Saturdays are so different now that I’m not working. Wait. At work. They used to be a time of reminding myself that there was a different world I was supposed to be a part of but couldn’t muster the energy to care about. I was always pulled between sleeping in, and getting up early to sit and think about nothing — enjoy my coffee, go out on the patio before everyone else was awake in the neighborhood starting lawnmowers, or talking loudly as they pass by with their jogging or cycling companions, causing our doggo to bark. It’s easy to think about nothing when you’re completely whipped up after a week you’ve spent running as fast as you can and never getting anywhere. Ever.

If I had been a bit more creative about getting out and doing things the rest of the world has always done, I’d probably still be working.

Yuck. That’s a completely dreary concept at this point. Sure, let me get right in line for that. Who the hell actually wants to work? Be serious. We all just want money to fall from the sky.

The only thing working having a job would improve at this point is that I’d actually have income. You know, dough in the bank to pay bills with. I could go shopping. Real shopping. Buy shiny things just because I can, but that I don’t need, and probably don’t really want once I get them home. And think of all the cash I’m saving by just not having to wear real clothes every day. Or having my hair done at the salon every seven weeks for the last 10 years. I won’t be doing the math on that one. Taking care of roots in Paradise isn’t cheap. Well, I suppose it can be, but, well, I am worth more, you know?

I can hear the violins starting their traditional and well-timed whine, so enough of this maudlin philosophical crap which isn’t very heartfelt anyway. I have to go and pound the sidewalk with my VBF who is SO cheating on the Phoodplan. Seriously cheating almost every day.

We’re going to walk down in the village (real Paradise-ites’ loving endearment for their charming home town and which I shouldn’t use because I’m only a nouveau poser) today and gawk at all the tourismos who are out and about on this already sparkly blue day.

It will resemble being at the zoo. Only these animals wear very large bling and speak with exotic accents.

We will do our best not to offend them as we leave them in our sweaty wake in our very not bab-i-fied grunge wear.

Just a short post today because yesterday’s could’ve choked a horse. Now wipe your brow and continue, grateful that I have decided to spare you. But I’m raring to go, having already changed my clothes once so I could get gas after carpool duty this morning, which was a breeze.

Everyone takes their kids out of school a day early before spring break begins because, well, they don’t want to have to fly on the packed flights early Saturday morning. I think Paradise Unified School District seriously needs to add an absence code for students who attend L-T-D middle and high school for FDE, or Flagrant Display of Entitlement. That way, they can still collect money from the state when Sparky or Kristi is, like, on vacation early.

But school admin is onto them. The spring ball is scheduled for tonight, and if your teen is a ticket holder, she can get out of school after 4th period. You know, to get ready. Like, it takes two hours to iron my hair. Bear in mind the ball begins at 7PM and 4th period ends somewhere around noon. Sweet. The school gets the attendance money because Kristi has begged mummzie and daddo to please not schedule the family jaunt to Costa Rica until after the day of the dance, because she and her girlfriends are going to do lunch in the village after 4th period lets out, then go to the spa together. The teachers who have courses scheduled in the afternoon have a cakewalk to look forward to with almost no one in their classes (Blockbuster will be sold out of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off), and the losers who have carpool duty in the afternoon (and who aren’t going to Costa Rica or whose kids wouldn’t be caught dead at any event where there are girls) won’t have to sit in the traffic because the school is in session, but nobody is there. Everyone wins.

I still haven’t gotten to the point where I can get out of my car to pump gas in my pajamas. Even though I was dressed appropriately this morning, and looking as if I had just come from an early stint at the gym (my shirt and sweats actually matched), the owner of the custom H2 (so two years ago) waiting behind me was preturbed when I had to back out after only pumping a measly eight gallons. A half tank. For $3.99 a gallon. Oh. My. God. What the hell is up with that?

If I actually had to drive somewhere once in a while that didn’t involve coasting down the hill to get groceries, I would have to strike or something.

Not drive anywhere.

Except, I do that already.

