Anyway we don’t want to live in the car, with or without vermin, and my next best bet is looking to be Residence Inn, where I can economize. What I’m spending on a hotel room I’m saving in bed-making fees (the oldest has opened a business wherein she’ll make your bed for a fee–from what I can tell, no takers and she ain’t giving it away for free, even to herself), general cleaning, AND wine and dinner–for Residence Inn is home to the every-day-happy-hour and for a month, I feel my kids can get the appropriate nutrients from a combo of school lunch and happy hour dinners. Mommy can drink her wine for free. And we’ll all of us retire to our one room and sleep blissfully without fighting, kicking, or anything.

Chicken, celery, AND ranch? That's a lot of food groups!

But: where I started was what I’m expected to accomplish in a day which includes: hours of conference calls. EASY. Without the baby chiming in OR any kids fighting in the background. IMPOSSIBLE. Work done that was discussed on the conference call. EASY–if it is brainless. And able to be accomplished while supervising (in some fashion) the baby and various playmates. Any “thinking work” has to be done in bedtime hours and that’s when I save time to enrich my brain with the Biggest Loser, Grey’s Anatomy, Blue Bloods, and any manner of show my husband deems beneath him (Note: Jersey Shore makes his list of “acceptable”. Not mine). Now, it seems, I must also accomplish more.

This is what school has taught my oldest this year:

1. Monster High is a show and you can steal your mom’s iPhone to watch it if she deems it inappropriate or entirely annoying for regular viewing (I really only like Phineas and Ferb to provide any background noise around here and lately have been drawing the line at the FreshBeats due to their general annoying stick-in-the head music. CRAP. That song’s in my head now)
2. Bullying is a thing and if I’m not happy about something (“I” being her) I can claim bullying and someone will step in to solve it. Even if what I’m not happy about is that someone wants to play something different then me.
3. It’s a free country. Thus I (still her) don’t have to wear sneakers for gym if I don’t want to or do my math if I don’t want to or any. number. of. things that the Constitution by design does not address.

This is what school wants her to know:

1. Multiplication. No lessons have been given.
2. Adding numbers (basic instruction, I think? was offered…but no one ever taught her to carry the ones to the tens. I mean, it’s easy enough once explained, but explain it!)
3. How to create Pixar-quality logos since every three minutes she’s bringing home a logo contest thing and wanting to enter but doesn’t have the first clue or indeed any art training
4. How to run a mile. She’s awesome, and creative, and such a good reader–but let’s be kind and say that physical fitness is not her thing. To put it more clearly, when the bear was in town, recently, I was PRETTY excited that her running club got cancelled because she would have, no competition, been the one the bear caught and ate, if indeed bears do that sort of thing, which I don’t think they do.
5. How to do situps. She’s made of pudding, in the middle, from what I can tell. But they told her to do some.
6. How to do pushups.

If you’re catching on to the theme here, I am most frustrated of late by the President’s Physical Fitness guidelines. They frustrated me in school when I was the smallest, slowest, least able to do a sit-up . The only thing I could do was climb the rope because (BACK THEN, TO BE CLEAR) I weighed nothing so I could get up that rope. My eldest takes after me and though NOW I can sit up, and run, etc–it’s from years of trying. After high-school years of not trying (my “sport” was cox-ing: that’s the one who yells from the back of the crew shell). Now she can’t do any of it and they’re not trying to teach them. They spend their days playing dodgeball (she stinks–I told her no one got ahead in life from being good at dodgeball). And then wham, the next week they’re expected to do sit-ups and run and stuff.

So now, in the already busy day, I’m operating a Jillian Michaels-style bootcamp at which I try to teach them how to do sit-ups and such (them, you ask? Yes. The twins are getting the benefit of this training too so I’m not back at square one next year). My question is are there kids naturally good at sit-ups? She’s got kids in her class that can do 50. FIFTY! Have they been spending summers training with the Army? One twin is naturally athletic and not even she can really do sit-ups; the other has natural washboard abs and she can’t! It’s a skill, I guess, that you can learn (or try to re-learn after twins reside in your belly for months and stretch it all crazy).

Oh good GOD

Something’s going to have to give. I can’t give up my tv (if I don’t watch Tom Selleck who will? I mean, I’m not sure anyone else watches that show so seriously, can someone fill in for me or it’ll go off the air!) I can see that babies are going to soon be participating in conference calls, like it or not…it’s the only way I’ll fit it all in. LUCKILY she can’t really talk, but that’s a story for another day.

