Pour Me Some Whine

I’m not a big fan of sending out the annual Christmas letter – that’s what Facebook is for year ’round, right? – but after being chided by a friend for not posting here more often, I thought I’d kill two turtle doves with one stone. (I don’t really condone the killing of turtle – or any – doves …)

The last 18 months have seen a lot of changes in the Rossiter/Bates children (children?) household. First of all, the household – we left Coggon in June 2010 and moved to an apartment in the budding metropolis of North Liberty. OK, that might be an exaggeration. It’s budding, that’s for sure – entire neighborhoods have gone up in the short time we’ve been here – but it’s certainly not a “metropolis.” It’s a cute bedroom community with almost everything you could possibly need, but there’s no Main Street (really, there isn’t) and it feels like someone snuck into the area in the middle of the night, plopped a bunch of buildings down and called it a community.

The “children” have long since outgrown that title. Justin is 19 and attending Kirkwood Community College to study

something – right now I think he’s majoring in “college.” He took a semester off this fall and worked with my mom in Altoona at a before- and after-school day care program – which still makes me giggle. Here’s Justin – all 6’5” of him, with his size 17 feet and his bright orange beard – working with little kids. The thing is, though, he loved it – and they loved him. His last day was right before Thanksgiving and he came home with a carload of gifts from his “little kids.” Now he’s ready for classes in January – just need to get him a job so he can get an apartment and quit sleeping on my couch.

Kimberly is now 16 and driving all over the place – I’m looking forward for the first time since we’ve been this far east to go to Christmas at John and Lori’s and I’m able to sit in the back and relax! I’m sure one of the kids will be driving – Kimberly’s called “dibs” if the weather is good – so I’ll have a book in tow! She’s a junior at Iowa City West, the move last year meant she went from a school of 250 in the

high school to one with about 1,800. She loves it, is doing great and is working and maintaining a good GPA. Very proud!

Me? I’m good. My third book – the first with my name on the cover – was published in September, so I officially made my “I want to publish a book before I’m 45” deadline. Of course, I’m co-author on a topic I didn’t choose, but my agent assures me it’s still my book. Yeah, well … Call me selfish but I still want one that is all mine, so I’m working on two – a novel and a non-fiction book. Wish me luck.

Here’s hoping 2012 is very kind to you and yours, and your holiday celebrations are filled with blessings!

Boys are gross.

It’s a saying my friend and cousin Cara and I have used the past few years, almost as a code to let the other know that we’re frustrated with the opposite sex.

Today, it’s my mantra.

After four months of being really pretty darned happy – I met a great guy and was happy with how things were going – the mantra has returned.

Boys are gross.

I say that not as a whiner, but as a stronger person than even I realized. I’ve often said I love being in my 40s but I don’t think I really understood the extent of that statement. I’m better in my 40s – stronger, smarter and more confident and happy with who I am. I really got a glimpse of just how true that is this week.

I met The Boyfriend in July and was a little apprehensive. After six years of kissing toads, apprehension just comes naturally. But we hit it off pretty quickly and were soon “comfortable.” There were no nerves when we’d get together, we would talk/chat/email all day and though he worked two jobs and had just one free weekend a month, we managed to find time to spend together. He sent me texts every morning to wake me up and wish me a good day, there would be a good morning email either waiting for me when I got to work or would get there shortly after I arrived, we’d kid around during the day …

Then it just ended. He stopped texting and emailing, and wouldn’t answer his phone or return messages. Monday and Tuesday I was hurt, but Wednesday I was pissed. He was going to stop by to pick something up Wednesday night for his family Thanksgiving and I had to call him at work to find out when he’d be here (since I knew he wasn’t answering texts or emails). He gave me a time and we hung up. Then he never came. Never called. Never sent a text to let me know he wouldn’t be there.

I called to find out where he was, and he didn’t answer. Stunned, I hung up. Five minutes later I called again and this time left a message. I was done. I told him goodbye. Two days later and I still haven’t heard from him.