Last Friday, one of the RT’s friends followed him upstairs to get a few things before they left to go hang out at his house for the evening. Why not ours?

As he approached the RT’s room, he declared, “Doog (that’s Doog and not Dude), what’s up with your room? Jeez. What a wreck!”

I was sitting in the office so couldn’t resist butting in. “See? When your friends make comments, too, that’s how you know it’s a problem.” But I couldn’t stop there. “Who cleans your room?” I asked his friend knowing what the answer would be. “Some lady,” he answered, looking at me, like, duh, don’t you know anything? “Well you’re lookin’ at the lady that cleans this house, and she doesn’t do messy bedrooms,” I said, grinning like the sarcastic ass I am. They were quickly down the stairs and out the door to the friend’s house, where they could hang out in the luxury of a tidy teenage personal space courtesy of “some lady.”

Earlier this week, there was an article posted in our local paper about moms who do too much. Well, I thought it was about that until I went to look for the paper and realized I had thrown it out in a cleaning frenzy — Not. I tried to access it on line instead, thinking that as a subscriber, the online archives of our local paper would be readily accessible. But no. I log in: it doesn’t recognize me; I change information; I send for a new password; I log in again; and still, it doesn’t recognize me. See, I should just let the papers pile up higher than they already do, so they will always be at my fingertips.

Because I remember the story had actually been printed in The Washington Post, I logged in there instead — and voila. I’m in, and find the article, “Despite ‘Mommy Guilt,’ Time With Kids Increasing.”

It’s been on my mind all week — not my guilt — I was raised Catholic, so I have a corner on that market — but the ridiculousness of the whole concept. What, do we need a report card to let us know how we’re doing raising the next generation? Why? I just don’t get it. If you’re working hard at whatever you do, you have to be reasonable about this , don’t you? Right — that’s easy. And if you’re a mom who is micromanaging her kids AND working outside the house for any length of time, there is absolutely no way you can compete — and I think that’s what women are doing — competing. So while we’re busy competing, let’s check the stats on whether I’m also spending every waking moment of my day on my kids. Can I get more time with those fries, please?

My mom worked her ass off to support my brother, sister, and I. Her modeling is ingrained in me. Life is hard. You work. So I have worked since the age of 16, that is, until now, because, well, I couldn’t cope. So why am I not a micromanaging mom, then? Outside of being completely exhausted after work, most likely because I’ve been on the other side of that issue for too long. As a recovering educator with experience as a classroom teacher and school principal, I have seen extremely capable kids who buckle under the pressure of over-bearing parents. Euphemistically, the parents are “involved,” and that is certainly great, but they don’t see how their kids deal with pressure when they aren’t around to dive in and take over if their kids even act like they’ll falter. Or more interestingly, some parents are not ready to believe that their kids are really great, and handle life and related pressures very well when their parents aren’t around. That would be voting mummzie off the island, wouldn’t it? Does “handling things well” translate to perfect? Not necessarily — and that’s another big issue. Because, well, it’s all about being perfect, right?

I remember a particular incident on the first day of school when I was still teaching sixth grade. It was the first year of middle school for kids, and one that could be filled with angst. Parents actually stood in line while I was on duty outside my classroom door to have a few words with me before the first bell rang. One mom, eyes red, looking a little stressed, told me how her son hadn’t slept all week because he was so nervous about beginning middle school, and could I please just keep an eye on him? I asked her where her son was, and she pointed then turned her attention back to me. As she continued to express her concern, I noticed her son was standing with all his friends — at least five — laughing and having fun. I patted her back and told her he would be fine, knowing she was the one who hadn’t been able to sleep. I later learned that her son had gone to an elementary school close by since the age of five, and had the same play group buddies most of his life. What the hell was she so concerned about? Try having a kid with no friends who has moved schools several times. Then we’ll talk and I’ll completely understand your concerns.