OH, a bear update. I found a picture of him on our town website, the last place I would ever have looked for a bear update (did they catch him? I hadn’t found out!) I came upon it accidentally when trying to find out when I could haul all my stuff that isn’t snapped up at our garage sale to the curb, since it won’t fit in our MDX. With the raccoon and all.) The picture was on the site…details on the bear’s current location: unavailable.

That slow kid looks delicious but I'm too lazy to get up. I wonder if I can get that raccoon to score me a granola bar...

The negatives were: it wasn’t that fun OR that funny. I was hoping at a minimum for fodder for this blog but I’m coming up dry. I can tell you what people don’t want to buy:

1. Any sort of bookcases. ANY SORT.

2. TV’s, especially if they are 10+ years old, fat (i.e. not flat screened), and are missing a remote control. And a power button.

3. Baby stuff even if its shiny and clean and barely used. Evidently they prefer to buy their own new stuff for their baby.

4. My Little Ponies and Rapunzel castles and to that I say: Bravo, people. The Disney franchise may go down, after all. At least the if the re-sale market is any indication.

5. Cookbooks, especially those featuring Regis and Kathy Lee from 1984.

So here’s what my garage looks like. The bad news is that this is POST garage sale.

ARGH.

So anyway, that’s that. In other updates, I’ve been asked to explain why I’m in a fight with my neighbors. I caused no offense. However, my kid did.

There’s a few little girls on our street and the eldest doesn’t play super-well with them, because she can’t ride a bike well (partly) and because as near as I can tell one of the kids does nothing  but run around from place to place never actually playing anything but often confusing my children, all three of the big ones, for the others and randomly shouting out their names. Long story short we’ve said it’s better that they all maybe don’t play together because inevitably fights ensue. So one day that run-around-kid was away and my girls decided to strike while the iron was hot and play with the other, new kids on the block (none of whom are Wahlbergs, ha ha!). All was well until Run Around Sue (not her real name, btw) came home.  Within four minutes mine came running home. Why? Because the eldest said “We can’t play with you,” to Run Around Sue and the mom of the new kids on the block–the mom who’s thick as thieves with Run Around Sue’s mom, but not so much with me, came out and said “This is my house, my rules, and you can leave here and NEVER COME BACK.”.

So we’re in a fight.

I mean, I understand it wasn’t nice of my kid to say “We can’t play with you” BUT she had a reason: she knows she doesn’t play well with that kid, she was having a nice time with the new kids on the block (I was going to make another NKOTB reference but my mom’s getting these blogs now and I don’t know if she’d get it. Also, it’s probably making ME look like a giant dork).

It’s not a yelling fight but it’s an ignore the madness fight. Because three of my neighbors have all become besties and it’s weird for a number of reasons–won’t go into them, but they’re constantly gathering in the street and gossiping away and the kids call each other “Aunt this” and “Aunt that” (I mean Aunt the real names but I’m protecting their privacy AND hoping they don’t read this blog–what are the chances?) And all I can think of when I see them in the street, yenta-ing it up, is that I DON’T WANT TO BE A PART OF THAT SOUP.

Mom, these are the New Kids on the Block or NKOTB. I'm not sure I want to be a part of THIS soup. Maybe I do.

My good friend has a wonderful, beautiful mama from Cuba who has all these expressions some of which may sound better in Spanish but that one is PERFECT in English. And I think it all the time, ever since I heard it. For there’s so much soup I don’t want to be a part of.

For instance. I applaud, APPLAUD, the ladies of the PTO. Thank God they’re there, and supporting the teachers, and doing so much to help my kids. I don’t want to be a part of that soup though. I’m happy to donate goods or even some dough when needed but I don’t want to be there, listening and gossiping and bickering. How do I know that goes on? When I’m not part of the soup? Well, because 90% of my mama friends that are a part of that soup call me after each and every PTO meeting to vent and moan and complain.

When I first came to town, I was part of the mom club soup. At least I tried. I was like an ingredient that wasn’t quite right. My kid was too small and couldn’t talk to anyone. Everyone had their playdates going, and I was working (from home but still working) and I could never do them. The soup was fine, and good, but I just wasn’t part of the soup. And that separateness made me feel very bad at the time (though there were people that went out of their way to always try to say hello and I got the opportunity to thank one of those people the other day for the difference she made when I was all on my own!)

It was really hard to be the different element of the soup (working from home, but working nonetheless) and I never ever was able to only talk about my kids–not that these moms did, all the time, but I felt like that was almost, in some cases, the initial “break in” and I never got past that. I think I’ve blogged about the book club that no one read the book? I wrote about it in my someday-to-be-published book, so in my head it’s out there.

