When Black Friday Comes...

Black Friday. Folks love it and hate it and love to hate it and hate to love it. Folks avoid it like the plague and folks look forward to it all year. Folks have strong feelings about Black Friday.

My mom is among them. You know, the folks. The strong feeling folks. She falls very firmly into the pro camp. Lurves it, she does.

For the last decade or so my parents have been bringing Thanksgiving to me. My sister and I live in the same town, and my parents just find it easier to travel to us than to have us travel to them. We have Thanksgiving dinner at my sister's house, and while the dishes are still being washed, the sale flyers are being perused. For years it was my mom, my sister and I. We'd wake up early and stand in the lines and shop till we dropped and have coffee and breakfast and a couple years we even lasted until lunch.

My mom has made no secret about how much she cherishes this tradition.

Me? I don't usually end up shopping that much that day, but I do enjoy the time with my girl tribe. This year my sister had to work. My mom asked if I'd still go with her. Of course I would. You see, I'm the black sheep of the family. I made all the wrong choices and took all the wrong paths. You might say (if you were my mother) that I'm a giant mass of unfulfilled God-given potential. Now this was a moniker I may have rightfully laid claim to from the late 70's through the late 80's, but since then I've been pretty much an upstanding citizen. It doesn't matter. My role in the family has been cemented. I'm the loser, the nogoodnik, the ne'er do well. As such, I'm a woman pushing fifty who is still desperate to receive her parents' approval. I don't know if that makes me a loser or not, but it certainly makes me pitiful.

Anyway.

So my mom and I look through all of our ads, plotting our course. As we queued up at Target at 3:15 am I knew I was gaining favor. I didn't mind the dark or the cold or the little threats of snow - my mom was enjoying being just with me. As the day progressed, she had great luck shopping while I pushed the buggy and pointed her towards the proper sections of the stores. At one point she said, "I like just shopping with you. You do everything I suggest and you never say no." (for the record, it was similar behavior that caused me to fall out of favor a couple decades ago...)

I puppied out before she did, begging off to go home around 9:30. She took me home then picked my dad up and had him take her to a couple more stops. I was just waking up from my nap when she called to tell me she was done and to ask if I'd mind taking her to Barnes & Noble after dinner. Sure I will. I am, after all, just a girl who can't say no.

It may have been Black Friday, but for just one day, I got to be Golden.

I'll take it.

Speaking of getting things for great prices (or, in this case, for FREE!), utilizing the random number generator, Sherri at Luv a Bargain was the winner of my Stick Mixer giveaway! Congratulations, Sherri! Send me your contact information and we'll get this going!

There are Dozens of Us! Dozens!

Lots of good things come in dozens. Donuts, cupcakes, never-nudes and candles on Liv's birthday cake. Yes, my youngest, my baby, my darlink girl turns 12 today.

As a preschooler, Liv loved playing dress up. Well, sure. Most kids love dress up. But Liv would stay in character for - well - I think she might have been Dorothy Gale for two full years. She had three blue gingham jumpers and went through countless pairs of ruby slippers. She would only wear blue socks. When the weather got cold and I told her she had to wear tights, she had a fit. "Dorothy doesn't wear tights! Dorothy wears blue socks!" I told her she could wear blue socks over her tights, but that didn't fly. I finally found some tights that closely matched her skin color and she reluctantly agreed to wear those. But it didn't make her any too happy. Dorothy gave way to Laura Ingalls. Laura didn't live with us as long, but she certainly lived with us vividly. Tom and I grew accustomed to being referred to as Ma and Pa. Liv wore her bonnet to go to the grocery store. Or, you know, "to go into town for dry goods."

As she got older, we found out that Liv's convictions weren't confined to character authenticity in her clothing choices. She became a vegetarian at the age of ten and has never looked back. She doesn't impose her beliefs on anyone else, but she holds firm to them for herself. Liv knows who she is and she likes herself. I know a lot of adults who haven't come to that sort of peace (raises hand shyly hoping no one will see me...). To be able to feel it at twelve - an age when many kids are feeling their most awkward, is nothing short of amazing to me.


While she may be all about the tree hugging and animal rights, that's not ALL she's all about. Liv is also a talented writer and musician. Her ideas for stories blow me away. They're sweet, and clever, and unique - just like their author. She's a natural born writer. She also plays drums, piano and baritone. She has a band with her sister and a couple other kids (Um, playing the drums. Not the baritone. Just to be clear.) and they're sounding better than Tom and I ever dreamed they'd sound so early in the game. Her genre? Metal. Speed metal, specifically. I told her she should name her band 'Paradox'. (she didn't)

How could I have talked about my Livvie Lu this long and not mentioned her wit? A day doesn't go by that she doesn't crack my stuff up at least once. And ya know what? When she's sure no one is looking? She still kisses me goodnight.

