up.

I have so many passwords for so many things, all with slight variations, that I'm feeling overwhelmed and irritated by the whole concept. 2 work emails, 3 work programs with passwords, blog, blog email, personal email, craigslist, PTA, Lands End, and numerous on-line shopping sites.

I'll say "numerous" rather than "countless" because by golly they CAN be counted, I just don't care to. Have I told you how much I hate it when people say "countless" when it is not true? "We took COUNTLESS trips to Disney when I was a kid." Really? Well, maybe your Dad was Mr. Drummond or something (RIP Gary C.), but if you grew up in my house you would have been able to count how many times. Geez.

Yes, I'm irritable.

Tom and I tried to register for YouTube so we'd have more parental control of content, especially comments. It kept saying we already had an account associated with our email. By the time I'd tried the 10th configuration of my name, my emails, and other info, I couldn't even remember who I was anymore. We gave up. Sheesh. Now the kids are going to be able to read Nas-ty comments about that Justin Bieber guy because their mom can't figure out how to turn them off.

When my friend Kate emailed today to ask if I was excited about attending this huge blogging conference, BlogHer, in NYC in August, I was feeling more frustrated and intimidated than anything else. One of the registration emails (yes I needed a password to register) said to make sure to bring all the right power cords for your "many" electronic devices.

Eeek.

I'll pretty much have myself, my camera (good news on that front!*) and a cell phone. I'm afraid I'll be so out of the loop with all the texting and twittering and goodness knows what else going on that I won't know how to hook up with anyone. And by "hook up," I mean connect, not what we meant in college circa 1990, which had a lot of latitude in meaning anyway, at least on my campus. Seriously, if you are going to BlogHer, I am not looking for more than friendship-- promise!

But really, what are my blogging friends going to do? CALL ME? I don't even know if that's "done" anymore. And my phone has been stuck on silent for a few weeks, so I'll probably miss out even if I'm deemed worthy of a call. Maybe silent mode isn't the end of the world at BlogHer, but it did kind of suck a few weeks ago when my kids were at school with projectile diarrhea and I didn't hear about it in time to be of any help.

And to make matters worse, I pulled out my phone at a game the other day and my friend Amy said, "Oh my gosh! My MOM has that same phone." She seemed pretty amused so I said, trying to be funny, "How old is she, like EIGHTY?" "No, Eighty-Eight." Sheesh. Turns out she finds the phone helpful in her ASSISTED LIVING HOME because it's so basic.

At BlogHer, I pretty much pictured myself going to a few key-note addresses, tuning out all the techie and advertising info, meeting blogging friends in real life, and eating a lot. Maybe even reading a book. But now I'm guessing that's not how things go down with it being a BLOGGING convention and all.

Speaking of books, I bought the book "The Thirteenth Tale" at the thrift shop and started reading it last night. By page three it was seeming mighty familiar. Yep. I've read it before, and I don't mean back in 10th grade, more like last year. I'm not sure which is worse, that I couldn't remember having read it, or once I realized it, not really minding reading it twice because I don't remember what happened anyway.

So, I know I had too much iced tea today, and perhaps (cough cough) I'm rambling, so I'll just take my ranting, un-cool-phone-using, lame-o self off your hands now and say see you in a few!



An Inch of Gray News of Note:
The curse of the point and shoot camera has lifted. I went to Jake's baseball game last night and cockily threw the camera in my bag. I know, I know; this was a risky decision. Well, let me just say that a certain kid hit an awesome double that brought in 3 runs, effectively sealing a victory for his team. It was a glorious moment. I didn't actually take any pictures; I'm not that crazy.

There are just 4 days left on our second Well Raising Project! The website is all askew with weird fonts today, not sure why, but if you are considering making a donation to help us meet our goal, please check it out.

Did You Know Gullible Isn't in the Dictionary? Part Deux

Today's post was going to regale you with how I had the meat company's privates in a vise because I had immediately stopped payment on the $700 check.


It was going to be a success story of someone who knows the law (and the 3 day cooling off period when someone solicits you at your house) and who had followed every step the nth degree. Emails? Phone calls? Certified letter to the company headquarters? Check. Check. Check. Hefty bunch of legalese thrown in my letters for a fun flourish? You bet.


However, the bank just called me with the bad news that the Meat Company (whose name is plastered over the internet with complaints, soon to be joined by mine) has found a way of IMMEDIATELY using a check to draw from your bank account

My stop payment (and 35.00 fee) never had a chance.

The 3 day cooling off period is rendered useless because the company then goes AWOL and is impossible to reach.