The interesting thing is that I’ve reconnected with a lot of those girls, over the years–and especially recently, when my twins are doing the heavy lifting of finding me new friends to like, the moms of some of their good buds (the eldest, as previously mentioned, just goes ahead and alienates everyone. JUST KIDDING. She’s an awesome kid. Just a little bossy to the neighbors). We’ve had different conversations and different interactions–far better than back in the day, in the basement of the Best Western at the holiday party with only apple juice to drink. It’s not just that we’re swilling Cab now as we talk–it’s that conversations about kids aren’t ONLY about kids and it’s not the ONLY thing to talk about.

It’s hard to find the right group but I think the key is ever-changing groups. And not so many rules. That may be why my sorority days weren’t all they could be–there were so many I liked but I was never that good at the whole group. (The failure there could also have been that I needed to lose 20 pounds in college, perpetually, due to drinking beer and eating cheese sticks, perpetually–so I was constantly not able to find a date for a formal etc etc.)

Anyway. After the garage sale my eldest played with the neighbors (Run Around Sue had hit the bricks, again) and all was fine. I even got to offer a lesson in “being the bigger person” (fairly smug and superior, I’ll admit) as we talked about letting bygones be and how I calmly let the kids play here and even gave the NKOTB (I couldn’t help myself) munchkins and didn’t once bellow that they should LEAVE AND NEVER COME BACK. The kids could in turn offer me a lesson in not holding a grudge since they played away without harm or foul but I choose not to partake in that lesson.

Instead, I merrily shove bookshelves down the driveway, hoping that the price of “free” makes them more enticing. So far, no takers. But if you want a copy of Cooking with Regis and Kathy Lee, send me a note. Shipping’s on me.

Case in point. This weekend, the social event of the season: Our garage sale! I knew I’d have a lot to say after that and then realized that in fact I have a lot to say before. My history with garage sales is checkered. We had one in the house I grew up in with mixed results. My mom HATES these types of things due to a desire to not talk to people she doesn’t know and attempted to delegate everything to my dad, and us (her children). This worked out largely because my dad was coming off a few months of just hanging out while the house sold and literally would talk to anyone, just for human contact. In fact, he talked to many of the garage sale buyers all they way until they got in their cars and drove away after asking things such as “Are you selling any loose gemstones?” (Answer: do we look like pirates? NO) “Are you selling any antique cameras and watches?” (Answer: still no. We’re selling these 20 year old kitchen chairs. And this random collection of elephants.) Some folks came, left doors open, cars running, as they asked about our wares. So WEIRD. One guy asked if he could buy my mom’s flowers (her gardens were gorgeous–like mine are, in my head, if I ever went and pulled weeds, if the bunnies didn’t feast on them, if the deer didn’t eat them to the stems, if in fact I cared enough to work on them). She was reached for comment, in her room, and she said sure, she’d cut some down–and no, he wanted to dig them all up and walk out with fistfuls of dirt-laden lilies. WEIRD.

So then we had one when we left my husband’s bachelor pad apartment in Hoboken to move to our first condo together. We were selling: an Ikea dresser, some old plates, a boom box…maybe like 2 other (crappy) things. Some woman came by, walked around looking at the stuff, huffing and puffing. Muttering under her breath. Finally she looks at us, glares, and says “I would HARDLY call this an estate sale!” We looked at each other and said “We didn’t. We wrote ‘stoop sale’”. Turns out she was one block off in her quest, we sold all our goods to the lady that worked at the fish store down the street, sale complete.

We’ve had 2 garage sales here. (Why? Why do I keep doing this? Why don’t I just donate stuff, or MORE stuff, to get rid of it? Why do I save random toys that I then end up pricing for FIFTY CENTS?) Our first sale was ok. I think we made like $200. I don’t remember what we unloaded. Our second, a couple years later, total bust. We made $14 I think and that’s only if I count the proceeds from the eldest’s lemonade stand.

Can I take a moment now to say that my kids are CONSTANTLY lobbying for lemonade stands? CONSTANTLY. We live on a cul-de-sac that is fairly quiet. Except for the last two days because I think they are cutting down every tree on the adjacent property and I’ve had a constant backdrop of tree-cutter noise. But no one comes to our street (especially if the garage sale signs have fallen down, which is why garage sale number two was a stinker), I don’t personally want to sit out there supervising their sales, I think the whole thing is sort of unseemly, and I hate shilling to our neighbors. A couple of whom are currently not speaking to us, THAT’S a whole other story. But I have made the magnanimous concession to allow them to sell lemonade at the garage sale IF they pipe down, from here on out, about booth sales from my driveway.