Happy Birthday, Punky Punk! You rock my world!

The Party's Over (Or Has it Just Begun?)

So yesterday. Wow. Yesterday was a blast. But now everyone's gone home and it's time to move the furniture back where it belongs and throw away the empties. Time to wash the dirty glasses and run the vacuum. I think someone got chocolate on my carpet. Man, I hope that's chocolate. That's never coming out. No worries. Every good party racks up a little collateral damage. I think that happened when a couple of you thought it would be a good idea to play "you got chocolate in my tequila!" "You got tequila on my chocolate!" Two great tastes that, as it turns out, don't taste great together. At all.

Yesterday was a party, but today it's back to the real world. That's cool, though - because some of you may remember that I teased a couple weeks ago about a giveaway? Well, that's happening today. That's not a bad segue back to reality, huh? Free stuff. Nice.

The folks at CSN stores offered to send me a product to review for them. In exchange for an honest review, they sent a Kaloric stick mixer for me to try and - the best part - offered to send another one to one of my lucky readers. Cool, right?


Ok - a little back story: On Halloween, my daughter dropped my point and shoot and it hasn't worked since. I was trying to hold out on my review until I'd replaced it, but then I just got antsy to get one of these out to you and money for a new camera didn't seem to be appearing from the sky, so - so I decided to power through sans personal pics. (If any of you have a direct line to Santa, perhaps you could clue him in regarding my camera dilemma. Thanks.)

But I've digressed, haven't I? Sorry.

Yesterday was the perfect day for me to fire this puppy up. I was so busy answering all of your wonderful comments (thank you, thank you, thank you, by the way! - I'll visit you all before the week is out - promise!) that I didn't have time to make lunch. So I said to myself, I said, "Self? You ought to use that stick mixer and make yourself a smoothie. A vodka smoothie." And that's just what I did. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I've never owned another stick mixer, so I don't have a basis for comparison. (Fine. Also in the interest of full disclosure I didn't have a vodka smoothie at noon. Just a plain old strawberry banana one. Happy? Full disclosure is no fun. Let's not invite full disclosure next time.) What I can tell you is that my smoothie was done in seconds. (And that it was delicious!) Clean up couldn't have been easier. You KNOW I love that!!! So. Easy to use. Easy to clean. Easy to store. It is ALL good! I know I'll be going to this instead of the blender over and over again.

AND NOW YOU CAN TOO! (I screamed that like Billy Mays, God rest his soul, and pointed at you! Yes you!) Just leave a comment and you're in the running. Simple as that. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Everyone gets one entry only and - sorry - it can only be shipped to an address in the U.S. of A. (But everyone can still comment! Woo hoo! Just let me know that you're ineligible for the giveaway in your comment. Sucks, I know, but what're you gonna do?) Make sure you have it set up so that I can reach you via e-mail. I'm going to draw a winner on Friday, November 27, 2009, so be sure to comment before then!!!

Think of it as a slightly belated doorprize from the party.

(tomorrow is another party - a BIRTHDAY party! - and you're invited...)

Stopping by From SITS to Say Hi? Well, Hi Right Back Atcha!

I saw a little plaque in one of the kagillion catalogs I receive regularly (and way more regularly during the holidays) that read: My house is a mess, but my homepage looks great. I should've perhaps been a little more concerned than I actually was when my whole family expressed the opinion that that plaque would look great over my desk. Ahem. So I'm glad you're visiting my virtual home rather than my actual one. I pay more attention to it.


So. Today I am the featured blogger at SITS. If you're not familiar with SITS, you should be! They are a great group of folks who offer tremendous comment support to blog addicts like m'self. You'll find people you'll like there, I promise.

If you're stopping by from SITS, hi, howdy, pull up a chair and grab a cup of coffee, glass of wine, shot of tequila or can of Diet Coke. Seriously, I'll join you in whatever sort of libation you prefer. Wanna just squirt chocolate syrup down our throats and eliminate the middle man? I'm in.

So. Comfy? Ok. A little about myself, then.

Keep in Touch With Mommakin is a play on the Aerosmith song, Mama Kin. It sounds like a mommy-blogger name, but I'm not really a mommy-blogger. I do talk about my kids from time to time, (I have two girls - Lea, 13, and Liv who will be 12 this week.) but it's not all about them by a long shot. It's more about me. The subtitle. Wife, Mother, Squealy Fangirl, Frustrated Bohemian Suburbanite.

