Once again I have been waylaid by the kitchen remodel. We are getting close! The counter tops are in and oh so pretty and the sink and faucet were finally installed last week. Yesterday, the day I had been waiting for since me moved in three years ago, the particle board walls were torn down and gorgeous pine wainscoting was installed.

Thankfully, everything went somewhat smoothly and was finished all in one day. Mia and I almost died of boredom yesterday because we had to stay here and make sure the contractors didn’t need any questions answered. Which of course, they did. Do you remember that show Murphy Brown and the character Eldin the painter? Ok…times that by four. Four Eldins in my kitchen with power tools. Now, I’m not a stranger to them as I hired the same people to remodel the bathrooms. They’re work is excellent I can’t argue. But they are always late, a break is 3 hours, and lets just say our communication skills are poor at best because I don’t speak Spanish and they don’t speak English. So, why do I continuously hire these guys? The answer simple. They are entertaining and love trying to make Mia laugh. I love when they question my design skills telling me that instead of buying the moulding that I originally wanted they picked up a prettier moulding or that the sink I wanted was too small and in the long run I would not like it. At first this all made me so upset, but now instead of trying to argue in broken Spanish I have come to the conclusion that they are pretty much always right. That’s when they really get into it and argue in Spanish with each other about what looks better and which decorative touch should be added. I like to think they meet up after work with a six pack and watch the design channel. This is how my brain works.

But my favorite thing about these burly tattooed men, one who’s front teeth are all gold and reminds me of a James Bond villain, are their voices. Yes, that’s right…they sing. All the time and as I was in the living room yesterday reading a book to Mia, I nearly fell off the couch when we were suddenly serenaded in rounds. Now, my Spanish is severely broken but from what I gathered it was something about a lovesick man and a horse. Really?! Even in the midst of sawdust and the disruption of a kitchen remodel, my life is pretty sweet.

Now we just wait on me to paint. This is one of those things I just don’t trust anyone else to do. I’m weird like that. Hopefully, this will get done soon because I would like my oven to return to the kitchen and get out of our bedroom. Cross your fingers!

This is the beautiful wallpaper we found under the particle board. The avocado green paint chips in the kitchen all make sense now. Remember the house is 80+ years old. From what I can tell the kitchen has been green, pink, blue and off-white.

Welcome to another installment of “Musings of a Mid-Life Mom,” the monthly guest column by the very talented Ashley Bass. A gut clenching, chin dropping, enthusiastic view on kids, men and all the other stuff that gives us wrinkles!

Maternal Evolution

Case Study 1: The Handbag

On Labor Day weekend, the fam and I struck out on an errand. It seems ‘we’ were in need of a new grill. I’m never one to discourage a certain part of ’we’ from cooking dinner so, as any self-respecting American would do, we hopped in our big F-250 and headed to Sears. The kids had had a great day thus far. We had gone to the park, eaten lunch, and had naps. What could possibly go wrong? Answer: I would discover that motherhood not only effected my body, mind, soul, and every thought…it also effects (wait for it….) MY FREAKIN PURSE.

We pulled into the mall parking lot, unloaded, and strolled inside. The children behaved as perfectly as any 2 and 3 year old possibly could. They walked with us, looked around at all the stuff in wonderment (Sears is no Target, ya know), and generally impressed us with their good manners. Once in the outdoor department Jason began the ’grill purchasing dance’ by talking to the nice older gay gentleman who seemed to be an authority on grilling. A grill was chosen. This is the part of the purchasing process where they stick it to you! Apparently, we needed a new propane tank, a grill cover, new grilling tools, and every other new thing a man could possibly think he needed to cook a perfect steak. At this point the kids were getting antsy, so I took them on a walk through the clothing department, in hopes of distracting them just long enough…

Chaos! Jake started running in and out of the racks, Libby set out in hot pursuit, her sole intention of cataloging enough information for a really great tattle session. I looked desperately over my shoulder to check the progress of the checkout, only to see Jason and Sweety in a very deep conversation about the pros and cons of a stainless steel finish versus a matte finish. Damn, I need a miracle! So I look in my purse. I don’t know what I thought I’d find in there… ah, a snack baggie full of Cheerios, Kix, and Goldfish. I have miraculously found a bag of Toddler Crack in this purse I’m carrying. Not only that, but I hand over a Nemo sticker, an Elmo sticker, and a little Matchbox car. What the Hell???? Where did this purse come from? I’ll tell you where. It came straight from Heaven! I know it came from Heaven because there is no way it’s mine! I’m way too awesome to be the owner of this purse. This purse belongs to some sad woman who wears mom jeans and is obsessed with sewing her kids Halloween costumes.

