The Lipstick Chronicles

The Tarts are delighted to welcome back guest blogger Jennifer Vido, whose "Jen's Jewels" column at FreshFiction.com is one of our favorite places to read about books.  Jen's here to tell us what's up with life in the suburbs lately.  No surprise as the school year winds to a close, it has a lot to do with those kidlets!  You can also visit Jen at her website.

                                                                

Dispatches from the Suburbs -- The Mom Lifestyle

The majority of Americans look forward to Daylight Savings time for the simple fact that it brings the countdown to summer.  Those days when you skip work due to that supposed cold which can only be remedied by spending an afternoon on the golf course rather than in the boardroom.  Yes, you know exactly what I am talking about.  Of course all of this is well and good unless you happen to be in that special category that is marked with three simple letters -- M-O-M.  Then, I'm sorry to say, you're totally exempt from this sickness.  For us moms, Daylight Savings Time signifies one thing and one thing only . . . .the dreaded end of the school year.

Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not lamenting over the prospect of having our sons at home with me 24/7, all summer, every day, rain or shine.  (That's a topic for another blog, my friends.)  No, I'm talking about all of the obligatory school functions that never seem to end.  I don't know about you, but I'm finding that I hardly have enough time to get things done.  And if that's not bad enough, the teachers feel the need to assign twice the amount of homework in an attempt to complete their curriculum by June.

Take for instance my son's middle school social studies class.  I am sure that many of you can remember (with agony) your child's first research project.  You know -- the one that requires a zillion note cards, a complete sentence outline, and my all-time favorite, the tri-fold display board.  Honestly, by the time it was completed, I swear Julius Caesar wound up becoming the fifth member of our family.  This project was a valuable learning tool, but quite frankly it was also a painful lesson in time management for the entire family.

                                                               

Besides schoolwork, springtime also brings many other obligations.  This is what the past month looked like at our house.  We had two first communions, a baptism, three family birthday parties, the required spring school concert, lacrosse practice and games, the social studies fair, a walk-a-thon for the Arthritis Foundation, scouts, and sign-ups for summer camps.  That's just a sampling of what's been happening.  Whew!  I'm exhausted just writing about it!

But then on Friday, it finally dawned on me.  As I was sitting in my son's first grade classroom enjoying the Mother's Day Tea, I realized that it would be my last.  Next year, he'll be in second grade, where Mother's Day Teas are no longer celebrated. My older son will be in seventh grade, a step closer to high school, where hugs will no longer be readily accepted.  And I stopped and asked myself this question . . What's the hurry?  Even though I'm tired and I have ugly bags under my eyes, this is my life.  And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

So now, as I prepare for my Herculean work, I listen to that little voice in my head reminding me that this too shall pass, and all too soon.  Within a blink of an eye, I'll be reminiscing with my husband about these crazy days when it was such a struggle to keep my head above water.  And yes, a lonely tear will run down my cheek as I wish that I could have it all back.

Another C Word

By Rebecca the Bookseller aka Kathy Sweeney

Some people waive it off, as if it were nothing. Some people cringe just hearing it. Some people are vigilant - preparing defensive tactics. I'm talking, of course, about Cramps.

Cramps are a great medical mystery (please - do NOT get me started). Some people never have so much as cramp one - they breeze through life, their reproductive system sloughing itself once every lunar cycle, like clockwork, with nary a care. I hate those people. OK, maybe hate is too strong a word. But I do envy them. Envy, as in one of the Seven Deadlies.

Some people have mid-level cramps - they take the painkiller/anti-inflammatory of choice, grit their teeth for a day or so and carry on. Periodically they ask themselves - why in the hell can't someone figure this out?

Then there are the people like me. Cramps are part of an irregular, Cursed cycle that may or may not begin today, tomorrow or the next day. It may, in turn, end today, tomorrow or the next day. It's like living with a big Roulette Wheel in your body. There are days when I can't leave the house. There are hours when I can't leave my room. It sucks. Big Time. And other than the most helpful - "Let's knock you out, cut you open and take out all that stuff", there isn't much to be done. Hormone therapy? I don't think so. Fool me once, kind of thing.