So, although I am still working to get my money back, and make room in my freezer for the Edy's ice cream that is calling my name, eees not loooking good.



New Blog Slogan: "Anna See-- when the albatross around your neck is actually a steak."

Want some GREAT news, in the midst of the bad? Our Well Project fundraiser is up to $702 today (yes, almost the identical amount I gave to the meat crooks). An entire village in Africa is on its way to having clean drinking water for the first time ever!

I've shown how we can throw good money away every day, either on purpose or by accident. How about consciously choosing to give good money to save lives? Only $20 will provide water for one person for 20 years! I am blown away by your generosity and I know that our $5,000 goal is within reach.

Did You Know Gullible Isn't in the Dictionary?

I know you have been waiting with baited breath to find out what kind of mess I’ve gotten myself into. Ok, maybe not. But I’ll share anyway.

Did I get myself knocked up? No, that was 1998 and 2000. Did I tell my neighbor I used to date her husband? No, that was 2003.

The mess I’ve gotten myself into shall from this time forward be referred to as “The Great Meat Debacle of 2010” or TGMD for short. I’m hoping I’m safe leaving off the ’10 because I certainly hope this won’t be a yearly thing.

On Thursday, after a very full week at work, I was tossing a tennis ball to Shadow in the driveway when 2 men pulled up in a flashy van. Normally, when door to door salesmen approach, I do what anyone else would do— pull the shades and pretend I’m not home. On Thursday, however, I was cornered in the driveway, and before I knew it, I was engaged in their spiel.

They started opening boxes of frozen meat in my driveway, trying to convince me to buy CASES of the stuff, at GREATLY reduced prices. “We’re almost GIVING this stuff away!”


Now, I’ve been known to have a soft heart, even when it is undeserved, but I’m not really known for being gullible.

Did I used to take flowers to the creepy shirtless guy and his great dane who lurked around our elementary school because I thought they looked sad? Sure.

Did I buy overpriced candies and unwanted candles from my students who were trying to save up for class trips to New York? Sure.

Have I occasionally bought an unwanted magazine subscription here or there? Fine.

But I don’t easily fall for a scam.

Thursday was different. First of all, I had skipped lunch. They say not to grocery shop on an empty stomach, but what if the grocery store, a la meat truck, comes to you? My hunger made me vulnerable.

I’ve also been going through a big “I’m so darn tired of cooking phase,” so to see those hundreds of little steaks, chicken breasts, and salmon steaks all vacuum sealed and waiting for me, I started imagining not having to make dinner decisions for the next 6 months or so, and that appealed to me.

Looking back, here are some of the tactics the guys used on me:

Told me my neighbors bought from them (LIE)
Told me they needed to sell me the meat because a neighbor’s freezer was broken (LIE)
Started opening packages even when I said I was not interested.
Blocked my driveway with their truck.
Took up so much of my time that when I tried to decline and slip away, it felt as if I’d already passed the point of no return.
Appealed to me as a mother, wife, and cheapskate.
Made me feel sorry for them, “We’re taking a loss on this…”
Showed me pictures of their children
and more...

I guess you know how this is going to end.

By the time Tom pulled up, providing a perfect opportunity for a Good Cop/Bad Cop getaway, I was too far gone.

Tom firmly said we didn’t want the meat, but at that moment he was no longer my husband; he was just some shmuck trying to stand between me my own little Meat-Lover’s Paradise.

Bottom Line:

I bought $700 of meat I didn’t need and didn’t really want.

Tom was pissed.

I felt stupid.

He immediately googled the company and found reams of complaints about their sales tactics, but it was too late. Our freezer was stuffed. I knew that every time I pulled a steak out of the freezer to eat, I'd really be eating crow.

Tune in tomorrow for the rest of the story…

Social-Networking Butterfly? OR, If the Fleece Fits, Wear It

I know a lot of people have blogged about Facebook. In the months since I joined, Facebook has really cut into my blogging (and cooking, cleaning, paying attention to the kids) time but this is one of the first times I’ve felt like writing about it.

I recently realized that when I see my Facebook friends comment on dinner parties and other shindigs they’ve attended, I sort of feel left out. This is because I balance that lovely dichotomy of feeling like a complete nerdy misfit while also thinking that the entire world revolves around me .

So, if a neighbor puts pictures of a party on Facebook, or someone else writes about a Girls’ Night Out, I’m bummed about not being invited. I don’t think it’s at all tacky to put pictures like this up… I just have a wee bit of social envy. And it’s not as if I am dying to actually GO to these events—the fact that I’ve donned my fleece bathrobe by 6 pm four out of the last five nights might give you a clue that I’m a serious homebody. A homebody who wants to be asked.