While raising my three boys, I have spent countless hours with, and around other people’s children — approximately 8,400 of them if I count loosely. Some years, about 180 every day. It’s easier to put parenting in perspective when you live your life in this fashion. You quickly learn, regardless of how much you’d like your children to aspire to be rocket scientists, that they are individuals who will have their own interests, their own lives, and learn from their experiences. You learn to laugh at all the imperfections, push them, and most importantly, not push them, because you know you will never be able to keep up with the Joneses in the neighborhood — and if you catch yourself doing it, you kick yourself in the ass and walk away from the purple Kool-aid.

There’s so much advice around about the business of mothering now, and I don’t think it’s an accident. Somehow, women have decided that they are going to turn motherhood into a career — something to be managed. I thought it was interesting when I was struggling with my fruitless search this morning and the first six hits I got for “moms who do too much” were for Death and Funeral Notices. Hmmmm…..I’m not surprised that perfectionism is fatal — for everyone involved.

Author Michele Borba offers these guidelines for stressed-out moms: (To be read with a Mr. Rogers voice, but female, and by the way… Won’t You Be — My Neighbor?)

Are you Ready to Make a Change?

Here are a few more questions to help you realize it’s time to get your family out of the fast lane — to slow down and make a few different parenting choices so that your kids will be happier and more confident, develop stronger values, and become self-reliant. Do any of these ring true for you or your family?

• Do you feel guilty about not living up to your own image of the perfect mom? Do you second-guess your mothering or think you’re not doing a good-enough job? [Well, am I?]
• Do you worry about your child — about whether the workload and schedule is too much? [Yes. I mean no. Well, only if it interferes with our trip to Cancun.]
• At your parent-teacher conference, do you find yourself asking more about your kid’s grade and how he’s competing with the rest of the class than about whether he is happy and how he gets along? [OMG. Not pander to the GPA god? No way Ray.]
• Are you frequently stressed or exhausted or impatient with your family? Does the littlest, tiniest thing get under your skin? Are you quick to anger? Are you yelling more? [What? Are you kidding? This executive motherhood business is a breeze. If I could only figure out how to delegate…]
• Are you on the coach’s case complaining that your child isn’t getting enough game time or respect on the team? [No, because I am the coach, so my kid’s covered.]
• Has success become such a huge commodity in your family that your kids are afraid to let you down or disappoint you with a poor grade? [Huh?]
• Do you worry that your kid seems really anxious or depressed? That she’s not having any fun? [Fun? What’s that? Is that on the schedule?]
• Do you worry when your kid seems to have nothing to do, and feel as though you have to educate or entertain him every second of the day? [I don’t want to hear anything about Albert Einstein saying anything about imagination being more important than knowledge, okay?]
  
• Do you always compare yourself frequently to other mothers and worry that they’re doing a better job than you are? [Phish. In their dreams.]

If you answered yes to any of the questions, it’s time to make some changes for your kids, yourself, and your family. And this book will help you. We’ll work on simple changes so that you stop trying to do it all and instead focus on what really matters in giving your kid what she needs to be happy and successful on her own.

Helen Johnson, author of Don’t Tell me What to Do — Just Send Money, was interviewed recently about micromanaging “Helicopter Moms” of college-aged kids. I couldn’t resist the snarkiness…
Vicki in Alaska writes: My child is now 16 — what are some of the most important skills he needs to know by the time he’s college-aged and a young adult? [So, she hasn’t thought about this until now, when college is in, um, TWO years?]

Helen Johnson:

Dear Vicki,
What a good question! It’s a pleasure to witness a mom who is planning ahead. [FOUL! Unnecessary and inappropriate praise.]

I would say the important skills are self-reliance, a capacity to handle adversity and a strong sense of personal values. [DUH. Isn’t that the main teaching job of a parent?]

These translate into proactively handling the tasks of life (getting up in the morning, handling homework independently, making choices about food, learning to do one’s own laundry and taking care of spending money in a responsible way), meeting adversities and challenges and learning from and reflecting on mistakes made along the way (interacting directly with teachers and other authority figures when grade disputes, late papers/assignments, and unacceptable behavior mean consequences)… [OMG, does this woman breathe? I mean break that one up. That modeling begins when kids are very, very small or you are really screwed.]