Now, I understand there are advantages to taking it all out - but there are disadvantages too. Like most serious medical procedures, there are success stories and there are tragedies. My kids are too young to risk the tragedies - and yes, I know, I could get hit by a bus at any time, but that doesn't mean I'm going to choose to stand in the middle of the bus lane and take my chances, either.

Don't get me wrong - I know things could be much, much worse. I could have a fatal disease. I could be forced, in some kind of psychotic game show world, to spend every second of my life with stone idiots - or even worse - people with no discernible sense of humor. I could have a sick child, or a dying loved one. I get that. More on that in the guidelines below.

I am not even going to waste anyone's time talking about how in the name of all that is righteous it comes to pass that we are on our SIXTH generation of hard-on meds, but we still can't figure out how to stop cramps. I do need to mention, though, that the newer ED drugs have more side effects. As my daughter observed after sitting through a commercial: "Are you telling me that people are now willing to risk two of the five primary senses just for THAT?!" I told her that her grandparents' warnings of blindness and fiery damnation didn't stop any of her aunts or uncles. She just shook her head. She's young. Thank God.

Unfortunately, she's got my genes when it comes to her reproductive physiology. She knows from cramps already. And so the cycle begins again. Yeah, I know, I put it that way on purpose.

Basically, this is just a whiny blog.

Naturally, the whining about it makes me feel guilty, so I am going to try to turn this into a mitzvah - by sharing some advice to the people who share a house or a life with someone like me who suffers at the hands of mother nature.

1. If it's really bad, slide a glass of milk (have to have something in your stomach to take the pain meds) and some warm chocolate chip cookies (hell, any chocolate will do) in the door and stay the hell out of the way.

2. Ask if there is anything you can do. If you happen to be a man, and you think she has a rant coming ("YOU -- YOU go through NOTHING - if YOU had to go through this bullshit, the species would have died out CENTURIES ago") just take it and count yourself lucky there are no real weapons in the house. [Note: remove all weapons from the house.]

3. Join in if there is something to criticize (and be happy it's not you) - for example: If she says: "That stupid Mrs. Beasley up the street stopped earlier today to try to get me to sign a petition for one of her shithead projects. She's a menace." Do NOT say: "Gee, honey, what was the project?" DO say: "I KNOW! That ugly bitch needs to be slapped silly."

4. Do NOT try to one-up her. Unless you spend at least 25% of your life with an open compound fracture, you are not going to do anything but sound like a total wuss - and you'll just piss her off even more. You may have played an entire quarter of championship basketball/football/SuperMario Brothers challenge with a shattered tibia. But unless you do it once a month, every month, you have no idea what we're dealing with here.

5. Do NOT try to tell her 'It could be worse.' No shit Sherlock - funny I never thought of that, ya Dumbass. You want worse? Well, I can make that happen. Uh, sorry. See how bad an idea that is?

6. Finally - do NOT try to initate any funny business while the pain is intense. However, and tread lightly here - there is nothing better to relieve mild PMS cramps than an orgasm. But - and get this one guys - you are going to have to do the work. So if you've never paid attention before to what she likes, now is NOT the time to try something new. See #2 about the weapons. And woe to he who even THINKS about asking her to do any of those things she doesn't do. It won't matter whether you have weapons in the house or not. See that lamp on the nightstand? In the coroner's report, it will simply be referred to as 'a blunt object'.

Hmmmm. OK, I think that's enough.

Anyone on either side of this issue want to share?

Chased Around the Desk   

by Nancy

A few months back, famed former basketball player Isiah Thomas, coach of the New York Knicks, found himself in a pickle. A female executive, Anucha Browne Sanders, claimed Mr. Thomas sexually harassed her in the office at Madison Square Garden. She took him to court and--although he maintained his innocence to the bitter end--the jury believed her side of the story and found in her favor. She was awarded $11.6 million. (Yes, that's eleven million dollars.)  But the folks at the Garden settled with her for $11.5, which somehow allowed Mr. Thomas to continue to proclaim he did nothing wrong, but really, may I sell you a piece of the Brooklyn Bridge?