My very elegant and expensive handbag was a gift to myself after a particularly harrowing business trip, too many years ago. I had never spent more than 20 bucks on a purse until I saw this one. I remember it like it was yesterday… Walking through Neiman’s, or Nordstroms, or Saks.. Okay, maybe not like it was yesterday, but I sorta remember staggering through some department store in High Point, NC after having ‘celebrated’ a very successful sales trip. I tripped, my cheap purse broke, and I saw a pretty cute, but too expensive handbag (read cost as much as my mortgage payment now) under the glass in the purse department of some un-remembered department store. I pointed, the saleswoman handed it to me, and I dumped the contents of my wounded warrior into a new and gorgeous handbag! (If it’s expensive it’s called a ‘handbag’).

My purse used to be an oasis in the desert. I could always find a matching wallet that actually had money in it, a pen, a pack of cigarettes, a Diet Coke (seriously), a tampon, my Blackberry, a calendar full of really important grown-up stuff, and at least three different lipsticks. On Labor Day Weekend 2010, I discovered this purse I carried looked sorta the same on the outside as the one from six years ago, but the guts of it had changed as much as mine had. The Toddler Crack had replaced the cigarettes, the empty wallet was one I found in a drawer when my old one became a toy, crayons had replaced the tampons (and let me tell you that was an awfully grim discovery!), the Tylenol once used to tame a morning headache is still there but in its infant form to be used for fevers and new teeth, and my calendar now has a whole bunch of three-year olds birthday parties, new baby’s sip-n-sees, volunteer committee meetings, and a whole bunch of other functions that don‘t serve adult beverages.

Good Lord! One of the most depressing parts of my discovery came when I took a good hard look at the purse I was carrying and discovered it was my once glorious handbag. Now some of the logo-print has been colored in with pink crayon, one of the straps has been used, on many occasions, as a teether, the zipper is broken, the once pristine suede bottom is now all grungy and dirty, and it’s lost all of it’s shape- at this very moment it is sitting all collapsed and pitiful on the floor next to my desk. I just realized my handbagis now just a purse. It started life on the shoulder of a ’go getter’ and is reaching the end of its’ life on the shoulder of a ’step-n-fetcher’ (for those of you not from Texas a ‘Step-n-Fetcher‘ is the ‘Go Getter’s‘ gopher, a maid/nurse/cook/wash-woman… a mom). To add insult to injury, the gal who works for me carries a lovely Burberry handbag, and some days a pristine Louis with matching wallet! I’m getting real bitter about that… I think I’ll fire her for the rest of the day!! Bitch! After I kick her smug ass out of the store, I’m making an empowered decision! I shall be handbag carrier again!

I think I’ll hussle out and get myself a new bag this weekend! I see a girls road trip in my future. Here is what’s going to happen. A group of four of five of us are going to pile into one of our Mom-type vehicles. We are going to hit the Interstate and head South! We shall have brunch at the Four Seasons then head out to shop. If I do it correctly, I will enjoy enough mimosas at brunch to keep me deliriously happy for a couple of hours. (Maybe my old purse can see its way clear to hold a flask one last time.) I am going to walk into the Neiman’s and point at the prettiest handbag I see, buy it, and take it home!! I’m so excited! Once I get it home, I’m going to load it up with all the things I need. I will stand in front of the mirror modeling with it and then I, too, shall be smug! The bag will be wonderful and I shall be happy. Then…I will unload it, put it back in it’s nice felt pouch, return it to it’s box, and put it in my closet. Happiness is knowing it will be there waiting for me… when the time is right.

Welcome to another installment of “Musings of a Mid-Life Mom,” the monthly guest column by the very talented Ashley Bass. A gut clenching, chin dropping, enthusiastic view on kids, men and all the other stuff that gives us wrinkles!

A goodly number of mornings it is no surprise to find me here. It is where I go to collect my thoughts, get ready for the day. It is an oasis in the storm of motherhood, wifely duties, and small business ownership during a recession. It is the altar of conspicuous consumption. I park in the same place, I make the same circuitous route through the store, and I see the same smiling faces every time I go there. It’s predicable and comforting. I find happiness and diaper rash cream here. I find enlightenment and the Dollar Spot here. I find bronzing lotion and beer here. Most importantly, I find a liberal return policy here, thank God!

