See Ya Later, Alligator

Warning: Might not be suitable for small children, teenage boys and/or men with weak constitutions.


Recent text exchange with one of my best girlfriends:

Me: Can I write about your uterus?
Her: Absolutely! LOL!
Me: Can I attach your name to your uterus? Or should you and your uterus remain anonymous? I can call you Jane Doe and your uterus Crazy Susan? Or I could use a combo like Florence and the Mad Machine?
Her: Whatever you want! That’s what friends are for.


Now, I certainly don’t want to brag, fluff my $19.99 Old Navy pencil skirt or toot my own rusted horn but I’m a pretty decent party planner.


I’ve planned countless princess parties with candied apples and sugared roses, scream-worthy Halloween haunts with edible cadavers, 70s pub crawls, Christmas vacation karaoke keggers, scavenger brunch booze cruises, doggie birthday bashes and even an elegant, yet casual, guinea pig wedding in a mere 10 days.


This is probably about the time you are wondering what a party has to do with my friend and her uterus; well that’s because after 32 years of hell hath no fury like a woman on her “flow,” they are finally and quite happily I might add, parting ways.


And what better way to say thank you for tightly swaddling and housing, though cramped, two
beautiful children in comfort, but not necessarily style, for a total of 18 lingering months and eight excruciating days.


An intimate gathering of friends for a proper send-off, of course.


Now, it’s not just a sad and sentimental fare-the-well to her womb, so to speak. It’s also a rockin’ celebratory “don’t let the back door hit you on your way out,” sayonara sweetheart, so long suffering and if we are honest, not so nice knowing ya once a week, every month of every blessed year.


Bye-bye bloating – and later – blinding, backbreaking cramps. Adieu annoying aches, pains and overall discomfort.


It’s hammer time.


So how to you throw a party for such a great occasions as this one? Especially seeing, thanks to modern, less-evasive medicine and insurance companies finally realizing it’s a good thing to get out when you are done helping populate the earth, that these particular shindigs are soon to be all the rage?


I thought of a back yard BBQ with ribs and a smoked butt … seemed a bit macabre; pondered a Susan Sarandon movie marathon … too sappy. Thought about cocktails and dancing the night away a Ziggy’s, but whether you are still lugging around your half-pound uterus or not … too exhausting, at least at our age.


So, it looks like it’s going to be a small gathering of good friends with Champagne and a bonfire where she can toss all of her unused Playtex boxes into a roaring pit of flames and finally be done with it all once and for all while blaring George Michael’s “Freedom.” Then, we’ll do what we usually do. Sit on Alicia’s back porch, order Locos, sip on some wine, visit, laugh, chat, probably cry but we’ll always be merry because we have each other. Through thick and thin, surgeries and successes, pain and loss, trials and tribulations, we will always be friends.


It’s interesting to note that even today some people feel if they lose a part of themselves that makes them “female” it makes them less of a woman. There is always this judgy-ness about what is more female and what is less and sadly, it comes mainly from other females. If you don’t breastfeed, you’re less of a woman. If you choose a career over child rearing … less of a woman. If you have a C-section instead of a natural birth … you’re less of a woman. But we all know, deep down, boobs and uteruses and ovaries do not a woman make. A woman is a real woman because of her character and depth not her parts.


My friend Jennifer is a real woman because:


She raised two smart, beautiful kids all on her own with hardly any help and never, ever complains.


She is a real woman because even when suffering she is engaged; an active seeker and nurturer of life and all the good that’s in it.


She is a real woman because she is loyal, a steadfast friend to the end.


She is true and good and just so very lovely.


So here’s to Jennifer and all the other women out there celebrating letting go, moving on and living large.


See you around the bonfire.

Rearview Mirror of Motherhood

Hindsight, they say, is 20/20.


Yes, you can really only see clearly once everything is behind you and you’ve had time to reflect.

Only, I like a little realism with my reality if you know what I’m saying. As in, hindsight should be called plain old mean, inevitable, a big “I told you so,” or even a “nanny nanny boo boo” in this game called life. For me, hindsight is akin to age spots, frown lines, laugh lines and wild hairs. If you live long enough, they sprout out of nowhere and slap you in the face without even saying I’m sorry.