I was just looking back at old blogs and realized I wrote about that garage sale here. As I read it I reminded myself that I’m a giant ass and I should have stuck to my NO MORE GARAGE SALE mantra. A, we have nothing left with Dora on it so there goes that lucrative market. B, blecchh. Garage sales are the worst. The post reminded me of that (before I went off on a tangent about my boobs).

So since we’re moving to a shoe for the summer and I’m done having new babies everything must go. Big moving sale. My garage is a fright since I keep just picking stuff up if it hasn’t been played with in six months five minutes and piling it out there for the big sale. The kids have taken to clutching their toys to their person at all time so I don’t take them to sell, to yield $0.25. I alerted my husband that he better plan to wake up at 6 am since we’re starting at 8 and that means people will be coming out of the woodwork around 6:15. He sort of committed to it but he’s under the delusion that we’re making big dough off this. I asked him, in fact, for a prediction and he said “A couple grand?” A COUPLE GRAND? Is he selling my car?!? (if he is where will I live in September?)

Anyway. I’m sure I’ll have post-sale stories. Stay tuned. And thanks for the comments to date…moment of sincerity: It means a LOT to know that people are laughing at my stories. Good news! Now you can comment on the actual blog. I made it easier. I didn’t know it was hard before but it was.

The other day, for instance, the radon guys came to check out our radon system. This is because as responsible homeowners we had one (news to us) and it wasn’t working (not surprising, we were shocked we had one!) and may have been non-operational anywhere from 1 day to the nine years we’ve lived in this house…and thus radon was flowing merrily into our house like the flies that enjoy our tasty crumb-filled atmosphere and the ants that can’t help but enjoy the sticky rivers of juice that are everywhere.

Last year I made short work of those ants with some Raid, after surprising some sort of ant rave in a bathroom that consisted of like 6000 ants (it was really 10 but that seems a LOT when they are all squirming around being gross). This year, because of the baby, I bought some eco-friendly stuff, gentle for dogs and babies. Also I think gentle for ants because it was mayhem in here, ant-wise. The ants seemed to use it as an aphrodisiac.  And, it smelled like nastiness. Not nose-friendly, if in fact it was eco-friendly. So instead of taking the logical but impossible step of saying NO MORE SPILLING YOUR JUICE, just sit down and drink it in one spot, don’t be piglets…I opted for practicality and went back for Raid. Which a, smells faintly like a nice cologne now and b, kills ants. So problem solved.

Anyway, the radon guys. They came, and since I’m in one of my ruts that I can’t be bothered to wear anything but jeans and I look like I’m going to the gym ANY MINUTE even though I’m often not even THAT DAY I was like DARN. I had showered (a plus) but hadn’t done much more including blowdrying or anything. Between us, the toddler and I, ONE of us was wearing mascara but I’ll give you a hint: “wearing it” meant covering hands and inexplicably, the neck area with it so here’s the answer. It was the toddler. And what I’ve been leading up to is that the radon guys were cute! Since I’m involved in a move to a shoe that has been 100% a giant pain in my tush there hasn’t been a lot of high excitement, good days, or cute guys. I mean, I’m not trying to fall into a Housewives of Jersey stereotype in which between conference calls and various thrill-a-minute marketing projects I wait for delivery men, BUT all I’m saying is that I was like “Really, self? Can’t you ever do any better?” I couldn’t even explain away the crappiness of my appearance by blaming it on the effects of radon inhalation or exposure or whatever because as best I can tell, there ARE no effects. I asked about it prior to shelling out hundreds to fix a system we didn’t know we had and evidently if I lived in my basement like an ogre only coming out once every twenty years I MIGHT start to exhibit effects. MIGHT.

I then had the hot-messiness reinforced later that same day. A mom that works in an office came to pick up her kid from a playdate here, and surprise, I had chalk, mud, and more all over me (no mascara, yet) from chasing the toddler through mud puddles. I MAY have been wearing clothes appropriate for the gym but not, in fact, seen that day by anyone in the gym. Since I didn’t make it there. And she was pretty and cool, and I felt hot and grubby. HOT. MESS.

I’ve blogged about it before and it’s always that line. That line of wanting these classy items:

I'm pretty, even with jeans!