Inevitably, every morning, during the harried process of getting myself and two small people ready for the day, I come across some very important item I need but can’t find in this tornado I call my house. I do go to the grocery store every Sunday, list in hand. I walk in the store confident that I have accounted for every need, for every possible surprise. I grab all the fruits and veggies the kids will need (read chicken nuggets), all the toiletries the husband and I may need, all the cleaning supplies I know I won’t use… However, it never fails, Monday morning rolls around with the realization that I’m out of coffee, Wednesday I discover I have no laundry detergent, and Thursday (the worst of all) I’m out of freakin diapers. So I can safely say at least three morning a week between 9 and 9:30 you can predictably find me at…Target (angel choir sings in the background).

[At this point I will digress with a quick story- last week, on my birthday, I was running late to work but decided to go anyway, it was my birthday after all and I do own my store. I pulled into the parking lot wearing my favorite birthday t-shirt which says ‘Smile your ass off’, love it and wear it every year. I hopped out of the car and pulling in at the same time is my best friend. She gave me a big birthday hug and some story about needing to buy dishes- that’s just stupid. Come to find out later that day, when she brought me my birthday present, she was there at 10 because she ‘knew’ I would have already left! Hilarious!!] Back to the real column…

One can be in and out of there in 15 minutes with everything needed. Here’s how you do it… Step one: make cursory pass by the kid’s meds, shampoo, cosmetics, and food (don‘t forget the Diet Coke). Step two: glance down the cleaning aisle (who am I kidding? I ain’t cleanin’ a damn thing this week), run past the clothing department (it’s a trap, don’t go in there, you’ll have to call an extraction team to get you out), then slowly stroll down the kids shoe aisle. Caution: the shoe aisle is tricky, you have to be efficient and methodical. You don’t want to miss a sale on Dora sandals, but you don’t want to get sucked into some stupid wedge espadrilles for your three year-old, that’s just poor judgment.

After you have entertained yourself with makeup, food, and shoes it’s time to get down to the business at hand. Step three: The baby department. Don’t get bogged down with sentiment as you pass the really really tiny precious cute newborn clothes. You are on a mission! Hit it hard and hit it fast. Grab your diapers, wipes, bubble bath (hey, why not? Friday is bath night at our house, we know how to party). Next, it’s down the kid food aisle for yogurt, goldfish, those stupid puffs, and formula. For the record, Jake is almost two, and yes I give him formula during the day. I would say it is to supplement his diet, but honestly it’s because during a busy work day I have, on occasion, accidentally and by no fault of my own forgotten to give him a proper lunch. Shut up, don’t judge. Step three/ part two: cruise the kids clothes. You can get sucked into this department, but hell, the clothes are cute and since you became a mother you buy more stuff for your kids than yourself anyway, right? This is where I give you permission to waste a little time. The only caution I will give you here is that the twill shorts and pants can run a little big. Enjoy.

The final lap I make is through the Dollar Spot. Whoever thought this up can have one of my kidneys. I love it! It’s three mini-aisles full of stickers, dog bowls, yoga mats, Cracker Jacks, kid finger nail polish, wooden cars, seasonal items, and gardening tools. It’s just goes to show what a lot of hard working children can put on a shelf in America for a buck. (That might have been a little off-color?) Oh well, I still think it’s brilliant.

Final destination, Checkout Aisle 8. Same aisle every time. If I’ve played my cards right then Ha will be there. She is a small Asian woman, who has worked there for like 20 years and has become a happy part of my weekly routine. She always gives Jake a high-five, comments on what I’m purchasing, and let’s me go through all of the store coupons others have left behind. I’ve gotten lucky with a coupon on Pediasure before, that shit’s expensive. To Ha’s credit, she always smiles, asks everyone if they would like to apply for a Target card, and once stopped my dad in line because he had Jake with him and she didn’t recognize him. She’s a one woman Crime Stoppers. Apparently, she feels pretty comfortable with me too. I ran in alone on a random Sunday to grab something wearing shorts, t-shirt, baseball cap, and no make-up. I ran through her line out of habit, all she said is, ‘Where is Jake?’ and ‘You look ugly today.’ I almost died laughing. I had finally arrived, I now have a small Asian mother!

Not everyone may love Target as much as I do, but hey, whatever floats your boat. I would love to have the same knowledge of the inner workings of Saks or Neiman’s, but I live in Waco, Tx, I have two kids, and honestly I bet those stores aren’t near as much fun. Sometimes I cheat on Target with Old Navy, but they don’t sell tampons, birthday cards, and shower curtain liners, so I don’t make it over there very often. If you are ever having a difficult day, just call in ‘Target’. Look at your boss, husband, babysitter, whoever and say, ‘I just gotta go, it’s calling to me. I gotta drive toward that big read Target sign, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.’ Trust me, it works better than therapy and you can walk out of there with some killer patio cushions.