Now SITS would have me list three links for you to visit to get to know me a little bit and decide if I'm someone you'd like to spend more time with or not. This is hard! What if I link you to a bunch of posts about my kids and you hate mommy-bloggers? What if I link you to squealy fangirl posts and you hate the bands I love? What if I link you to whiny posts and you only like sunshine and rainbows and lollipops? (Seriously, though. I don't write a lot about sunshine and rainbows and lollipops. The occasional unicorn, but that's about it...) After a great deal of stressing and re-reading old posts, I just decided to go with three I liked. It's a pretty random sampling. Without further ado:

And We Danced
A Nice Pair of Pants
They Don't Know (About Us)

So that's a wee peek into me. I'm glad you stopped by! I hope you'll see fit to stop by again.

Cheers!

NaNoWriMo: I Laughed, I Cried, It Became a Part of Me

Ok, so here's the dealio. I just wrote the last word in my NaNoWriMo project. Final word count? 50,046. More than a week ahead of schedule. It just got to a point where it was writing itself. I couldn't stop it.

I laughed, I cried, it became a part of me.

I laughed when I looked at some of the things I'd typed. One or two of them were even supposed to be funny. Many of them were not.

I cried when I looked at some of the things I'd typed. One or two of them were even supposed to be sad. Many of them were not.

It became a part of me. I learned lessons that will stay with me for a long time, if not forever. I learned:

Discipline. I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow morning when I sit down at my computer in the early morning hours when the house is still dark. (Yes I do. I'll catch up on all the blog reading I've been missing out on. See ya in the morning!) It will feel odd not to open that document and power through with the story. I have been very faithful to it. I have written the alotted amount of words every morning whether I wanted to or not. It wasn't a choice. A lot of crap was written utilizing this method, but I didn't stop or give up when I hit a glitch. That was cool. And very unlike me. I can weed out the crap in the editing process. If I'd quit, it would just be over.

Humility. What I've written - at this point - is not something that I would want to read. That is not false modesty. I was at the library the other day looking for a book. As I read back covers and rejected titles based on what was written there - scoffed at them even - I realized that I would reject a back cover description of my own book - I mean, project - just as quickly. I can't say I dug that feeling.

Respect. Another thing I realized was that every genre deserves respect - even the genres I'd never had much respect for before. Sex scenes are hard to write. Real live work goes into all of it. Even bodice rippers. Even romances. All of it. I may not want to read it - but I'll never scoff again. I'll never dismiss anything as silly fluffy or worthless again. Just because I don't want to read it doesn't make it crap. Writing is hard work and writers deserve respect.

I thought about starting the editing process tomorrow, but I ultimately decided against it. I'm going to let it sit until December 1 and begin editing then as planned. I'll probably be more objective with a little time between me and the story. Who knows? By January or February this hot buttered mess may actually evolve into something I'd like to read. (I'm not holding my breathe. But it could happen...)

All in all, I loved this experience. I put out over 50,000 words in a more or less linear story. I did it in 21 days. Not a lot of people can make that claim and - although I'm not (yet) proud of the product, I wouldn't have traded the process for anything. I'm already plotting for next November...

Truly Authentic

My new buddy Allison at Life of a Tater Tot Mom has tagged me as a Theta Mom - that is, THE True Authentic Mom. Ok, first of all, I'm always jealous of people named Allison, because they get that awesome Elvis Costello song and I just get that stupid 'Tammy's in Love' business. She gets "Alison, I know this world is killing you" and I get "The ole hootie owl hootie-hoo's to the dove - Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in love".... and that is just patently unfair.

Part of being a True Authentic Mom is realizing that things aren't always fair all the time.

Sometimes you might want to go see Ace Frehley, but you go see a Jr. High orchestra concert instead, because you're a mom. Sometimes you want to see Aerosmith and KISS share a frackin' stage, but you send your kid to college instead, because you're a mom. (Because holy man! Have you SEEN how much tickets for a show like that cost?) Sometimes you want to drink martini's on a Friday night, but you take your kids to see New Moon instead, because you're a mom. (Ok, that one's totally not true. I'm totally going to drink martini's Friday night, because I'm the mom and I said so, dammit! But that just means I'll have to take them the next afternoon with a potential hangover. And I will. Because I'm a mom.)

See? Things aren't always fair.

Now, being tagged as a Theta Mom has some responsibilities and one of them is that I share five experiences that have shaped me as a true authentic mom. The other is that I tag five other folks who I think bring a certain sense of authenticity to the title of mom - and I will - I'll do that - just be patient. Sometimes you just have to be patient, whether it's fair or not.

