Suburban Kvetch

A beach-read giveaway - WINNERS ANNOUNCED!!

Coffee plus Random.org equals six lucky winners!

#14 ERICA COSGROVE - GRAND PRIZE - 5 JANE PORTER BOOKS

THE FOLLOWING PEOPLE HAVE WON ONE JANE PORTER BOOK!

#23 PAMELA S.

#24 DIANE

#6    JO

#17 SMALL FOOTPRINTS

#2   LINDA OLTMAN

PLEASE EMAIL ME YOUR SNAIL MAIL ADDRESS AT AMY@SUBURBANKVETCH.COM.  I WILL FORWARD IT TO THE PUBLISHER WHO WILL SEND YOUR BOOKS!

CONGRATS AND THANKS FOR PLAYING ALONG.

HAPPY READING!!

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*the publisher asked me to keep the giveaway live until July 15th, so lots of time to find lots of ways to enter!

I read more in the summer than any other time of year…so I need help with a new reading list that will carry me through four weeks of my daughter is at overnight camp and into Fall.

So…please leave a suggestion in the comments.

And for giving me your sage advice on books, I’ll offer you some.  Not advice — BOOKS.

One entry per comment.  And you know the giveaway drill — if you Tweet it or Whatever It, come back and leave another comment and you double or triple your chances of winning.

One Grand Prize winner — chosen at random on Wednesday, July 15th — will receive a set of five of Jane Porter’s books including: Easy on the Eyes (reviewed here by yours truly), Mrs. Perfect, Odd Mom Out, Flirting with Forty AND The Frog Prince.

Five additional winners will each receive one of these books.

That’s SIX winners! I’ll post the names here, so be sure to check back!

And while I am against the whole Promo-Mom thing, I’m totally in favor of giving away books. I have not received anything from the publisher other than my ARC of Easy on the Eyes — and I did not accept that with any conditions to recommend it — that happened because I enjoyed the book. Then the cool folks at Hachette thought if I liked the book — you might too.

I agreed!

Suburban kvetch #1

I joined a new gym.

This would imply I had an old gym, which I did — in 2004.

The new gym is where people workout and maybe shower after.  There’s no juice bar, no couches, no classes and little, if any socializing.  To me, it’s perfect.  I do not want to drink juice or sit on a couch or join a class or socialize.  I want to exercise and I want to leave.   It’s a sparkling new facility - it’s just low-key.  You know, like me.

The front wall of windows allows in plenty of sunlight and you can see out the windows from anywhere in the gym unless you’re in the back pumping iron facing the mirror, which I’m not.

I watch TV or listen to music or a podcast while I work the elliptical or the recumbent bike.  But the other day I looked out the window.  I mean, I really looked.  Cars whizzing by in the distance.  A blue sky above. And staring at me from the other side of a four-lane road was a pizza joint (Hawaiian), a Subway (as close to a hoagie as you can get in the Midwest), a day spa (reflexology anyone?) and my favorite Thai restaurant (OK, the only Thai restaurant for miles, no matter. Basil fried rice with chicken and Nam Sod, no peanuts).

I went quickly back to reading subtitles and watching The View.

I worried about my kids when I was pregnant…

but at least I knew where they were!

Prepare yourself.  When you have a high school senior who drives, you don’t always know where he is.  The maternal GPS that guides us through many years fails to function when kids hit a certain age.  And prepare yourself again.  When you trust them, you get used to it.

I’m currently pacing myself with the ‘Where r u?’ texts.  And there are many times that my seventeen-year-old son calls or texts with his location (sometimes when he doesn’t even need money) before I get to him.  I figure that if in fourteen months he’s going to go away to college that I better get comfy not always knowing where he is or what he’s doing, and that he needs to be comfortable with it too.  I remember not that many years ago when he called me every hour when he was gone with friends.  After a while I told him he didn’t have to call me - unless he wanted to - or unless he was changing locations - even if he was walking — which was his modus transportationi  until he was sixteen.   Then we got to the point where he was asking permission only if he wanted to out of our little two-town area.  Now, he tells me where he’s going or he tells me when he gets there.  Permission comes into play when curfew is in question or if he has people to our house, if he wants to miss dinner.  Or if he wants to sleep out.