NBC Sports said that Ms. Browne Sanders's testimony " . . . exposed the club's tawdry side, from its dynfunctional clubhouse to its star player's sexual exploits with an intern."

What's new and startling about this story?

Nothing.  It's one of the oldest stories around--men chasing women around the desk and after she cries foul he wonders what all the fuss was about.

Mr. Thomas still doesn't get it, obviously. Maybe that's the story here.  That there's still a man in America who hasn't learned it's politically incorrect to bully someone into doing things she might otherwise not want to do.  Okay, wait, maybe certain Mormons in Texas still haven't figured this out either. And a few coaches of girls' basketball. Oh, and the occasional--well, now that I think of it, the list could get longer than I first thought.

When I was a teenager and working as a waitress in a hotel located along an interstate, I learned how to take an order and deliver the rare or well-done prime rib to the right customers. And I also had to figure out how to dodge the boss who had developed a very successful catch and release technique. He'd wait until a waitress had a tray of glassware, then grab her around the waist and pull her into the break room. Since I was taller and more athletic than he was, I had an advantage that other, smaller, more timid girls (who also didn't have prominent attorneys for fathers) lacked, and eventually he quit trying to feel me up. It was all done with a lot of laughing and teasing, but---well, it was serious groping nonetheless.

I didn't tell my parents. They'd have been shocked and would have done something on my behalf, but it felt like something I needed to handle myself. Sure, by keeping quiet, I enabled him to continue. But also . . . maybe it was a little bit flattering for a teenage girl to imagine an older man found her attractive?

As a culture, we're still doing that--making teenage girls think their sexiness is their best asset. Look at magazines, television, pop music ("Hit me, baby, one more time"???) and perhaps especially at the local shopping mall.

I remember a friend---a sensible, intelligent woman--confiding in me about the time her former boss followed her out to her car late at night and pinned her head against the headrest to kiss her. When she told me the story, she tried to sound horrified (she was the happily married mother of three) but her eyes were glowing. Over the years, the writer in me has thought a lot about her expression.

It takes a certain self-assurance to say no, doesn't it? And many fourteen-year-olds don't have that trait in their makeup yet. (I watched some of the Texas Mormon mothers on television this week.  Their baby voices and passive grief made me think they still don't have the wherewithal to stand up for themselves.) You can drill into a kid's head what exactly "bad touching" is, but it's quite another thing for a kid to work up the courage to stop it when it's happening.

I'd be interested to hear how many of our regulars put up with sexual harassment (perhaps even before it had a name?) either at school or the workplace or even at home.  Was it long ago? Or not?

Oh, by the way, Isiah Thomas was fired from his coaching job for the Knicks.  Not for harassing an employee.  But because his team was losing.

Early Man

By Elaine Viets

Because love is strange, chances are one partner in a couple wakes up at dawn. The other sleeps till noon. This marriage of late and early risers won’t lie down and go away. It leads to conversations like these:

"Are you awake?" Don asks me.

"Uhh?" I say.

I’m no live wire around the house at any time. But when I’m curled into a ball, my eyes are shut and I’m drooling slightly, that’s usually a sign I’m asleep.

Another sign is that it is 6:30 in the morning.

Unfortunately, Don is a morning person. "If you don’t want to talk, just say so," he says, with irritating cheerfulness.

"I don’t want to talk. I want to get some (bleeping) sleep."

"Okay," he says, "you don’t have to be such a crab."

I do. I do. Our wedding should have told him something. I wanted to get married on a Friday night. If I had my choice, I’d keep vampire hours, rising at sunset and sleeping at sunrise.

The first time I met Don should have given me a hint about him. It was 7:40 in the morning, at a college English course. Not only was he awake, he was teaching the class. (Yes, I was one of those. But I didn’t date my English teacher until after class was over and the grades were in.)

Our story is typical. For some reason, during the two hours they are mutually awake, late sleepers and early risers manage to find each other. Maybe it’s natural selection. Couples stay married longer if they don’t see each other so often.

