I am truly not hard to please. If you ask my husband I believe he will agree. I am content to eat a salad for dinner and a day out is a trip to Victoria Secret to cash in my coupon for free underwear. Nevertheless, for the past year I have been whining daily about needing a new bed.
I hate shopping. [editor’s note: no really- she hates it.]
And I especially hate it on a beautiful summer day when I could be doing a whole lot of anything else.
Nevertheless, sometimes you have to go buy a few things, and in North Adams if it isn’t Wal-Mart or The Dollar Tree then it’s a trip to Target.
My husband and I like to call these outings a “date.” This is supposed to make us feel happy and in love instead of miserable and filled with dread as we consider if we have enough gas to drive the 15 miles to the store, or whether we could have postponed buying laundry soap and toilet paper just one more week.
This trip would be brief. Rod would go in his direction and I in mine. Zip, zip, meet at the register and done. And it went just that way.
Once at the register Rod gave me a Visa gift card that he wanted to use toward the purchases. There was $10 left of the original $25. We ran the card and the cashier blandly stated, “It says the card’s no good.”
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know I wanted to be a “Mommy.” While my sister asked for cowboy hats and toy guns I only wanted to wear my mother’s high heels and play with dolls.
I would not only be a mommy but I would be a perfect mommy. I would do all the right things thereby producing flawless children. I noted every error my own mother made over the years and vowed how I would approach that particular issue differently when it was my turn.
I would always believe my children because they wouldn’t lie thanks to my exceptional maternal gifts. I would trust them and give them reasonable freedom when they were teenagers because, having raised them so perfectly, they would not want to disappoint me and would make the best choices or ask me or their father (whoever he turned out to be) for guidance.
I would love my kids with such intensity that they would never feel insecure, lonely, or sad. I was sure books would be written about my parenting abilities and my amazing children. Oprah would have me on her show and I’d fill the entire hour answering “How to Be a Great Mom” questions from less capable audience members.
OK, I did my best.
The first weekend in October is considered Fall Foliage
Weekend in North Adams, Mass., and thousands of tourists rush to the city for our annual parade, craft fair, art, and road races.
Now that my kids are grown I no longer take advantage of all the Fall activities that my community has to offer, but this year a new event was added that forced me to drag my usually unsociable self out of the house and be part of the community…
The first Dog Costume Parade took place on Saturday, October 2 and it was amazing.
“If the left side of your brain controls the right side of your body, and the right side of your brain controls the left side of your body, then left-handed people must be the only ones in their right minds.” – W.C. Fields
As if Hallmark needed another reason to make a card, August 13 is International Left-Handers Day. The nearly two-decade old holiday doesn’t seem to get the recognition it deserves- then again, neither do left-handers.
Not surprisingly, there is a Left-Handers Club that came up with the holiday back in 1992 to “increase public awareness of the advantages and disadvantages of being left-handed.” Shall we join in a collective waahhh for southpaws everywhere?
But seriously, I do want to take a moment and say Happy Left-Handers Day to my very own daughter: Twin A., Angela.
I have watched her struggle with scissors, knives, seating arrangements where her arm simply has no place to go, and several other situations that most of us normal- ummm, I mean right-handed folks, never consider. The world is definitely arranged for right-handed people and since I love my daughter today I speak out against this bigotry.
Think of the term itself. A left-handed compliment is one that is not a compliment at all. The left side of the theater has the “odd” numbered seats. Obviously, left = odd. If you are “left out” well, clearly that isn’t good. The Italian words for left and left-handed are “mancino and mancini” which translate to “defective and deceitful.” A promise you have no intentions of keeping is called a “left-handed oath.”
While the name Rochelle isn’t bizarre, it still isn’t heard that often, so whenever I do meet someone with my name it becomes something of an event.
In fact, I have only ever met two or three Rochelle’s and they didn’t spell their name like I do.
It usually happens on the phone at work. A customer will be surprised when I identify myself. Then they go on, “Rochelle is MY name too!” We discuss how infrequently this happens, whether we have a nickname, who named us and why.
I doubt people with names like Mary or Kathy have this experience.
December 29, 1986 was the day I was scheduled for a routine ultrasound for my second pregnancy. My husband was home with my daughter who was about to turn two years old the following week. I was going directly to work afterward and to be honest the whole thing was rather inconvenient.
I was five months pregnant, the baby was moving a lot and I felt fine. Was this really necessary? It seemed to be taking forever and finally I asked if there was a problem.
The technologist looked up and said, “I see two babies.”
I don’t think I will ever forget hearing those words.
There were no twins in my family and it was never something I considered. In a flash I thought of my daughter who was still in diapers. I thought of the Ford Mustang that would need replacing to fit three car seats and how we could not afford a new car. I thought I could never love and care for two more babies. That was when I got hysterical and we called my husband.
My girls turn 23 today. How is that possible?
I recently stopped by my friends’ house for a visit. Instead of being greeted by a hug and the usual chips and dip, they offered me something else- long, green fuzzy pods known as Edamame. I watched them as they hovered over the bowl sucking the beans out of the pod as if it were their last meal. Not pretty but quite intriguing.
Of course these are good, polite friends so they put some pods in a dish for me, but the fact is we were all just sitting there eating these damn edamame non-stop. I had heard of this “soy bean” before but never took the time to get to know it. Big mista
ke on my part.
Edamame is delicious. As a matter of fact, it has replaced Cape Cod potato chips as my latest snack obsession. Thank goodness, since Edamame is a legume (or, bean) and unlike chips it is very nutritious and low in calories. Plus, it takes longer to eat and is almost a social experience.
A: People always ask me what it’s like working with my mom. The truth is, I’ve been following this woman around for her entire professional career.
When she was a waitress I was a hungry customer. When she was a teacher I was a student in her school (I still remember the first time I got office detention, I walked into the room it was being held and– surprise– there was my mother watching over the other offending students.) Even when she quit teaching and found work in a crunchy little grocery store, I managed to pick up an odd job that would allow me to walk over and annoy ol’ mommo.
R: I work with my daughter. Years ago I was a teacher in the same school she attended, so it isn’t all that unusual to share space with her in a “professional” atmosphere. Oh sure, she used to come to my classroom to see if I had candy when she was supposed to be going to the bathroom but that was hardly criminal.
Once a year I actually get to see my primary care physician. I think it is some kind of law otherwise I doubt I would even know what he looks like.
This year I was all
prepared with a years worth of inquiries and observations about my aging body all written down lest I forget something. Failing memory was at the top of the list.
My doctor is young, cute, and as luck would have it, very professional. My fantasy of a Lifetime movie based on an inappropriate dalliance was quickly squashed.
After the usual flirting (OK, he asked me if I had any problems, complaints, questions) I reminded him of the small pimple/bump between my nose and eye that was preventing me from being a super model. I had pointed this out to him the year before but he said that removing it would cause a scar that might be more unflattering than the bump.
This year I wasn’t having any of that.