Which is what he did last night.  At a friend’s whom I know well.  The mom is one of my closest friends.  And she was away.  Overnight.

Three boys and a dog sleeping in a house without an adult - with neighbors (pre-planned) ringing the doorbell to check on them walk the dog.   There are multiple emergency exits doors and plenty of smoke detectors.  And I am just a minute away.

So I agreed.

I think he was shocked, because I did not allow him to stay alone overnight in May when I went away for the weekend.  The mean mom that I am forced him to come into Chicago for the night, stay at a friend’s loft with two other teenager boys and my friend’s husband and then join us for a five-star brunch the next morning at the Park Hyatt.  I know.  I’m awful.

But this time it worked for me.  Maybe because it wasn’t my good time that would up for grabs wondering what was going on and not being nearby.  Last night was the same as any other around here except I didn’t have to wake up when he came in to say good-night.  I did my motherly text…and in doing so I wanted him to realize and maybe appreciate that if he wanted to come home that was OK with me I trust him.

“Call if you need anything or in the morning.”

“Yep love u goodnight.”

And with that, I slept like a rock and didn’t worry at all.

I could make excuses but I won’t

I could come up with a lot of reasons I have a new cell phone — a fancy, do-everything-but-the-dishes, touch it — heck — just look at it and it knows-what-you-want cell phone. I could say that my contract was up, which it was.  I could say that the last time I got a cell phone — a blue flip phone - was a month before the last BlogHer conference in Chicago  in 2007, which it was.  I could say I got headaches and sore thumbs from pushing the seven-key four times every time I needed an “s” in a text message, not to mention the endless loop of button-pushing involved if I whizzed past the # or the $ or the @.

I could say that I needed my phone to pinpoint with Big Brother accuracy my exact location on my living room couch and that I was in desperate need of knowing the time and weather in cities around the world while I’m walking around the grocery store.  I could say I was longing to Tweet from the parking lot while I waited for my fourteen-year-old to come out of the movies or that responding to comments on my Facebook page while I watered the flowers made me a much better “friend.”

iCould but iWon’t.

The truth is…I wanted the cell phone of the future because the future is now. I’m not sure when I last bought something I didn’t need and just wanted that was frivolous and fun, technologic and hip.  (Do people say ‘hip’ anymore?)  I’m not only enthralled by the idea of listening to podcasts by my favorite authors as I work out on an old-fashioned, do-it-yourself eliptical trainer, but the fact that the regular calculator becomes a scientific calculator when you turn the phone sideways is really going to come in handy when I am making fat-free banana muffins from a box.

Having a cell phone like this means I can send emails from my bed instead of my office - and that everyone will know I’m sending them from my phone because the phone tells them with its icons and “sent from” messages.  I quickly learned how to change that message and find I’m glad that the GPS and email are not linked — because I’m sure some people send notes from places we really don’t need to know about.  Not that I would ever do that.

The new cell has become a conversation starter for me and my two teenagers — which games to download (the free ones), how to adjust the volume and of course, when they can get one too, as to not be left behind.  It’s a way to track my eating and my spending and most importantly, the vehicle through which I throw virtual balls of paper into a make-believe trash can with a finger flick (darned fan!).  It has also made my Mom-Texts much cuter to look at, because “Where r u?” and “Where R U?”  and “WHERE R U?” and “When is the movie over I’ve been out here for  20  minutes”  all look absolutely adorable in little green on-screen dialogue bubbles.

Fact is, keeping up with the technological Joneses is something I don’t often do as it’s usually beyond the reach of my wallet.

Much to my son’s chagrin we have nary a wide, flat, big screen TV or HDTV or Tivo or DVR or a pool table (that’s a different post).  I have a DVD player I’ve forgotten how to use and a VCR just in case I ever need it.  Our TVs are fat, not slim and sleek, and although they are plenty - they are also plenty old.