Don and I have learned to respect our time differences. I don’t play Eric Clapton after midnight and he doesn’t discuss Michael Mann movies before noon.

But I must protest a poll I saw about early birds. It said some 56 percent of the 502 adults polled were early risers. Fine. But then they made more obnoxious claims. They said early risers have more energy and optimism and early birds eat better and exercise more.

Of course they do. Every morning, the early risers wake us late-night types at some hideous hour. We spend the rest of the day in a daze, too tired to eat or move. After awhile, it wears down our natural high spirits.

This biased poll didn’t ask the early risers the crucial question: Do you take a nap later in the day?

That’s their ugly little secret. They all do. Early risers sneak in a little snooze in the afternoon or sack out on the couch after work. They may brag that they’re first out of bed, but they don’t tell you they are also the first back in.

My own informal survey shows that 78 percent of early risers have a sadistic streak, especially if they have a position of authority. Corporations are infested with morning people. These sanctimonious pests like to call 7:30 breakfast meetings for the pleasure of watching the late show stumble in. Then, with all their colleagues backstabbed by 11:30 a.m., they go out for an early lunch and let the late risers do the real work.

You can’t convince an early riser, but there’s no virtue in waking up at the crack of dawn. For all we know, the early birds could be getting up at 5:00 a.m. to go through our wallets. In fact, no morning person has ever explained the advantages of getting up early.

Some mumble about the beauty of the sunrise. Yawn. A sunrise looks like a sunset, only backward. It’s not as much fun, either. If you have a relaxing drink watching the sun rise, it causes talk.

They also say, "If you get up at six, you can have your day’s work done by nine."

That way you can be awakened from your afternoon nap by people making legitimate daytime calls.

Morning people also tell you, "The early bird gets the worm."

Exactly. And the early worm gets the bird.

Who Scares Ya, Baby?

By Sarah

If you've been calling my home lately and found you're unable to reach me, I apologize. The thing is, I'm in hiding - from my son's piano teacher.

I know what you're thinking: what kind of doofus is scared of her son's piano teacher? Wait. It gets worse. Not only is she a piano teacher, she's 82 years old and lives in a retirement home, so frail and brittle thin that I could blow her over with a feather.  At least, that's the way she looks on the outside. Deep down she's as tough as forged steel and the very thought of crossing her gives me the shakes.

At the beginning of the last school year, for example, when it became clear Sam was as into the piano (which he'd played with only creeping success since age six) as much as he was into pink Barbies, I summoned my courage and approached Mrs. Nice (we'll call her since outside of the piano world she is nice) to say that while it wasn't working out, I had signed a contract and, therefore, would take the piano lessons instead of Sam this year.

"No!" she said.

No?

There was a contractual obligation on Sam's part...yadda, yadda, yadda, she explained, and she would not accept my offer. All I knew, as my eyes glazed over, was that I was in store for another year of nagging Sam to play and me to pay. In the end, he didn't practice, of course. I decided not to give a hoot and let him suffer the consequences. The upshot was a recital last week that he muddled through. Whew! It was over.

Or was it?

Apparently, it wasn't. So while I was at Sam's baseball game happily watching him walk to first after he got hit by a ball (nice job getting hit, Sam!), Mrs. Nice was frantically calling my home, angry that I'd missed a class and that I hadn't had the decency or politeness to call ahead of time. (I always call ahead of time AND we never miss classes. Well, almost never.)

Moreover, we were missing a class so Sam could play ball. I don't know if you're aware of the Sports vs. Arts struggle we parents of school-aged children must battle, but it's out there and it's vicious. A few months before, the ski coach had battled the drama teacher over my daughter's schedule. It was not pretty.

Now I'm really, really scared to call her even though - eep! - we might have another lesson during which - eep! eep! - another game has been scheduled.  That makes me three apologies in arrears.

This is why I'm not answering my phone.

Think I'm a weenie? Look, I have been less frightened of a 6-foot-tall convicted murderer with AIDS who tried to contact me at home after he tied several sheets together and escaped from the New Jersey State Penitentiary in Trenton than I am of Mrs. Nice. Don't ask me why because I don't know.