And knowing that if I wear them ever I’ll fall, in a mud puddle while chasing a toddler. I mean, truth here: if I wear these, I’ll fall. They’re too tall!

One more con of working from home. There’s no need to wear fancy gold and blue high heels. And thus they sit in your closet till the kids wear them around. And steal your jewelry. And end up coming home from first grade with an expensive ring on their finger that you didn’t know they “borrowed” to play dress up. But that’s a story for another day…

But as you fellow working-from-home (even sometimes) moms know it’s all, as is life, a series of pros and cons. Even the Democrats now admit, at least when they’re forced to, that being “just a mom” must surely entail some work. My children, neither of whom knew what I did when I came to talk to their class (and who are PRETTY sure but not entirely sure I’m not a dolphin trainer, due to lack of dolphins) think my job is “cleaning up after us”. That’s a con of working from home because there’s always, always disaster around and afoot, especially with one of my other “jobs” being so poorly executed. That’s taking care of the baby who thinks its HER job to unload the DVD cabinet every. single. day. And also the bathroom cabinet and the travel supplies and anything that’s messy, soapy, or can be broken. She is as good at her job as I am bad at providing supervision, even though I’ve removed everything dangerous she could get at. Helpfully, she found all the dangerous things and walked around with them so I knew what to remove.

Another CON is that I have time to parent pick up my kids when I’m feeling generous and this brings me to the newest CON and newest item of longing and jealousy. Perhaps you remember my streak of driving by New Jersey office parks and gazing longingly at the fun that was being had inside. I’m over that. Now: I drive by any construction project, small or large. Residential or commercial. Active or at a pause. And I covet the machinery.

For as mentioned previously we are engaged in a move wherein all my possessions are going to Westy self storage and my children, sans toys, and I are spending the summer as nomads either in or out of a winnebago.

If the 8 year old thought the Winnebago was embarrassing...

This is because my husband insisted we needed a bigger house. This, in turn, was driven by the fact that we have 4 daughters and they shared one bathroom.

Now that is the FACT on paper. In actuality, the NEED for a bigger house and bathrooms isn’t exactly immediate. The littlest one has a porta-potty strapped to her cute little tush 24-7, i.e. a diaper. The other 3 arguably could use more bathroom space if they ever made it a practice to be clean. But though they insist on dressing to the nines, they react to “It’s time for a shower” as if the next line is, inevitably, “in boiling acid”. I was so good, so good at bathing every day with the one. Then with the twins, it was every other day. I am ashamed to tell you the schedule now but let’s say that in terms of bathing my children, my grade is significantly lower than what I’d get for “supervising the baby”. Who at present, as I write, is unloading a DVD cabinet (I assume, I haven’t heard from her for a few minutes).

So the need wasn’t immediate but nevertheless we jumped in to the excitement of building a new house (having been told by everyone what a nightmare it is) and in October, as we signed papers, we were told we’d be in good shape timing wise IF we had an ok winter. That was the day it snowed so we were like MAN, we’re in trouble! Snow in October!

That is the only snow we’ve had. It was a winter so warm that I practically got sunburned waiting at the bus in December and the Jesus in the creche had to wear sunglasses. And yet. I drive by the site every day, or every day that I feel like picking up my kids, to see a hole. Nothing else. And I ask the builder (who someone, I won’t say who, told me was a person who’s pants were on fire, a pathological person with pants on fire, if you catch my drift) “Hey! When’s my house happening?” and he inevitably says he’s just waiting on a machine. One day I saw the machine and I was HAPPY!! And the next day it was gone.

So now. I stare at machines and seriously, through my head, goes the thoughts that “I could BORROW that machine and drive it over and dig the hole bigger and BAM! My house is on track”. I get so envious of other people who have working machines. I look at the machines that are sitting idle and think Gosh, I could just put that to work in my big hole and BAM! One day! I’ll be so happy. But of course I have no skill for driving those machines and also I think I’m supposed to be supervising the baby.

So: Con o’ the week. When you’re a working at home mom you’re always wanting something more and this week it’s an earth mover. Because seriously. This is going to be me in September. Except with 4 kids.

I could make up lots of reasons why but it’s because of three main things. One, I’m never sure anyone’s reading, so what’s the point? Two, I’m supposed to be engaged in money-making activities and/or raising my children. Three, due to number 2, I’ve been in the dumpers of late so who wants to hear me complain, if in fact number one is wrong?