I’m enjoying my stint on the almost-cutting-edge — with my neon green case and my special cloth for cleaning.  My time at the top will be fleeting, this is something I know for sure, because as everyone else gets things newer and shinier, I’ll be happy enough with what I have because it’s mine — as always.

Although I wouldn’t complain if there was an App that folded laundry.

Get your hand off my divorce

A new divorce is like a pregnant belly.  If you have one, other people think they can touch it.

Some people ask with hands retrieved, some just lay their hands flat on top waiting for a kick - an intimate connection.  And if they don’t reach out directly, the drool coming out of the side of their mouths, the glances, the deft skirting of issues alerts you to how much they want to.

In the July/August issue of The Atlantic, Sandra Tsing Loh writes about her divorce — and a shout-out for reactions to the article were what prompted a ‘blog fodder’ email I received this morning.

Frankly, I’m as enthralled by what married people think of divorce as most mothers are to what their friends without kids think of parenting.

I imagine this blogger (whom I don’t know) is appalled at the reaction of Loh to give up the idea of marriage and of the fact that she admits to her own transgressions.  Her CAPITAL letters were my clue. Another blogger found the article “grating”, claiming Loh should take responsibility and not say that marriage is “antique.”

When you write personal essays and opinion columns - as Loh does (and as I do) that’s what you put out there - your personal story.  Your opinion.

Loh eloquently blasts marriage in this article, making proper fun of the institution in which she failed — all with research to back up her claims at marriage’s value - or lack thereof.  And she doesn’t mind really, the failing or the funnin’.  I’m sure it wasn’t always as easy for her as the words imply, but acceptance is the first step on the road to recovery.  Seeing the flaws in the system sometimes allow you to move on instead of try to fix them. Loh’s imperious remarks that she just isn’t going to do the time and work it would take to mend her marriage if it’s mendable at all.  She then goes on to recount how once her horrid, gasp-inspiring news was shared with her friends, how they admitted their own dissatisfaction with their own marriages.

When I was getting divorced I received an email - or it may have been a hand-written note, I don’t remember - that asked me “Why?”  This person, whom I had very little contact with over the preceding twenty years asked if that was too personal.  My reply?  Yes, it was too personal. That being said, plenty of people knew plenty.  Some by my choice and others because I live in town of 9,000 and word travels fast whether you want it to or not.

And, just like when you’re pregnant (probably with your first) and mothers are all too happy to reveal their bloody, beastly birth stories — when you’re getting divorced you become privy to the behind-the-picket-fence secrets you never imagined.   I know about my neighbor’s unspoken-of first marriages, affairs and separations.  I know about abortions, adoptions and threadbare unions — some on their way to court, some not.  It fosters a kinship, sometimes welcome and sometimes not.   You become the one with too much private information about people you know and people they know and the personification of my kitchen magnet that says:

“You’ll always be my best friend.  You know too much.”

I find it amazing that divorce makes the front page news day-after-day in any place other than someone’s own blog or journal, and seems to draw more attention than war and crime and the health care crisis.  And I’m more annoyed than shocked that people will judge someone like Loh, who’s being honest and strong  –  not forlorn and pathetic — in her own experience and opinion.

I’m glad that with seven-years-single under my belt, that I’m able to help one of my best friends through her own divorce.   I have never judged her choices, her words or her actions.  I don’t focus on what could have been or what went wrong or what was — but where she can go as she gives birth to a new life.

Her own.

Sleeping through curfew

I woke and looked at the clock.  2:30 a.m.  The dogs followed me to the bathroom.  Had I dreamed that my son mumbled  “Nite, Mom” or “Hi, Mom”  hours before?  Had I responded? Or was that the day before?  I’m a sound sleeper but usually wake at the lightest footstep, toilet flush, groan or  whimper.  I was disoriented.  I remembered, but not really.