Charlie says it's Mrs. Nice's age - the same as my mother's - but I say my upbringing is to blame. To be raised in a Germanic steel town like Bethlehem, PA, is to respect the wrath of an older generation. These are people who can hurt you, who don't mind flaying you from head to toe so that all your weakness are exposed and then scalded in hot lemon juice.

Who else scares me? Cops. The other day Charlie and I were out tooling around in my BMW M3 with the top down. We'd just taken it out of the garage (sort of) and were enjoying the lovely spring weather when not one but TWO cop cars (a local and Vermont State Police) raced up behind me, lights flashing. Remembering my old boyfriend's advice (always have your paperwork ready!) didn't help. The registration was one month expired. The inspection one - maybe two - years, too. (Hey! I'd been busy!)

Charlie was ready to tear the guy a new one for not addressing me as Ma'am instead of "Sarah." (I thought he was being friendly. But Charlie pointed out that friendly would be giving me a warning, not an $84 ticket for expired inspection.) Me? I was shaking.

Authority figures. Cops. Elderly piano teachers. Ladies from the bank and utility companies reminding me my payments are overdue. These are my bogeymen.

So who's yours?

Sarah

P.S. Anyone want to make The Call to Mrs. Nice for me? I'll make it worth your while with a free signed copy  of Sweet Love. All you have to do is come up with a good excuse.

Wedding Bell Blues/blacks/whites
By Harley

On Friday, I heard on NPR (my primary news source, along with STAR magazine at the grocery checkout line) that Jenna Bush was getting married.

“What?” I thought. “Why wasn’t I told? Why wasn’t I invited?”

Here’s why: I have nothing to wear. As you may remember, I’ve weeded out non-essentials in my life, including truckloads of clothes, stuff I’d kept for some oddball reason (I paid full price for it/had sex in it/wore it the day I encountered Al Pacino on the sidewalk.) Anyhow, what’s left in the dressy department are some loud floral numbers appropriate for Hawaii – and eight little black dresses.

The Hawaiian thing I understand—everyone needs something that looks good with a lei. But what’s with those eight little black dresses?

I have two theories. One: in a parallel universe I am Audrey Hepburn, living in New York, needing eight black frocks because at any given time 3 are at the drycleaners and there is always an impromptu cocktail party requiring my presence.

Two: it’s genetic. I’m Slovak/Scandinavian, with big families on both sides, and some ancient relative always at death’s door. One must be prepared. To illustrate (and stop me if I’ve told you this), my Aunt Viera in Pittsburgh, upon hearing Uncle Johnny cry out “Aaaggh!” one afternoon, was heard to say, “Dear God, there’s Johnny having another heart attack and me without a black dress.” (Uncle Johnny’s outcry, in fact, was from sitting on Aunt Viera’s pinking shears, left on the couch.) If there’s one thing Kozaks admire, it’s a woman who looks good graveside (men don’t count. Men have suits.) Think Jackie Kennedy.

So yes, I’m an excellent choice of guest for your funeral. But your marriage ceremony is another story.

I realized that this week during our own Nancy’s couture crisis. Nancy has to attend a Very Important Wedding, the details of which I am not at liberty to disclose (think Jenna’s friends) but she’s wrestling with Nuptial Dress Code. Is anything more complex? One seeks clues in the style of the invitation (font, of course, but there is also paper to consider: white or ecru? Hand-lettered calligraphy or computer labels?), the venue (Jenna’s non-Texan guests must have been driven mad with that pre-wedding barbecue), and the season, the religious convictions/conventions, and the exact relationship of you to the wedding principle (are you a sibling, a client, an old flame? Will you be in the wedding album photos?) And even if you’re confident you know what ballpark you’re in, you still have to find something that fits, that you can afford, that doesn’t make you feel like Pat Nixon.

