Skip to main content

Busy Bodies

This past month has been crazy. Meetings out the wazoo and then some. I’m pretty sure I went to one meeting that was about having a meeting.

The only good thing about all these gatherings of people with a supposed common purpose is that sometimes you get things accomplished. Of course that takes about 347 meetings, but who’s counting?

I remember early on in my work life when I thought it sounded so grown-up to go to “a meeting.” I used to wish I was asked to go to one. I’d wear something a little snazzier that day. Maybe my black shoes with the one-inch heels. Little did I know that it would become such a regular part of my life. I guess that really kicked in when I had kids. And it mostly kicked in when they were in trouble, or in Dan’s case, because of his autism. 

Now that he’s almost ready to leave high school, I’m having more meetings than ever. I feel like I have to pave the way for Dan’s adult life. Sometimes that involves one of those giant steamrollers and other times I just have to pull a few weeds out of his path. Either way, it always involves me getting up off my butt and putting myself in sometimes uncomfortable situations, i.e.: talking to people I don’t know. What I wouldn’t do for that kid.

The worst part is that I find myself blinking away tears during some of these  powwows. I’m either terrified at the meeting because I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do, or the people at the meeting are so awesome and supportive that it brings me to tears. Either way I’m a big crybaby. Whatever.

Maybe it’s because Dan is my last baby. Although I’m still waiting for the day when I stop considering all three of them babies. I hope for my sake and theirs that it happens soon. 

Now I’m more concerned with the conversation at the meetings than I am whether or not my slip is showing or I have lipstick on my teeth. These days I’m wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and a little Chapstick on my fanciest of days. And something tells me the substance is more important today even though my denim’s frayed. Besides, who wears a slip anymore?


Popular posts from this blog

I might need a price check

So my husband Chris works three days a week in America, and I’m trying not to take this personally.
He’s commuting Monday mornings on the 6:30 ferry over to Cape Cod, where he works at an upholstery shop in Hyannis, the Mattydale of Cape Cod, for all you Syracuse readers. I stay here and hold down the fort, cooking up a cocktail of frozen pizzas and mac n’ cheese weeknights for my poor Danny. Chris comes back late Thursday night, all giddy over toilet paper prices and quotes on cheaper rent.
No, no, no, and more no I say. I can’t possibly leave all this off-season quiet and high-priced laundry detergent. There’s no convincing me to leave no matter how many times Chris points out that there’s a Trader Joe’s “over there.”
I want to stay here until I miraculously win on one of those $5 scratchers and can buy my own house here. The difference being that I feel confident that I will someday scratch my way to freedom while Chris thinks we’d be smarter to look into a nice rental “over there.…

Getting well takes baby steps

So I’ve had what you could call a case of the pneumonia. It was not pleasant. And to top it off it happened in San Antonio, Texas. Like I wasn’t sweating before the fever.
I was there to see my niece Michelle, who by the way kept asking me, “Are you going to write about this?” which is funny because she’s a writer too. I naturally said, “Oh no, of course not.” And here we are.
Thinking back, the best part of that trip teeters between meeting my two great-nephews, Oliver and Isaac, and having a couple of beers with their Yaya, my sister, who I haven’t had beers with in decades. Like I said, it’s a toss-up. There’s also the fact that I got to spend time with my niece’s husband Alex. He’s a hardcore military guy. He teaches other military guys how to be military policemen. I’m not going to gamble on writing anything about him. He’s from Wisconsin though, which I like. And he likes to cook, which I also like.
I thought to myself before I ever left my nice cocoon of Martha’s Vineyard to tra…

Who's got the soap?

I’m wondering at what age I’m allowed to hire a personal care attendant, covered by insurance of course. I haven’t reached my toenails in two and half years and the other day in the shower I seriously considered whether or not it was worth it to soap up below the waist. It hurts when I go anywhere past my kneecaps.
I’m okay with gray hair; that’s been coming in since I was in my 30s and I could still reach my ankles. It’s the burgeoning mountain under my man-sized T-shirts, just below my sagging breasts, that really gets to me. I want to know when exactly I stopped looking like I was 20, because it feels like yesterday. I look in the mirror strictly from the shoulders up these days.
It’s not completely depressing. I know there are about a billion other women in the same boat I’m in. I love the women who wear whatever the hell they want. Doesn’t matter if they’ve got those top-heavy grandma arms or busted veins mapping their legs. I say go for it ladies. I’m gonna get there someday.…