I let myself be sad for the rest of the day. Just that time. Then I moved on.

The “old” Molly probably wouldn’t have made that last phone call. That Molly would have looked for any excuse as to why all of this was happening, would have made excuses for him and probably found a reason that it was my fault. That Molly would have been devastated.

This Molly – the real Molly – is a better, stronger version. I deserve better. We all do. The Boyfriend was stressed, I’m sure, but in his decision to ignore me – even when he knew it was hurting – he suddenly took his pain and tried to make it mine, and let me know my hurt and pain didn’t matter.

It does matter. It matters to me. And this Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for the strength and confidence to stand up for myself.

I’ve been a little lax in posting lately- really, since I started this thing, but even moreso now – so thought it best I get back to it. And what better time than now, when winter is fast approaching and we’re all going to be holed up at home, trying to stay warm and searching for something to do.

I’m stealing this idea from several Facebook friends who have opted to post their own “30 days to be thankful” lists, one item for each day. Because I have a hard time saying anything in a short way – and because I need to get back to blogging – I’m going to do mine here. Of course, those who know me will appreciate the irony/symbolism of my getting started on the second day of November because I am rarely “on time” for anything. Hell, I was even four days late coming out of the birth canal! 

Day One: I’ll start with something easy, but knock of two things with one day (which will make it tougher at the end of the month). I have to start by saying I am most thankful for the incredible family and friends that I have. I’ve often said I was blessed to have been born into the family I was and I will continue saying it.  Many of my family members are among my very best friends, and I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

I’ve also been blessed with some very wonderful friends, many of whom are like family. I’ve also come to realize that sappy internet/Facebook post about “friends coming to your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime” is really pretty true. I have some lifetime friends, but there have also been people in my life who were very important to me at the time they were in my life, mostly when one or the other of us needed just what the other had to offer to get us through a hard time or difficult situation. Rather than mourn the loss of those friendships I’ve learned to appreciate them for what they were.

Day Two: My kids. I know, technically they fall under “family” but really, they’re so much more. We’ve been on our own for what will be 10 years in January (holy cow!) and, quite honestly, we’ve been through a lot together. But when they could have resented me, turned to deviant behavior or done a lot of really bad things, they haven’t. That’s not to say we’ve lived the lives of Pollyanna – we’ve had our share of parent/child drama – but I’m really proud of the people they are becoming. I love that we enjoy spending time together, even if it’s just going to the grocery store or sitting around watching a movie or something really dumb on TV (Justin and I watch “Archer” together now when he’s home – hilariously funny, but really, really dumb …). We’ve got the wonderful relationship that allows us to be friends while at the same time they still know “I’m the Momma” and they respect that line. They’re amazing, and I’ve had a great time watching them strengthen their wings and get ready to fly.

(See why I didn’t do this on Facebook?!)

Today would have been the 100th birthday of my Grandma Helen, the first and strongest single mother I’ve ever known. She’s been gone 33 years and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and miss her.

There were four children in my father’s family – his older sister Corinne, my Dad, and younger sisters Judy and Mary Pat (Patty). When my grandfather died of lung cancer, Corinne was married with two children and Dad was out of the house and in the Marines. Judy was still in high school and Patty was still a very young girl.

More than 50 years ago – decades before divorce was standard and single parenthood was an option on the United States census – Helen Rossiter was a widow and single mother.

I never really thought of her in that way. My time with my grandmother was short – she died in a store fire in Des Moines in 1978 – but every minute I spent with her was precious. She was the quintessential “Grandma.” When my brother and I came to spend two weeks with her during the summer – my family had moved to Alaska and that was the only time we got to see her – she always had a chocolate cream pie waiting for my brother and a banana cream pie waiting for me. Breakfast was homemade cake donuts made on her cast iron donut iron – we’d eat them still hot with grape jelly.  (The iron disappeared after her death and I’ve spent literally decades trying to find one similar.)