I sat down today half listening to a conference call and staring out the window looking for the BEAR that is supposedly running around our town. Want a quick aside about the bear? Here it is. Last week he or she was at the elementary school on the playground. This week he went to 2 additional schools. He’s a bear that knows what he wants and what he wants is either learning or students. “Gosh, do you live in Wyoming?” you’re thinking. No. No, we live in suburban New Jersey. The state of the Jersey Shore train wreck of a show and, bears.

As I was bear-gazing I clicked into a blog I used to read, here and there–mommyland. They make me laugh with their crazy antics. And I was sad to see that they are breaking up. Not because of a fight, but because it’s been a good almost 3 year run and one of them has her real life to lead (I think along my first paragraph).

I go back and forth all the time on if I should keep this blog going, if I should keep this site going. The Detours conferences are an amazing thing–I love being a part of them. They’re also really hard and a lot of work and a tough sell in this economy. So a rational person might think, this was a great thing to have built, but maybe it’s time to say goodbye. And then, on that day, inevitably–when I’m feeling rational–I get an e-mail from someone saying ‘These events are so great” or “This site is helpful!” and I think how can I walk away from what I built here? From the days and nights spent at my computer trying to put this together, from the connections I’ve made?

In reading the mommylanders’ musings today I think that’s exactly where they’re at. Where are we going, but how can we walk away? It’s tough.

And something that one of them said also struck me: how the blog saved her, made her laugh when all she could do was cry. I know that if I can make myself think of my insanity and my tribulations in terms of how to make it funny for the blog, it’s a bit easier. Like the drive from hell back from Virginia. It wasn’t funny living it AT ALL but I still laugh when I read about it.

Over the next couple months I’m: moving (summarily being ejected from my house that I re-did every room of so someone else can benefit from my work. By choice, but still). I’m spending the summer in limbo (I tried to sell my kids on the idea of a winnebago but found the threshold age of when mom can become an embarrassment, at least in my family, is 8–my 8 year old was HORRIFIED that I’d drop her off for school in a winnebago). I’m unsure what’s happening with my work. My baby is standing firm on speaking 99% gibberish plus one word: Bobo. Her favorite book, Hug, has 3 words: Hug, Bobo, Mommy. She learned Bobo. Awesome. She makes us tell her all the words for everything, from which I can only deduce she intends to LEARN all the words. ALL. THE. WORDS. before committing to using any words.

All of this insanity and the epic failure I feel I am at raising this youngest child has made me blue. Has made me not want to blog but instead, made me want to lie on the couch drinking red wine and eating goldfish crackers and watching Deadliest Catch.

I have got to snap out of it. Only by laughing at the insanity of my upcoming months will I make it through. I’m going to re-enter blogdom by trying to find something hilarious about my insanity each day. Stay tuned. If in fact anyone is reading.

1. My generator. I didn’t want to buy it. Husband insisted after the basement flooded, after Hurricane Irene, when the power was not efficiently and speedily restored. That Hurricane day, I literally watched the basement sump pump bucket be almost full, then full, then…water started to flow. Squish, squish, squish across the carpet. Here’s the deal with the basement. I have a house above it, but the basement is where I hurl all the toys I’m sick of seeing, where I close my eyes to the mess of kids and husband and just walk through to get what I need, the place I send the natives when I need some peace. When it’s ruined, it’s desperation time. Also it smelled to high heaven last time so we bought this generator.

Now the generator should have been field-tested prior to the power outage in a perfect world but that didn’t not happen, evidently because I make too many plans and have us “running around like crazy every weekend” (husband quote) so we had to figure it out, when the power went out and when all those leafy branches were snow-covered and snapping off on our heads. I had made two other mistakes, as well–”Where are the damn extension cords?” (husband quote) and “Where is the damn gas cap I just had, I can’t find anything since you made me clean this garage, this is all your fault”. Fast forward and though for a while my husband was NOT a thing that was wicked awesome he got the generator working (and working again when it stopped at 11pm, inexplicably) so he became, again, wicked awesome.

The generator is wicked loud, and sucks down gas faster than my kids eating candy corn. All you heard when you went outside was “crack crack crack” (branches) and 3 super loud generators, so you couldn’t hear anything else. Outside. Inside, you could hear the children. Because they were home. Shouting. Bringing me to the next thing that is wicked awesome: school.