I decided that, rather than write my own list, I'd turn it over to the folks who made me a mom in the first place. They didn't necessarily choose particular experiences, but rather generalizations. I figured that was close enough for rock and roll. Tom was the first person responsible for my motherhood, so he got the first shot (my comments are parenthetical and italicized.)

1. She gives up a lot for the family. She gave up her career. (and my youth and my beauty and travel and money and manicures, but never tequila...)

Lea was next to throw something into the pot:

2. She lets us go to concerts...even ones she doesn't like that much...and that are loud. (oh, bless your heart. I would NEVER take you a concert for a band I didn't like that much. And FYI? The TV can be too loud, but a concert really can't. Thanks, though, for thinking that's a sacrifice!)

Liv threw in the third one:

3. She lets me play my loud drums and not let it annoy her. (I admit it. I'm a saint.)

The girls came up with the next one together:

4. She always understands when we're on our periods. (due in large part to the fact that I never gave up tequila.)

Then they left, because they had more important things to do than stroke my ego (tell me more about my eyes...) and also because House was coming on and Dr. House always trumps me. So I was left to come up with the fifth one on my own.

5. I think being a true, authentic mom means giving up on perfection. Good thing I'd never really been much of a perfectionist in the first place. My heart hurts for those moms who are. Sometimes good enough just needs to be good enough. Before I had kids I did a lot of home visits in the course of my job and I always thought, smugly, that I could do it better. My kids would never ________, my house would always ________. Whatever you filled those blanks in with was probably right. But guess what? My kids aren't perfect and my house isn't perfect and I am far, far, far from perfect. But Lea said to me the other day (she said), "I love being in our family." Now Lea is thirteen and just about as ornery as the day is long. She has raised eye-rolling to an art form. I would not have been surprised if she'd said, "I hate this family!" (hurt, but not surprised). But she loves being a part of us, in all our imperfection. In all our true authenticity, if you will. So I guess I'm saying that I think being a true authentic mom has to do with accepting your true authentic family, warts and all.

Now for the tagging part. I find the following moms to be very true and authentic, so, tag! You're it!

Mamaface at Blog-Ignoramous
Unknown Mami at, um, Unknown Mami
Traci at 38 and Growing
Tiffany at ElastaMom's Excerpts
Mandy at Mandy's Life After 30

Aaaaaaand this is the reason I don't do many awards - I hate the passing on part - I always feel like I'm leaving someone important out and I hate, hate, hate that. Hate it. But this isn't an award, it's a tag. So I feel a little better about that. It's unfair that I had to choose only five out of all of my great mom friends. But, like we've already established, this mom thing isn't always fair.

He's Still Preoccupied With Number Eighty-Five

So my mother hates Joe Paterno. No, wait, that's harsh. My mother hates Joe Paterno's glasses. I mean she has really strong feelings about those glasses. My dad will casually mention Joe Pa, and my mom will go off. "How can you even listen to him when he's wearing those stupid glasses? They're so stupid! I can't even pay attention to what he's saying because his glasses are so stupid." Sometimes she'll even punch her fist into her palm for emphasis. She becomes visibly agitated when he is interviewed. "He is so ridiculous! What is he trying to prove with those stupid glasses?"

The last time my dad was due for new specs, he casually announced, "I'm hoping they have some nice frames like Joe Paterno's."

"I'll divorce you."

They've been married for fifty-one years and have weathered many a storm, but this, apparently, would have been an unforgiveable offense.

"Why would you even SAY that? Oooooh! He looks so STUPID in those glasses. Why he would wear those stupid glasses I'll never know."

I guess there's no accounting for what we decide to get passionate about.

Lately my husband has been demonstrating a similar preoccupation with Chad Ochocinco, wide receiver for the Cincinnati Bengals. It started out innocently (and logically) enough. "What kind of a douche legally changes his name to his jersey number?" I had no answer for that. It did seem like a sort of - well - douchey thing to do. I imagine many folks asked themselves and perhaps their significant others the same question, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

But that wasn't the end of it. Almost every time Ochocinco is mentioned, Tom will say some variation of, "What an idiot. Ochocinco. What kind of stupid name is that?" or, "So what happens if he goes to another team and number 85 has been retired? What're you gonna do then, OCHOCINCO? Stupid."

I have taken to answering his outbursts with, "His name is almost as stupid as Joe Paterno's glasses."

Comparing Tom to my mother usually buys me - and Ochocinco - a few moments of respite. But just a few. Because sooner or later, Tom will be shaking his head again and saying, "Ochocinco. Idiot." He tries to say it quietly, but I still hear him.

If I ever want him to divorce me, I'll just have to legally change my name to a number. If I want to be divorced and disowned, I can change my name to a number and get myself some big glasses.

Good to know.