Afternoons were spent at the cemetery across the street from Grandma’s house, feeding the geese and the swans in the pond. She’d always save the heels of bread loaves – along with a few extra pieces – for us to take the geese.

My brother and I always slept with Grandma as children – even though I was 11 and he was 8 the last summer we were there – and she would sing us to sleep while rubbing our backs. Songs like “Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah” and “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” will forever be etched in my mind.

Grandma taught me to love Iowa thunderstorms; we would always get at least one good storm while we were at her house, and we’d sit out on her front step and watch it roll in.

I was just 11 when Grandma died, but it seems I had so much more time with her than I actually did. She epitomized “family” for me. Dad was the only one of the four siblings who didn’t live in Des Moines, so when we came back to Iowa it seems like the entire time was a giant family reunion – cousins would come over, my brother and I would go see them at their houses, there were picnics, parties, swimming, trips to Adventureland (when it was about the size of a Casey’s parking lot) and games of hide ‘n seek and tag.

Even now, we try to get as many of us together as possible at least once a year. Cousins, their children and grandchildren, as well as my Dad and his three sisters, all gather in a big Rossiter reunion (we’re the easiest family to spot – look for an area filled with redheads and that’s likely us!).

My memories of my grandmother have idealized her, I know. She wasn’t without faults – no one is – and the older I get the more I’ve come to recognize some of them. But none of them take away what she meant to me, what she’s created in our extended family and the strength of that legacy of family she’s left behind.

Happy birthday, Grandma. Love and miss you lots.

I was asked recently what I liked least about dating.

My immediate answer – and the one I gave – was the one that always sticks in the front of my brain, only because of my own insecurities: I don’t like meeting someone online and getting along, only to find out that despite their assurances that it’s not true they really are looking for a Barbie doll.

I’m not a Barbie doll. Never have been and, God willing, never will be.

But the more I thought about it the more I realized there are many things that I do and don’t like about dating again.

* Meeting people online. I’m a social person and have used social media for a number of things – reconnecting with old friends, posting stories, searching for sources for stories – but still can’t get used to the idea that this is the way people who are in “the dating pool” meet. What happened to catching someone’s eye, saying “hi” and starting a conversation? Going online throws it all into a backwards mess: you filter through hundreds (literally) of pictures or profiles and find one that might be appealing, make contact, start conversation and get to know each other and then, eventually, you meet.

The downside to that is that online the person on the other end of the conversation can be or say anything and you never know until you meet them whether they’re sincere. They can be socially awkward and just not what you’re looking for – and you don’t know until you’ve already invested some time.

I once met a man who seemed to be a good conversationalist both online and on the telephone. When it came times to meet, however, his true colors came out. He lived in a small town about 40 minutes from me – he had the day off and suggested I drive up to his community after I got off a long day of work. After trying unsuccessfully to convince him to meet somewhere in between I drove up – and learned he was 12 years older than he said he was. And when it came time to leave he wanted to kiss me goodnight – and tried to shove his tongue down my throat. Ick.

* Digital communication. I’m grateful for all of the options there are for “talking” to people – texting, instant messaging, Facebook – but eventually I really do like to really talk. With my voice. To another person. Unfortunately, not everyone feels the same. I had one man actually leave a phone message that said, “I thought I’d surprise you with a phone call rather than a text.” True, it was a surprise – but to listen to his voice you’d think he was sending flowers.

As a very good friend also pointed out, one big problem with only texting/IM’ing is that it’s not only impersonal in nature, it lets the party on the other line forget that there’s an actual person chatting. It’s a lot easier to hurt someone, stand someone up, lie to someone if you don’t have to see a look in the eye or hear a catch in the voice.

* Smart phone photos. Sounds like a great idea, doesn’t it? You’re out having a good time, you want to post a photo on your Facebook page to show it to all your friends. The trouble is, you’re not always in charge of which photos go online with your name tagged in them. Go to any bar/party/baseball game and you’ll see countless people taking casual photos of their friends, of the game, of the crowd. Having a bad hair day, or hoping no one sees you? These days it’s best to just stay inside – you don’t know when that morning-after shot of a bad hair color is going to show up on YouTube. Or in a potential date’s photo file.