2. They cancelled school Monday. They postponed Halloween till Friday (you can do that, I guess). Then cancelled Tuesday. Then Wednesday. Then [FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY IN THE WORLD TAKE THEM PLEASE AND TEACH THEM ANYTHING] they cancelled school Thursday. Had I known of this extended cancelling in advance we would have possibly hit the road but the problem was I had to stay quasi-local because of the feeding of the gas to the Precious (my generator). No school was a little fun a day, not that fun day four. The children are snippy and complain-y. Also kind of over the “adventure”. Mostly because the adventure part was mine as they lay on the couch under blankets. I was out with a saw chopping up branches and trees to burn in the fireplace to keep them warm, and I told them it was JUST LIKE Little House (if the prairie was echoing with the sound of generators) and they just laid under blankets (in summer nighties because they wouldn’t put on anything warmer, except the baby who was wearing a snowsuit inside) and bickered. We got power back on Tuesday night, which was great, but by that point I had sort of adapted to living with extension cords all over the house, plugging what I needed into a cord, dumping all of my money in the form of gas for the Precious into its noisy, glorious mouth–what I needed was the next awesome thing: the internet. Which was not to be.

3. A thing that should be wicked awesome but isn’t: Starbucks. I had to go work there to get some free wi-fi. It should have been kid-free (it wasn’t) and peaceful (it kind of was but the whole town was there with their laptops and cords and phone chargers) and it was kind of stressful to have to do all the work I had to do in 3 days, in one 2 hour block on their wifi. I felt bad complaining and moaning about this when others still didn’t have power. But I was over-caffeinated and worried about ME! And what I have found is that a little worry tends to make all the bigger worries spiral. Being a bit behind made me question all the choices ever made in my life, worry about all my consulting clients–that they were going to fire me–that I’d soon have no work at all and be selling makeup at the mall (that’s a friend’s fall back position). That was the biggest hurdle for this whole difficult situation: the psychological toll. It just brings you DOWN to not be able to live the way you do. To not have the things we take for granted–and to have to put everything on hold. We all keep so many balls in the air, that putting them on hold is close to impossible–and I knew, that for each day I sat there not able to concentrate on any work–it was just piling up. That wasn’t wicked awesome. I KNEW I wouldn’t get cable and internet till maybe December. That is why the next wicked awesome thing made me so happy:

4. I came home from Starbucks. I plugged in my computer. THE INTERNET WAS BACK! Bless Al Gore, bless Comcast, bless whoever fixed it. I turned on the tv and Brian Williams, with his biased, smug self, began talking about the storm in my kitchen. Praise technology, I felt back to real life.

Another not-wicked-awesome thing is that the girls have now used up all their snow days and that is only awful in that people keep mentioning it and saying hopefully it won’t be a bad winter. REALLY? It started October 30. Do we really think it will be clear sailing now? I feel like I don’t want to go back to all the bad stuff! How can I be better prepared? Unclear. I had wine (clearly a wicked awesome thing) and the generator helped and I know where all the flashlights and blankets are and know how to work the generator so we’re better off–but selling make up at the mall, if the mall is in Hawaii, is looking better every day.

BUT. I decided to step it up. I dropped a kid at dance class and the amount of diamonds worn by one mama, with her coordinated black pants that weren’t sweat pants AT ALL but were also that material, intimidated me. But I was not dissuaded. I was not, after all, trying out for the Jersey housewives. I was simply trying to move beyond hausefrau.

I find myself perplexed as I look about. For instance, is this a thing?

Headbands on the forehead? Because, weird. I mean, my gut is no, it’s not a thing, as the people modeling here are not my style mavens and the other place I’ve seen it is on the Biggest Loser, which should not obviously be my style guide. But I’ve actually seen it other places too. I cannot make it my thing.

I had a cocktail party to go the other day and got a lecture from husband on NOT buying anything for myself EVER. EVER. EVER. AGAIN from Target. Item in question, somewhat cute little black and white dress. It is honestly the one thing I own from Target, well, one of two. The other is a t-shirt for Christmas with a sparkly tree. (Jeez, I’m digging my own grave here). The t-shirt is not like a weirdo Christmas extravaganza sweater, it’s like a tasteful shirt I’d wear in December, I’m not going to go Armani for my holiday gear.

The dress in question is cute. But, the last thing I wanted anyone at this fairly swanky cocktail party to think was HUZZAH! That’s straight outta Target. Noone would in fact know unless they shopped at Target, but they could be there buying toilet paper and cereal, not dresses. Which is what my husband says is the natural order of things.

Buy better stuff. Ok, but to wear, where? I can’t justify pulling out all the stops every day. I had this discussion, with a friend at the party, that it’s worth investing in nice things instead of lots of cheap junky things (like what’s found at Walmart. NEVER Target). I do have nice things. I just think I might need someone to come in and clean out the … not nice. Or doesn’t fit. Or you bought this in highschool when you worked at the Gap. Freak.