And it mustn’t be black. Or white. There are 2 kinds of people in this world, those who consider this the 11th commandment, and those who didn’t get the memo. You don’t wear black to a wedding because it’s bad luck (even if you know the marriage doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell) and you don’t wear white because you’ll upstage the bride. Is this rule outdated? Yes. If you can ignore it, go for it. I can’t, anymore than I can wear white shoes after Labor Day. Legions of Dead Aunts would descend, tut-tutting and raising their ghostly eyebrows. I may as well wear clogs and a macramé poncho.

Nancy, good luck at the mall this week. Jenna, lovely dress—and big thanks for not sending ME down that long road to Macy’s, Neiman Marcus or Saks. Thank you for not inviting me to the wedding. Thank you for not knowing me.

Happy Monday.
Harley

       Mother's Day at TLC

                        

Forgot to send Mom a card? Didn't order the flowers in time? Missed the sale on leftover Valentine's Day chocolate?  Or maybe you slipped up on ordering the spa gift certificate? Well, here's some advice from Anderson Cooper and his mother on how best to celebrate this important holiday.

                      

Or maybe you're a mom yourself--the kind who needs something really, really cute on Mother's Day.  Here you go.

                        

Or maybe you don't care what day it is, but you'd just like to watch something drop dead delicious.

                              

Or, what the heck, you want to read something fun about our friend Charlaine Harris.

Or this, written by FOT, Tony McGee Causey.

Or this, one, by Sisters in Crime member Lisa Curry, blogging at Working Stiffs.

Have it your way. Happy Mother's Day from the Book Tarts.

Bad Mommy!

by Nancy

In my own defense, my children turned out great.  But during their formative years, I had moments that weren't exactly Mother of the Year material.

                              

Like the two days I made my 18-month old daughter walk on her broken leg.  Mind you, the x-ray didn't show anything at all--nothing!--so I assumed she was just whining.  Eventually she communicated that I was an idiot, so I took her back for more x-rays, and sure enough, the leg was broken.

I also Had a temper tantrum and quit packing their school lunches when Cassie was in 4th grade and Sarah in 2nd. (Hey, if they're old enough to see the top of the kitchen counter, they can drop a few items into a paper bag, right?)  I threw another hissyfit and stopped doing their laundry before they hit junior high.

My attitude is that kids ought to recognize that Mom is a person, too, not the automatic, always-cheerful deliverer of food, fashionable clothes and boundless emotional support, especially during the tiresome teenage years. The purpose of a mother is not to bring any creature comfort the kids can't reach from their prone positions in front of the television. (Yell for some Doritos at my house, and you'd be likely to receive them crushed and poured over your head.)  A kid who recognizes that she can't boss around her own mother is a kid who grows up into a thoughtful, giving adult.

Giving your kids everything can be . . . bad.

                                    

And a mother who's a door mat is only teaching her kids a lesson that's not going to turn out well.

But then, I'm in the minority.  I know women who have devoted their lives to serving their children, and I admire them for their devotion.  No, really, I do.  They are better human beings than I am.

But I also admire my own mother who taught us independence and resilience and how to catch a fly ball, wipe the tennis court with your opponent, be a gracious loser when necessary and how to iron our damn own shirts.

                              

Some dim-witted organization gave Lindsay Lohan's mother a Mother of the Year award this year.  I'm not bothering to Google it for you, because no intelligent human being who reads People magazine would acknowledge Mrs. Lohan is a good mother. (I did read one Yahoo search item that started, "...she skipped her court date to visit Lindsay in rehab..."  'Nuff said, right?)

But I'm thinking Mrs. Lohan has time to clean up her act.  After all, we've all made mistakes as mothers.  Most of those mistakes turn out to be okay for our kids in the long run. I mean, my daughter had never let me forget the broken leg episode, and I think that's healthy.--Children should recognize that nobody's without fault. (But, really, isn't it a little strange that she's kept the cast all these years??  It's still on a shelf in the bedroom!)

For your entertainment on the day before Mother's Day, here's The Bad Mother's Club.

How about you?  Made any embarrassing motherly blunders? Do you feel a little pesticide on the apple you give your kid every day simply strengthens his immune system? (If you make your own baby food, I'll tell you right now that we're going to blackball you from the TLC Bad Mommy Club.) If your bag of tricks, do you have a heart-warming tale of blessed motherhood gone terribly wrong?