I was thinking about this the other morning after my kids stopped fighting over the phone charger long enough to notice that I did indeed exist. They do this from time to time like when they desperately need more milk for their cereal because they forget where the fridge is located or a towel because they don’t remember what a linen closet looks like.


“Hey, mom. What do want for Mother’s Day this year?” one of them asks while trying to untangle the cord from her sister’s neck. I pretend not to notice because let’s face it, I’m too tired and she’s still breathing.


“Peace of mind.” I say this firmly, on autopilot, without even thinking. But it stops me in my tracks.


My girls, however, roll their eyes, mouth something to each other in pig Latin and commence to wrestle.


See, growing up, every single time my mom was asked what she wanted she always said, and I mean every single time, those same three words: Peace of Mind.


And my brother and I would roll our eyes, snicker and continue to beat each other over the head with the Atari console because one of us was hogging Pac Man.


It seems these days, praying for peace of mind now that I have a few years under the belt as mom has become a daily occurrence: When I step over three soppy wet towels to find my fancy conditioner bottle empty and my missing flat iron flung on the back of the toilet seat next to my favorite layering sweater: Please, bring me Peace of Mind.


Having my moral compass questioned as someone who “always goes back on her word” in a busy
department store dressing room when, by promising to buy new bath suit, I did not mean a $178 Lilly Pulitzer one: Peace of Mind. (I’ll even take just five minutes worth.)


Listening to a barrage of “you never get me,” “why are you so mean,” and “how did I get so unlucky,” when I’m only trying to band-aid, clothe, feed, discipline and parent. Come on Peace of Mind. Where are you when I need you?


So, as I look at hindsight in my own mirror, I just want to take a little time and do something I should have done long ago. I’m sorry mom and I love you.


Mom, I am sorry I said you were the meanest mother ever and I hated you because my curfew was an hour earlier than my friends. I love you.


I feel awful for glaring daggers and huffing off when you made me do the dishes, feed/bath/walk the dog, clean my room, babysit to help pay for designer jeans, get a summer job because when I just wanted to hang out with my friends while all you were trying to do was teach me responsibility. I love you.


I’m sorry I yelled, talked back and slammed doors and told you “you don’t know anything” when all you were doing was trying to teach me right from wrong. I love you.


And I’m sorry for all the times I rolled my eyes, ignored you or took you for granted when you tried to help me parent my own children because I stubbornly and willfully disregarded the fact that you had been there, done that years before and were only trying to help me because you love me. I love you, too.


I think this Mother’s Day, as we look in the rearview mirror of our own motherhood, and yes, fatherhood, when we call, lunch, brunch or visit with our moms (those of us who are still so very lucky), we should remember how unbelievably hard all of this living life stuff truly is.


Mom, I appreciate you. I love you. Always have. Always will.


And for those of us, who are now living in the thick of it all, knee deep screaming and kicking our way through, let us remember some of the hardest parts will all be over, though sadly, soon enough.
And even then, Peace of Mind may not be so easily found because, as our own mother’s remind us, even when our children are grown and flown, we will still worry about them, cry when they cry, hurt when they hurt, want to fix everything even though we know we can’t.


So keep on keeping on by celebrating the big moments, find humor and grace in the little ones and lean on your mom when it’s tough. No one said it would be easy. No one told us it would be this hard, either. (Maybe they did, but we were too busy being right to listen.) But as our moms tell us over and over again, it’s definitely all worth it.


Happy Mother’s Day, y’all!

A Southern Yard Sale Story

I am here to tell you I survived, but just barely, one of America's most treasured innovations; the good old-fashioned yard sale.


Some folks may argue that a yard (or attic or garage) sale is simply a way to dump unwanted crap and call it a day.


True, but let's be honest here, because whatever you decide to call a private transaction of gently used goods from one fine citizen to another, the sale is not really a sale at all; it's a blood sport.


Why would I openly invite hostility into  my otherwise serene surroundings, anyway, you may be wondering right about now? Well, the reason is two-fold. One Charlie wanted to put our old side-by-side fridge on Craigslist so he could park in the garage. I hear Craigslist, and people, I think MURDER. I dare you, Google it. It's frightening. However, my husband argues that giving our address out in the paper isn't any different. But if you like to gamble and I really, really do but not with my life., your local paper with an audience of 18,000 is less likely to catch the eye of a serial killer than sending it out there to the entire 7 billion who roam the earth.