And this brings me back to the fashion. I mean, I don’t go one zillion places to watch the trends. At they gym, some ladies are now sporting only the sports bra and shorts. A, is that allowed, B, no, even if it’s fashion, it’s not mine.

I recently picked out a great jacket for my husband and posted a pic on facebook for opinions, because he said it was bad. I got 29 responses about how bad it was. That is more facebook crowd response than when I announced I gave birth to Princess Number 4. Luckily, I hadn’t bought it, but clearly, I’m a walking train wreck.

The other day the baby wore jeggings. Those are jean leggings. They are wicked awesome on the baby. They are not in my repetoire. So at least I’m that far ahead. In fact, my kids always are style-y. Though they did go through a temporary tattoo phase this summer, to the extent that my husband pointed out it was like Sons of Anarchy around our house, except with 4 little girls instead of a massive amount of bikers.

So I’m going to keep trying my best, avoiding Target, and living through them. Except I know I’m only a heartbeat away from them busting out the headband on the forehead.

And then what if I do it too?

She will always, always talk about celebrity gossip. And she’ll also talk about husband gossip. IE, compare notes about bad behavior. She has her priorities.

This makes me think of my ongoing mantra to my husband (and many, many others): Derek Jeter. He loves his job. He’s the shortstop for his dream team, the NY Yankees. He excels at what he does. He LOVES. HIS. JOB.

We are all not Derek Jeter. Only one person is. And from there on down, the rest of us might not LOVE our jobs like him. Why am I bringing up Derek Jeter? Because if you have some foolish expectation that you are supposed to love your job, you better go hit batting practice harder, or realize it ain’t ever going to happen. Why complain? Just go with it.

So this brings me to the next logical step, from not wanting to hear about the crap at work: I’m tired of hearing how busy people are.

(Note, if you’ve gotten this far. Bit of a rant. Pack it in if you’re not in the mood.)

I am struck, lately, by how many people with whom I’m in contact, in a work capacity, are complaining about their busy-ness. They are SO busy they simply can’t (a) return a phone call or (b) review material or (c) in one memorable case, hit the head.

Here is why this is weird to me. Many, many of these people are men. They are complaining about the big projects they’ve done. They’re fussing about how just completely overwhelmed they are, how they haven’t slept for ages.

I, personally, am busy too. I: consult for 7 clients. Manage a house. Mother four girls. One of them is a baby who wants CONSTANT attention. I do this with not a ton of help. I get to the gym. I make dinner. Granted, it is literally the same dinner night after night for the four girls: noodles and chicken. Moment of clarity: ask them what the want for dinner. Answer, noodles and chicken. So I alternate grapes/corn/peas/carrots as a side dish and everyone’s feeling like a winner.

I get out from time to time. I pick up/drop off (who doesn’t). I try to hit the gym (who doesn’t). I’m busy (who cares).

See, that’s the thing. I’m busy. As my consulting partner pointed out, we are busier than anyone we know. We’re full time moms and full time workers. I am so, so not slamming men, but I doubt they are working AND providing full-time child care (disclosure: I had a babysitter 6 hours last week). But my point is the who cares. The last thing I’d do, the LAST thing, is to start whining about how busy I am. Why?

Because I feel like the automatic response would be: oh–that’s because she’s in mommyland. And she can’t handle it.

Any day, Any day, I can handle it. I just don’t fuss about it so much!! And this, I think, is why moms can make the best employees.

We’re busy. We perhaps just handle it a bit more stylishly? Or at least, with a whole lot less whining.

So that takes me back to college. I had to take this golf class. It was horrid. I hated every moment–except one day we had to watch a video. It was something like “How to play 18 holes in 10 minutes”.  Not really, but close. They said, over and over, “If you’re close to the hole, just knock it in. It doesn’t matter if you make it. Nobody cares. Putt.”. This rule applied if you were 200 feet from the hole. “Nobody cares. Putt”.

For a long, long time that was my mantra in life. “Nobody cares. Putt.” What that meant: stop sweating the small stuff. No one’s thinking about it but you–so it probably doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

So you’re super busy. You simply can’t breathe due to all the work. How many diapers did you change while writing that report, how many times did you get up during the night to give the baby her plug, and when you started that 8am conference call, was that after you had  put 3 on the bus and were you muting the phone to play with a fourth?

No?

Nobody cares. Putt.