I made a decision about six weeks ago to go to sleep before my son’s curfew.  Meaning, I go to sleep while my son is still out.  We live in a small town that’s next to a bigger small town.  There’s no place to go - especially after 9pm because nothing is open. So if he’s not here with his friends playing video games in the basement, he’s in someone else’s house playing video games or pool or watching TV.   I’m not concerned about long, late night drives or cruising the mall.  There is no mall.  He knows when he has to be home, and in over a year of driving he has missed curfew only twice - both times I was actually impressed with his creative reasoning — knowing that is all part of being a teenager.  And when you have a really good kid — and I do — you have to pick your battles as carefully as when you don’t have a good kid, and not freak out when they go outside the lines they usually stay within.

I knew I could not go through an entire summer waiting up for him until midnight.  I like to go to sleep at 10.  Or 11, the latest.  And when I get into bed and my head hits the pillow, I’m out.  But I always wake up when he gets in — sometimes right before curfew and I pretend I’m asleep as he pokes his head in my bedroom door to tell me he’s home.  Then I fall back to sleep, more soundly than before.

But not last night.

Last night I slept through curfew.

The dogs followed me down the hall to my son’s room.  It was dark.  Darker than usual since he’s fallen asleep with the TV on since he was little.  The TV was off.  Though I saw the glow of the cell phone by the side of his bed, I wasn’t convinced.  But, not only do you not wake a sleeping baby, you do not wake a sleeping seventeen-year-old.  I also knew if I ventured further the dogs would help me by jumping on his bed letting me know for sure, through his screams, that he was indeed, safe and sound and sleeping.  So I turned heels and walked  to the laundry room and door leading to the garage.  I opened the door a bit, keeping the dogs behind me with a foot shake and a shh.  I pressed the light button.

Two cars.  His and mine.

It was much easier when I just peeked into the crib to make sure he was breathing!

* * *

This month, in my Imperfect Parent column, I’m writing about the blogosphere’s Promo-Moms.

I’ll take the sticks and stones, thank you very much

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me.

Who the hell wrote that?

Words are a commodity - and on the internet, like in real life, words can be worth more than gold or less than the paper they’re printed on - or the screen on which they are viewed.

Unlike bumps and bruises acquired through a physical brawl, when you throw your words around the wounds sometimes fester, never healing.

Unlike letters written and never mailed, lectures mentally drafted but never spoken, diatribes altered before they leave your lips - on the internet there are no take-backsies. Because even if you delete a post — someone may have cut and pasted it. Because Tweets are forever embedded in the memory of Twitter and all your followers. And emails are always somewhere in the deep dark recesses of your recycle bin.

Name calling is childish — but to do it online is not childish - it’s stupid. Not only do you see your words in front of you - and perhaps revel in their nastiness - but lots of other people see them too - even if you don’t intend it. People forward emails and tweets all the time.  You can even cut and paste miles of Instant Messages.

So be careful, folks - and do what you teach your children - if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

I know there’s an internet brew-ha-ha going on right now. A he said/she said situation that is embarrassing at its best and horrifying at its worst.  I won’t link to it because I believe the only reason these things live and breathe is because they get attention.

I won’t feed the monster.

Frankly, I’d rather be hit with sticks.

You can blame it on Rio, or my friend Fern

I opened Fern’s email.

You must read Pioneer Woman.

I’m an obedient friend when plied with flowery words such as must and read, so I did.

I emailed Fern.

OMG, I want to be Pioneer Woman when I grow up.  Without the calf nuts.  Or the mud.  Or the homeschooling.

Good luck with that, Fern replied.

I persisted.

She’s just writing about her life.  I used to do that. I could do it again.  I’d write the truth about carpools, raising kids, having friends and my life as a single mom in a tiny and very married suburb.  Life here is so mundane it’s fascinating. (She lives here, and knows it to be true) And I’d still have my other blog.

Fern was tough.

Yes, you could do all that and more — but  remember, it takes Pioneer Woman fifteen minutes to drive from one end of her ranch to another.

I was tougher.

It takes me fifteen minutes to pick up sushi.

* * *

So here I am.  Back in the land of the mom blogosphere.

Hang onto your calf nuts.  We’re in for a ride