* You want me to do what? OK, this one goes back to the digital communication and it’s likely not just connected to dating the second-time-around. What exactly is it with men (and maybe women, I’m just not on the receiving end of those) wanting to talk dirty, or worse, meet for a casual sexual encounter? I honestly can’t think of anything I say that would lead anyone who is just getting to know me to think I’d be willing to come over to their house in the middle of the night or want to pursue some kind of cyber-sex. Really? What are we, 15?

The truth is, dating is just as stressful now as it was 25 years ago, there are just different things to deal with. Best option? Be careful, be smart and have fun.

For the record, I’m writing this under duress. I’m not even sure what I’m about to say is true. In truth, I’m a bit of a hypochondriac and I’m sure that what I’ve been experiencing is a combination of the 25 pounds I need to lose and the mugginess of summer.

If it’s not, well, there’s just one thing to say.

Hot flashes suck.

I started to notice the sensation about two or three months ago at various points in the day, but never without a plausible explanation: the ones that come as I get ready in the morning are due to the high-wattage vanity lights in the bathroom; those that happen late afternoon are usually after I take the dogs out; and some that happen at work are generally when I get “that 2:30 feeling” of drowsiness (regardless of the time) and as I start to snap out of it I’m usually flush.

Then I noticed I started getting them at times when there wasn’t much of an explanation: when I was sitting on the sofa watching television, standing in the kitchen making supper, sitting wide-eyed and at full alert during a meeting at work.

It was during one of those meetings (I’m not always wide-eyed, but was at that one) that the realization was shoved at me. Literally.

Our regular weekly meeting is held in a conference room known for its chilled environment. We all generally bring sweaters or prepare ourselves with hot coffee before going in. This particular day a few weeks ago, I didn’t get cold. In fact, I started to feel sweat beading up around my scalp and along my hairline, my cheeks started to heat up and suddenly I was HOT.

I turned to a co-worker, as I was wiping my brow, and commented about how warm the typically cool room was that day.

Co-worker: It’s not warm. I’m cold.

Me: Are you kidding? I’m sweating!

Co-worker: I see that. Why are you so hot?

Me: I don’t know!

Co-worker (with that “a-HA!” look in her eyes): Ooohhhhh, how old are you? You might be flashing.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

I was devastated. Crushed. Pissed off.

I’m too young for this, right? I just turned 44, and the 40s are the new 30s, and 30 is much too young to be perimenopausal. Right? Right??

Apparently not. Now I’m noticing them all the time – when playing cards with friends the other night I had to pull my hair up because I was getting so hot, while sitting in the office, even laying in bed on the brink of sleep. I was all nice and cozy, just getting ready to drift when suddenly the blankets became unbearably hot and I started kicking – seriously – to get them off.

This is going to be a loooooong preview phase.

I’m that Mom.

You know the one – the Mom that gets scorned because her kids swear, have shaggy hair, wear inappropriate clothing and think for themselves.

Sue me.

Here’s the thing: I want to raise my kids, I am raising my kids, to be ready to spread their wings when the time is right. I don’t want to shelter them from the world, give them unrealistic rules that will leave them flailing when they’re out on their own or leave them to be surprised when situations that could have been addressed eventually arise.

When I overheard my son, then 12, cussing up a storm outside with some friends I called him in to talk about it. He looked so scared, he knew he’d been busted. But rather than yell at him or scold him for using the same words I know he’s heard both me and his father use, I talked to him. I told him I knew I’d be naive telling him not to swear; I remember my brother (and me, actually) when we were 12 – we’d say words to say them just because they made us “cool.” I also told him, however, that I didn’t want to hear it, I didn’t want to get calls from his friends’ parents because of it and I didn’t want to get called to the school.