The second reason is my Aunt Pam. She is my relative who can slug down her morning Metamucil, enjoy a good 2-hour discourse on bowel functioning, while draining two pots of coffee before noon when she finally decides to get dressed. She is a hoot and a half, and as I've described her before, sweeter than molasses but tougher than a $2 dollar steak in the scratch and dent bin in the Piggly Wiggly. I just adore her.


Any-hoo, she loves herself a good yard sale, I mean LOVES it. As she puts it, "It's the most exciting, legal thing you can do."


And I know this because I have seen her in action at my grandmother's estate sale in Athens all those years ago right after she passed:


"Norma would have wanted me to have those art deco dishes," the not-so-friendly neighbor lady told Pam.


"Yes, of course, she would. But only if you paid $10 for them."


When two ladies grabbed grandma's black, cordless telephone at the same time and commenced to wrestle, Aunt Pam walked up to the dynamic duo all the while yelling, "Hold the phone! Hold the phone!" (Get it, hold the phone? Gosh, I love puns, especially when they are unintentional.)


"Ladies, look. You can stroll on down to the Wal-Mart and get one for $19.99. I know because I bought it there for mama. Now, I don't think losing a limb nor life is worth a cheap old piece of plastic and wires. Figure it out and don't forget to pay the lady at the door."


Now granted this was an estate sale, which as Aunt Pam explains, "Is the catnip these people live for."


So, therefore, I can only assume a little yard sale is akin to the "dingle-berries" she has to snip off when she grooms her beloved kitty, Busy.


Charlie whole heartedly agrees. The last yard sale he helped with was after our Columbia move in 2001.


He still can't talk about it.


So Pam said she'd step up and down she came f rom Raleigh.


Now, before we could even talk about pricing, she held a back porch bourbon and Coke meeting, where we discussed 'the ten rules to a successful yard sale':


1. No checks, that's what the ATM is for.
2. Holding is for infants. If you hold an item, you gotta give me ten.
3. If you're rude, you hit the streets.
4. If something is heavy, this girl is not heftin' the end outta here. Best go back and get a buddy.
5. Hold your pricing notebook close to the vest, I have known people to walk around and stare over your shoulder.
6. Never accept a "bundle." I never bundle anything unless the show's almost over or you are too cute for words.
7. If someone insults your stuff and tells you it's not worth anything, then you explain to them that it just came out of your house. "Would I insult your stuff? I don't think so."
8. Again, if someone is rude, you ask them to hit the street.
9. Always have a lot of change with you and lock the doors to the house. People will try and find their way in. Trust me.
10. Last but not least, staging is key. You must make it look as good as possible -as in...damn; I want that........used litter box., broken tennis racket or whatever.


Charlie had already said he'd be a no-show, but he did put in his two-cents on rule #9 and asked Pam not to store "the change" in her bra seeing as it was 110 degrees outside and all that. See, he knows too well that's how Pam gets away with not paying for dinner.


"I'll throw in a twenty," she'll tell him, tucking into her shirt.
"Uh-that's okay. We got it."
She stuffs it back in.


But to make a short story long, I guess right about now, y'all are wondering how the yard sale went.


Well, it was actually a pretty big bust. After paying for the ad, we walked away with $51.50 and 95% of our stuff still lying around where we left it. We did donate it all to the Boys and Girls Club thrift shop, and it ends up our stuff will help out it some small way.


As Aunt Pam also wisely reminded us, "If you are not in the mood for a side-by-side refrigerator, you are not in the mood for a side-by-side refrigerator."


But I will tell you one thing; it was a lot of fun hanging out watching my aunt in her element.


If we'd never had the sale, I never would have been privileged to watch the showdown Aunt Pam and an (insert Pam's air quotes) antique dealer had while they haggled for 35 minutes over a circa 1997 leather jacket I think Charlie picked up at an airport:


"You're tough," antiques dealer tells her.
"It's not my first rodeo," she says back.
"Mine, either."
"I know."


That, my friends, is why family, not stuff, is worth its weight in gold.