…forging a strong sense of personal values (being able to stand up to peer pressure, having a clear idea of what constitutes a moral life and the behaviors that go along with that sense of morality and ethics). There are ways that you, as a parent, can advise and counsel your high school student to begin the process of handling these emerging adult tasks and responsibilities. [I repeat: If this hasn’t already been in place for YEARS, good luck and that’s what you get for teaching your kids that mothers are put on Earth to be subservient to their children.]

I would suggest giving him increasingly more freedom to make choices as he goes through the next couple of years before college. This may mean, perhaps, suspending or providing more leniency on curfews (if you have one) while at the same time making it clear what behavior you expect to go along with the increasing freedom. [What? The kid hasn’t had any choices until this point? No wonder. Isn’t live about choices?]

Your job now is to help him get ready for the total freedom and responsibility of making many choices when he goes away to college. [See? Focus in on “total freedom,” and “responsibility.”]

Okay. I’m off my serious soap box now. As you can see, I’m recovering, and now that I have it out of my system, I’ll be fine for a while.

I’m going to clean the RT’s room before he gets home today…

Don’ t you just love the Internet? Where else can you drag your sorry, but slowly diminishing lard ass out of bed and go, without changing your clothes or brushing your teeth, after the RT and MoH have gone for the day?

After you realize, squintingly, that the sun is finally, finally up and shining for real with nary a puffy cloudlett in the sky.

After you’ve fed the Yackstress and her gonadless consort…

…and given the Fleabus her Milkbone for going pee on the patio like a good doggo.

After you’ve made your coffee, but are way tooooo lazy to make your “have to eat” breakfast and spy the fortune cookie on the counter. How long has it been since we ordered Chinese? No matter. You grab the cookie, fumbling with the wrapper, wondering what your fortune will say and push away the nasally remembered voice of some person you used to know nagging, “You have to eat the cookie first or your fortune won’t come true.” Whatever.

I just want to know what it says. And it isn’t about anthing on that paper coming true, it’s just about seeing what it says so I can think about it. And eat that cookie. Which falls on the floor and breaks into many, little pieces. I reach for the big one to rescue it, maybe to eat it — because no one is going to see me eating off the floor — and the doggo has arrived to snarf up all the pieces. I’m left wondering how she can actually do that so quickly, leaving me with only this slip of paper that says, “Ignorance never settles a question.” Hmmm…

So, my work has been laid out for me.

It’s up to the Internet I go to get an answer to a question that has been nagging us for weeks. What is up with this kid still being on stage? Is it a plot? Are we being hornswaggled? Or are there just too many tweens to contend with?

I Googled Sunjaya’s hair — not oogled — and it garners me 198 hits. Not bad. I was worried that there would be more like 128,000, but no. There are only a few schmucks in the grander scheme of things this morning, like me, wanting to know what’s up with San- not Sun- jaya’s hair. I never get his name right. The RT has given up correcting me. Last night he just gave me that pshish smirk. It seems I have arrived at that dumbmother point in life.

The Internet rewards me with my first click on this edgy topic. Some person who calls himself “couch potato” says: “I’m a neck man and Sanjaya has just about the prettiest neck I’ve ever seen. It’s long and womanly. That’s worth about 100 votes from me every week.”

Huh?

He can vote 100 times?

Really? Are you allowed to vote 100 times?

Don’t these people have anything to do?

What? Don’t look at me.

But then I am vindicated when, on a different site, a much younger human than I states, “COME ON!! That was just hilarious I almost peed my pants … it was so funny because I thought his performance last week reminded me of a rabid squirrel and then poor the squirrel is dead and on his head … ok … ”

Or another site where the responder was more succinct: “Sanjaya — Trainwreck.” Or here, “Now I’m getting a better look at Sunjaya’s… [See? He can’t spell it either]… head and…well, what should we call this look? The retarded rooster? It’s obvious that the evil little marionette realizes that gimmicks are his only hope for staying in this game.”