I don’t know but this could stem from the fact that I was never invited to a boy/girl party in Junior High. I now consider that to have been divine providence, but at the time it felt downright cruel. New Year’s Eve 1985 didn’t help either. My mom drove me around looking for “THE party” at Tommy White’s. We just could not find the darn house! After several attempts, we had to give up. This is pre-pre-pre GPS and cell phone.

I lashed out at my mom, who just wanted to spend a quiet New Year’s at home in her bathrobe not carting her weeping daughter around the darkened suburbs. My best friend (and blog reader!) Lisa G. borrowed the phone to call periodically and update me on the rockin’est party of the year and to encourage me to keep trying. My pain was deep. I cried my 10th grade self to sleep right around midnight, bemoaning the misery that was my life. To this day I can't bear the idea of other people having fun while I'm not.

Sooooo, be it a bat mitzvah in Boise or a baptism in Bellingham, I want to be included.

When Tom surprised me on my 40th this month with dinner out with 8 friends, I didn’t put pictures up on Facebook. If any of them had been super-flattering of me I admit I would have reconsidered, but really I just didn’t want to leave someone out. Even if those some ones were people I hadn’t seen since 6th grade student government camp.

One option to rev up our social life would be to entertain more ourselves and be the instigators of fun social events. But that takes time, energy, and gumption, which seem to be in short supply at the See house these days.

And this weekend? We were kindly invited to an adults-only Halloween party for the first time EVER! We can’t make it for multiple reasons, one of which just might be the siren song of my blue fleece bathrobe, but I must admit it was awesome to be asked.

So I’m wondering… does Facebook make you feel more included or more left out?

If The Hat Fits, Don't Wear It Part II

I’m at the beach all week, so I’ll be absent blog-wise.

Just checked my email and my very best friend from jr. high and high school had her sister send me this picture since I somehow "lost" my 8th grade yearbook. Thanks Lisa G!

This yearbook photo documents that I did, indeed, wear a HAT ON PICTURE DAY! Yikes. Yes, I'm the 45 year old woman in that photo who apparently takes her job in the school newsroom VERY seriously.

I hope you’ll have a chance today to read about the Picture Day Debacle.

And if you do, please don't ask why I'm wearing an entirely different outfit in my individual school picture. Some things have been blocked from memory and should not be delved into outside of a therapist's office.

At the beach this week I’m sporting my skirted bathing suit, a long sleeved swim shirt and a jaunty mom-hat. I guess some things don’t change.

"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.

Thursday Night Sadness

I miss E.R.

Sometimes I'm relieved when a show ends because then I can get part of my life back.

Not feeling that way this time.

The SAG Awards

It's 11:30 pm and I just took the Chicken Pudding out of the oven. It looks gross and I think I may have overcooked it a tad since I was too engrossed in blog reading to check on it. This is not the first time I've mixed blogging and burning.

Anyway, not sure if my poor kid will be kicked out of Colonial Day when I show up with this crap. Also not sure if it will reheat well or be even worse tomorrow, but I wasn't about to wake up at the crack of dawn to COOK. That's not my M.O.

I need a good laugh right now, and perhaps you do too, so I'll pass along what my nephew said to my dear sister this morning:

"Mom, why, when you wake up, do your boobs hang down to your belly button, and then by the time you go to work, they are back up there?"

Why indeed? Hydraulics my dear, hydraulics.

If you haven't entered my Starbucks gift card giveaway, make sure you do by 3 pm Friday.

Underdogs Unite!

I almost typed Underdogs "Untie!"-- which would have been quite the Underdog move to do.

For those of you who are old enough to have enjoyed the old cartoon as much as I did, I hope you'll get a kick out of seeing this little guy in my sidebar.

My friend Kate from The Big Piece of Cake created a site for those of us who may not be at the top of everyone's list or even always at the top of our games, but who keep writing, and who keep showing up.

We are people who love to blog and who appreciate YOU every time you stop by. Kate suggested I join after she read of my delusions of grandeur last week.

Having gone to an Underdog high school and then returned to that same school to teach, I have always had a soft spot for Underdogs-- in sports, in history in dating, in life.

When a former boyfriend met Tom shortly after Tom and I started dating and said haughtily to me, "He just doesn't seem to be Anna See material," --whatever the heck that means-- ding! ding! ding! my Underdog radar went off and that ex did more to help win Tom this fantabulous example of womanhood than he will ever know.

If proclaiming ourselves Underdogs gets us any more recognition in the blogosphere, super, but if not, I'll always be proud to be an Underdog.