Too lenient? Maybe. But one day a few years later I was driving him and one of his friends home from football practice and the friend started talking about what a bitch so-and-so was. Before he could finish or I could say anything, Justin turned to him and said, “Dude, you gotta stop. She WILL stop the car and make you walk home.”

I just smiled.

My kids and  I talk about alcohol and drugs and sex and dating – in a way that they know they can come to me if they have questions. I’ve told them both I don’t want them drinking but more than that I don’t want them drinking and driving or with someone who has been drinking and driving. I’ve assured them that if they find themselves having had something to drink they can call me and I will come get them, no yelling involved, we’ll just talk the next morning.

We’ll talk … over a nice greasy breakfast of eggs and bacon and sausage and super greasy hashbrowns. And they’ll have to eat every bite.

I’m the mom who, when my daughter bought a pair of short shorts (not too short – I made her do the bend-over test so I couldn’t see cheek, or more) and then said someday she’d be able to buy some heels to go with them, told her that sure, that would be a good idea, and I’d drive her to the street corner to market her wares. (A young father walking with two young girls chuckled when he heard me say that, until I looked at his daughters, smiled and said, “You think it’s funny now. Just wait.”)

Don’t get me wrong – I’m also the mom who home-bakes treats for school, prefers homemade mashed potatoes to those in the box and believes a home-cooked meal does not mean adding hamburger to a box of noodles and sauce mix marketed by a talking glove.

I make it to as many of my kids’ events as possible, and am sure to let them know why I can’t make it when that’s the case.

My kids and I are friends. We get along, we go out to dinner, we spend time together. We tell jokes, watch inappropriately funny movies like “Hangover” and “Step Brothers” and compare music notes.

But they also know I’m The Mom. They know the rules and still respect them. They call to let me know when they’ve reached their destination, they haven’t ever broken curfew. They don’t steal, do drugs or disrespect their elders. I’m not naive – I know full well what they’re capable of and that they have misbehaved and gotten into trouble. I also know, though, that it could certainly be a lot worse.

So yeah – I’m that mom. You may not think much of it now, but you’ll thank me later.

I put it off for years, convincing myself that I didn’t really need one, that isn’t what it’s all about and it’s just going to make me miserable.

Then last week, in a fit of poor judgment, I did it.

I bought a bathroom scale.

It wasn’t an easy purchase. Oh no – I held that box, turned it over and over, hoping to find a disclaimer: “Objects placed on this scale are smaller than the numbers say. Really. A lot smaller.” Finding none, I put it in my cart and continued with my shopping.

It’s amazing, being able to buy something like that at the same place you buy your groceries. That scale mocked me through the entire shopping trip. Just as I was about to turn my cart down the frozen foods section for my favorite cup of Ben & Jerry’s, I swear that scale turned on from inside the box and started beeping. When I went down the chip aisle, the box started to vibrate, and as I neared the deli the scale leapt from the front basket of my cart into the back.

Instead of going home with a pint of ice cream, a back of tortilla chips and a scale, I walked through the door with a flat of water, three different kinds of fruits and cucumbers and zucchini for slicing.

Of course, the scale couldn’t be happy with altering my eating habits, ohhhh, no. It sat on my couch – still in the box – just staring at me with that beady little number window for a full night, daring me to open it and step on.

I held out and showed that damned scale – it had to sit there on my couch, by itself, all night before I opened the box and put the scale in its new home on my bathroom floor.

And it mocked me even more.

I wish I’d known when I picked it up at the store that this digital scale, when it’s turning on and warming up, has three little circles that rotate around each other – kind of like a cute little digital laugh.

“You’re going to step on me and expect to be happy but you won’t be!” I could almost hear the childish voice singing, taunting me. Daring me to step on and be disappointed.

So I stepped on that scale the second day. And the third. And then the fourth. I never did see the numbers I wanted to see.

Maybe I should return it for “disappointing results.”

If only I could find that damned box …