And it’s great to know that MoH can monitor investments while reading up on the latest Idol buzz here: “Malakar put his long flowing brown hair into a mock Mohawk… [Come on. Get it right, bud. It’s a Faux Hawk according to Paula. Didn’t you hear her last night?]…His rendition of No Doubt’s “Bathwater” was weird. Simon Cowell summed it up perfectly when he said that at this point it doesn’t matter what the judges say about Malakar.”

The Boston Herald provides a less colorful angle in their online version here.

I could keep going, but will spare you. With the exception of “couch potato” quoted above — well, and his gospel choir director in the Herald piece — I could find NO ONE who had anything positive to say about him.

And there’s a site where you can vote for the loser? What’s up with that? Okay, so I’m a couple of years slow on the uptake. Gimmeabreak.

But at least I have now confirmed that others have the same opinion that I do on this issue. Which means I’m not as ignorant as I was earlier today.

And you know what they say about lemmings, right? Or is that misery and company?

Today, I discovered the diet fairies have graced me with a two week total of 6 lbs. lost on my weekly Tuesday Babification Weigh-In . Tah-Dahhhhhhhhhhh. Quite the different picture from last week, huh? Sonoma Diet, and South Beach Diet, and Atkins, and Jenny Craig, and even Weight Watchers — Move Over. The PhoodPlan Works! And it works because I am not on a “diet.” No drugs, no shots, no personal trainer, and my 24 Hour Fitness membership is soooo cancelled.

Do the math — 6 lbs. in two weeks will be about 20 lbs. by the first week of June and I will be on-my-babe-a-licious way. Well, at least in my mind, which is the only thing that really matters here. I mean, be serious. My sweats will be bigger than they already are. My yoga pants will hang on me. My stretchy jeans will no longer have to stretch across my derriere. I will no longer have an excuse to wear BIG cotton Undies.

I know. Those of you with protruding hip bones, concave cheeks, and elbows that we can actually see the mechanical workings of are thinking, “What’s the big deal? Six pounds? Why bother?” And you’d really like us to think you eat, but we — the Reubenesque women of the realm — really know what’s going on. You just don’t eat.

It has got to be painful not eating, not liking eating, not wanting to eat, or having to remember to eat, as in, “Tee-Hee. I so like forgot to eat today.” Well, maybe not as painful as the purplish mark around my midsection from too-tight trousers worn for 12 hours. Or by a bra that is so tight that when I unhook it at night it flies across my closet. Not that painful. But still.

I just love to eat. Not fast food. Not food that comes in a box, or a package that you can pop in the microwave. And, definitely absolutely none of that packaged diet food. I honestly don’t know how people eat that crap. In fact, crap would probably taste better. I love well-prepared fresh food most of the time. All of it. And being this true blue foodie that I am, I’m drawn to pithy tomes such as French Women Don’t Get Fat because I haven’t figured out how, if I enjoy fresh food and French cooking, I’m fat. Duh. I’m not eating leek soup it seems.

The book is cute, but seriously, have you tasted that “Magical Leek Soup” she says she eats? I swear if you blindfolded me and asked me to drink some I’d believe you’d given me urine. It’s beyond gag me. And I can’t see what her real “secret of eating for pleasure” really is other than being the president and CEO of Clicquot Inc. who makes my favorite champagne with the orange label. Can I get in line for that gig? To be fair, the book is good at making the point of being thinner from a “non-diet” or way of life. I’m so there.

A good example of being there is to take a look at this. Outside of it being an amazing website that I am completely jealous of, she gives a nod to Jacques Pepin in this section. I guess French chefs don’t get fat either. Or French Police. Check out those cheeques.

If you want to take a look at the food we’ve been eating on the Phoodplan, take a look here, but no snarkiness on my lousy photography. I know. Read the book.

I’d forgotten how peaceful it is on grey days in Paradise. I used to love this weather when I was working because it was cool, and I could wear sweaters and jackets that helped me dupe myself into thinking I looked thin, well, thinner. Warm, sunny days meant no jacket and blouses whose buttons bulged at the bust or trouser waistbands that cut in painfully at the waist, revealing a rather unnatural indentation through any knit top I wore, more noticeable from the rear than from the front. I won’t discuss exposed arms protruding from sleeveless shells. UGH. Yes, grey days have their merit.