Today's your day to dish. To cleanse your soul.  We won't tell your mother, honest.

Happy Talk

By Rebecca the Bookseller aka Kathy Sweeney

Today, I am declaring a moratorium on any subject that is not a happy one. If you have to ask why, then maybe you are one of the smart ones who doesn't pay attention to the news - something I am considering, by the way.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the great assignment of interviewing 23 authors. I thought it would be a cake walk. After all, I talk for a living. Plus, around here, it's normal to strike up a conversation with perfect strangers. Turns out, it's harder than it looks. I did a ton of preparation (that's what lawyers do - except we call it due diligence). Again - no problem, just time and focus. But when the time came - I was actually nervous, and believe me when I tell you, at this stage of the game, that just doesn't happen to me much. The happy part is that it went well. At least I thought so - and it was fun. It was fun to meet the authors and see them smile when they talked about their books and their characters. It was fun to see people in the audience smiling and laughing. Felt like I helped lighten things up, if only for a few minutes.

Because, people, we need to find more ways to lighten up. As a species, we are sleeping less, eating more, exercising less, and angsting more. Our levels of stress are through the roof. So today, all of us are going to help the world (okay, maybe just a couple of thousand people, but still) by sharing what makes us happy.

Plus, I am going to make a music compilation of songs that make me happy, and I'm going to carry it around.

So, here we go. Happy things first, then happy songs.

Watching Dancing With the Stars makes me happy. You see these celebs working to master something that is not in their comfort zone, and when they hit the floor, regardless of how their performance turns out, they are always full of joy. I've never watched any of these competition shows before, but my Mom got me started this season, and I'm hooked. (Plus, IYOCHFTS, hel-loh, between the costumes - or lack thereof - and the hot choreography - whew!).

Listening to my son and his friends when they forget I'm in the next room makes me happy. I never interrupt them, or bust them on the swearing (it's fabulous to hear them try out those new words). They're all taller than me now, but they still talk like boys, not men, even as their voices get deeper. I know that won't last much longer, so I savor it.

Reading good books makes me happy - I guess that one goes without saying on TLC, right?

Laughing makes me happy. In our house, and with my friends, we laugh a lot. I'll even admit that it may be a way of avoiding the sad and tragic stuff. We do support eachother in those ways too - but most of the time, we try to laugh. Laughing, it turns out, is good for you. No kidding - you can look it up.

Okay - I'm leaving the field wide open for the rest of you - what makes you happy?

Now - Songs that make me happy. They can be any kind of song - country, rock, gospel, folk, whatever. They don't even have to be about happiness. But there are some songs that cheer me up and make me smile. I'm sure you have some too, and at the end, I'll put together a compilation of TLC Happy Songs. Here are a few of mine:

I Wish by Stevie Wonder

Hot, Hot, Hot by Buster Poindexter

In the Mood- my current favorite cover is Bette Midler

Alive and Amplified by The Mooney Suzuki

Angelina/Zooma Zooma by Louis Prima

What Was I Thinkin'? by Dierks Bentley

Favorite Song of All by the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir

Happy Working Song by Amy Adams from "Enchanted" (the lyrics are priceless)

I'm A Believer - currently, it's the Smash Mouth version from Shrek

Birdhouse in Your Soul by They Might Be Giants

I Can't Help Myself by The Four Tops

Beyond the Sea - Bobby Darin or Pittsburgh's own George Benson

Okay, your turn - let's make some happy! Can I get a witness here?

UPDATE: I made a new play list with all of the songs suggested - tried to make it into an iMix, but not all of them showed up - (clueless as to why - perhaps the ones I'd already downloaded from CDs?). Any way, here is the iMix, if you'd like to check it out:
TLC Happy Mix on iTunes

First Apartment

by Nancy

My first apartment was in a Victorian mansion on a street nicknamed Millionaire's Row that hadn't seen a millionaire in fifty years. All the crumbling big houses had been carved up into apartments for students at the nearby community college or local drug dealers who wanted to live conveniently close to their customers. The landlord thought I'd love the campy 3rd floor hideaway which had beads hanging in all the doorways instead of doors and a bedroom with a round, Poconos-style honeymoon bed and a open porch in the turret--very cute, if a little dingy because none of the windows had been washed since Eisenhower.

