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

Just sitting around doing jack

I think my blog may have been hijacked. I haven’t written in forever because I’ve been writing …for my job, which may mean I’m no longer a “jobless goddess.” I may just be a regular goddess.
I love the word jack. I could use that all day. Whatever, hopefully those who want to read the blog will read. Back to jack. It’s a cool freaking word. I had a brother-in-law named Jack who pretty much personified the word “cool.” He’s gone too soon and missed by everybody.
There’s Billy Jack, get back Jack, Jack Sprat, Jack Nicholson, Jack Berry, Jack in the Box, Jumping Jack Flash. And my favorite, a little ditty my sister introduced me to, “Jack Mother.” This is a something you say when someone cuts you off on the highway. “I’m sorry officer, I was cut off by that Jack Mother in the blue Subaru.”
My brother Steve has a friend named Jack. I thought he was about the greatest thing ever when I was 12. Who are we kidding? I probably still do. Jackie was hilariously funny and I loved to watch my brot…

Little women

I’m getting a real kick out of my co-workers these days. I’m working with about a half dozen young women — young being the operative word.
They’re all so freaking competent it kills me. They can write like it’s nobody’s business, they all take great photos to go with their stories, and they almost always laugh at my jokes. I call them ‘the girls.’
They’re either about to go to university, just leaving university, or all done with it and on their way. They do yoga and eat a lot of avocados. We live on Martha’s Vineyard and none of them know who John Belushi is but they all know they should keep using the same plastic cup for take out iced coffee over and over and over again. If they see a bug, they think twice before killing it. Actually they leave it for me to kill because they couldn’t possibly… and they know I won’t hesitate.
We get along just fine the girls and me. Oh, there’s a little trouble when I insist on running the window air conditioner up in our second floor office —ramsha…

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.…