But it has been extremely grey for days now, forcing me to think about all the perky people in the world who thrive on sunshine. I’m beginning to see why they enjoy it now that I don’t have to wear anything but pajamas, sweats, and yoga pants. I’ve thought about all the college kids who come here for spring break to relax and party, and know they’re probably fairly pissed off about all this June Gloom business in March.

Even though my only intention in going outside this morning was to gather up the brown cuttings I had left in piles a week ago, I soon found myself reaching through the plants with the hand rake to straighten things up a bit. I love doing that. It’s so satisfying making all that dirt look so clean — but there’s a drawback when you are supposed to be “cleaning up.” The patio was again covered with brown, moist leaves, spent blooms, and snails that had been dragged from their hiding places and were now helter-skelter making a run for it. One by one, I hijacked the slimey plant wreckers in mid-flight and threw them over the wall where, at some point, a car would put them out of their cracked misery. Exactly what part of the food chain are they anyway unless someone like me exposes their soft, mushy parts to organisms looking for a snack? One of these days, some unfortunate walker is going to get whacked in the head and I’m going to have to run and hide.

I could hear the woman next door, upstairs on the phone. From her vantage point, I knew she could see everything on my patio and was probably thinking I was nuts raking in the mud in my pajamas and chucking snails in the road. She has gardeners that do her patio. Thank goodness the RT scooped the poop yesterday. Ever the cool one when I’ve been caught, I paused to take hold of my coffee and acted like I was sizing up the situation — which was sort of true because I still haven’t planted those flowers I bought on Saturday. I moved toward the door so I could slink back inside, leaving yet another mess outside to turn brown and have to be picked up next week. Such a tiresome cycle of inefficiency. But as I made it inside, I saw my new pair of Fiskars sitting near the door, and knew I’d have to go back out again. What difference did it make anyway? I’d already gotten rid of all the snails and it wasn’t like I was slinging dog turds.

The Fiskars were a vast improvement on the pruners I’d been using for the past year. But that’s usually the case when you are in the habit of leaving them outside to get rusty each year and then throw them away. Unruly vines of honeysuckle, woody begonia stems, and dead lavender sprigs soon joined the mess scattered across the flagstones, but things quickly began to look better. A dove called mournfully nearby, most likely waiting for me to go back in the house so she could drink from the fountain. Nearly finished, I scraped and swept the pungent cuttings into a large black bag and tied it off to take to the trash.

I’m waiting for the day that I see a neighbor peering through their blinds to wonder what it is I carry out from such a small garden in those huge… plastic… bags…

What to do on Monday instead of sitting at my computer all day:

Vacuum the house before I begin to believe we own a new pet instead of what is really our carpet.

Do something, anything, about the pile of mail on the dining room table and the crap on the stairs so the man who lives next door — and I know looks down into my house — thinks I actually am quite the tidy homemaker.

Clean my bathroom. Clean it — not just wipe it.

Close my closet doors so that I don’t have to see that I need to clean it also. Throwing socks away that I haven’t worn in five years could be a start.

Plant the flowers I bought on Saturday before the snails who are out in full force chew them down to the nubbins. Yes, this has happened before.

Pick up the piles of cuttings on the back patio that have been there over a week, cautiously avoiding any dog poop that the RT has hidden underneath, thinking I would never know. He knows I always know.

Avoid cleaning the office because I will not be able to resist sitting down for “just a minute” at this computer.

While avoiding the office, don protective gear and venture into the RT’s area to gather up laundry and collect cans, dishes, and junk food wrappers.

Use a different spot remover on the two new hairball stains left over the weekend by our yack-star, Precious.

Remove, er, I mean, chip off evidence of countless food explosions from the inside of the microwave.

Dress in real clothes and perhaps fix my hair.

Acknowledge that I’ll probably only get two or three of the items on this list done.

Is it Friday yet?