But the apartment also sported bloodstains on one wall. The landlord hadn't gotten around to washing up after an undercover cop shot and killed a stoned dealer in the apartment, and the splatter remained. The landlord was surprised when I declined to rent the place.

On the other hand, the 2nd floor apartment had big rooms and lots of light and some very elaborate, if wobbly furniture and no blood. It was located only a short drive from the junior high where I'd been employed to teach. I rented it on the spot because, frankly, I'd come by myself and didn't know where else to look.

The place was kinda grungy Mary Tyler Moore, except with marijuana.

                                       

The main thing was that it was cheap. Fresh out of college and on my own financially, I needed a bargain. (In those days--the recession of the mid-seventies--graduates moved to where the jobs were.  We couldn't be picky about location.)

For months, I wondered why the neighborhood drug dealers avoided me, because they were certainly persistent with everyone else. Finally, a long-haired neighbor (who took me under his wing when I agreed to share my cable TV service with him--ahem) told me that all the neighbors were keeping their distance because my boyfriend--who came to visit every other weekend--drove a stripped-down, dark blue Chevy with a federal parking lot sticker. He also wore a raincoat with epaulettes, so they thought he was a cop. Actually, he was a bank examiner for the Federal Reserve, and he was pleased to be feared by somebody other than branch managers who didn't keep good tabs on their tellers.

I can still remember that apartment's faded cabbage rose wallpaper and the two-burner electric stove and the tiny refrigerator that I never bothered to defrost. The independence of having my own place was thrilling. My mother made sure I had a screwdriver, a hammer, two Revere saucepans (which I still use---the need for cheap has stayed with me) and some cleaning supplies, an ironing board and a flash light. I inherited somebody's vacuum cleaner that did more vomiting than sucking, but I felt I was all set for life on my own. I wasn't prepared for the nearly constant heavy-breathers who called on my telephone, but--several hundred miles from my parents and their style of countrified gracious living---I toughened up. 

By contrast, my husband's first apartment was in a high rise building in Cleveland (home of the Federal Reserve) facing the formidable great lake. Every winter, his windows froze up with ice, and the parking lot often drifted shut with stunning amounts of lake-effect snow. His neighbors were mostly elderly ladies who received their lunch via Meals on Wheels. He was the youngest person who lived in the building, and he was frequently asked to carry heavy packages for his neighbors.  His mother gave him a blaze orange vinyl recliner and a dinette set (remember those?) with aluminium tube legs--ugly as all getout, but functional.

                           

I remembered that orange recliner and dinette set when it came time for my daughter to move into her first apartment. I decided her move was not an opportunity for me to get rid of ugly furniture or old vacuum cleaners. We helped her into an efficiency that was probably smaller than the smallest bedroom in your house. I couldn't believe anyone could live in that tiny cage--only one window, and it had security bars!  We managed to fit all her needed furniture into one minivan, if that helps give you a mental picture of its size.

                        

If there were drug dealers in her building, I would have moved heaven and earth to get her out of there, but--like me--she might have chosen not to inform her kind-hearted parents of situations she felt she better learn to handle on her own.

On the other hand, when my sister moved into a first apartment, she telephoned my mother (three hundred miles away) for help getting a squirrel out of the living room.

Living in an apartment in New York appeals to me now, but only if I could afford one of those $17 million penthouses with a view of Central Park and a rooftop garden like the one in the movie Green Card.

Now, of course, my husband and I live in a house that requires endless maintenance that no landlord can be called at any hour to take care of, but then, through various emergencies large and small we've learned to manage.

Do you remember your first apartment?  And the adventure of starting your own, independent life? Did you grow up? Learn to cope?

Good grief, I just Googled my old neighborhood and found a photo of the house!  It's become an official historic neighborhood. I love when buildings are preserved, but I wonder if the tV cable is still spliced.