Welcome to another Confessions of the Mamahood! My favorite time of the week because it keeps me laughing all day long! We all know what I’m talking about. Those incidences that you are afraid to tell your husband/wife and never in a million years speak of it to your mother-in-law!  Well, fret no more. Every Tuesday release your inner guilt here! We all can relate because we’ve all been there. We could all use a good laugh.

So, let it out! just click on the word “comments” above this headline and get started.

Welcome to another Confessions of the Mamahood! My favorite time of the week because it keeps me laughing all day long! We all know what I’m talking about. Those incidences that you are afraid to tell your husband/wife and never in a million years speak of it to your mother-in-law!  Well, fret no more. Every Tuesday release your inner guilt here! We all can relate because we’ve all been there. We could all use a good laugh.

So, let it out! just click on the word “comments” above this headline and get started.

Years ago in a bar in Denton, Texas just south of the line where the red dirt turns black a young wide-eyed blond hair girl meets a wild, one of a kind, guitar playing boy. Boy flirts with girl and girl turns him down because of her bartender boyfriend. Boy returns monthly to play a show at the bar and of course girl is always there. Half a year later and single, girl finally gives into boy when she can no longer resist the boy’s charm and songs. Boy takes girl on their first date and boy asks girl to marry him three hours later. Girl smiles and thinks he’s crazy but knows it’s true. She has to look no further. Forty-eight hours later after a marathon of John Wayne movies and endless talking the date ends and girl returns home with her heart bursting out of her chest. Two weeks pass. Boy takes girl to the family ranch, sings a song of dreams to her and she knows she will never leave the boys side. Months pass. Girl leaves school for the summer and follows boy and his music to Canada. Girl falls deeper for boy, sees bears, smells flowers taller than she, drinks Canadian beer and finds herself “getting married” by a drunk Canadian priest in a small bar somewhere in the mountains of Canada where everyone has a crazy accent after one of the boy’s shows. Girl falls even deeper for boy and the cigar wrapper she has for a ring. Weeks later girl finds herself back in Texas in the desert dancing with a 100 year old man with a crowd watching while the boy sings a song he wrote for her in a little place called Terlingua. Later that night the boy and girl dance for hours under a full moon in the desert with no one around except for the coyotes serenading not too far away. The girl’s heart hurts from being so full. After a while, girl returns to college and leaves boy behind. With the boy in her head school was hopeless and eventually girl leaves school for boy. As time passes the adventures don’t. Despite a horrifying car wreck, running from a crazy gun toting Mexican horse cartel, long nights on the road, and being places she never imagined she would ever be, girl still falls deeper for boy. Finally, after a year of a whirlwind love, boy takes girl on up on the highest hill of his family’s ranch, the same place he took her a year before, kneels down on one knee and officially asks her to be his bride. After a year of romance, roaming bears, crazy Canadians, dust devils, moon lit deserts, howling coyotes, and Mexican horse thieves girl says yes to boy with gunfire bursting from the valley below. Six months later on July 30 2005, with family and friends surrounding them, the girl has an answer to the boy’s first question to her three hours into their first date…

I Do.

Five years later, our family is complete with our “little bear.” Our lives are greatly different but I still love you just as much and even more than that moment on the K when I told you I would be yours forever. We have gone through rough roads, climbed high mountains, experienced loss, and witnessed a miracle. I can’t imagine anyone else that I would rather be with…and yes, I do dream of you too. Happy anniversary.

Love,
Your Bear

Dream of Me ©Tim Steele Music 2005

Welcome to another Confessions of the Mamahood! My favorite time of the week because it keeps me laughing all day long! We all know what I’m talking about. Those incidences that you are afraid to tell your husband/wife and never in a million years speak of it to your mother-in-law!  Well, fret no more. Every Tuesday release your inner guilt here! We all can relate because we’ve all been there. We could all use a good laugh. So, let it out! just click on the word “comments” above this headline and get started

Welcome to another Confessions of the Mamahood! My favorite time of the week because it keeps me laughing all day long! We all know what I’m talking about. Those incidences that you are afraid to tell your husband/wife and never in a million years speak of it to your mother-in-law!  Well, fret no more. Every Tuesday release your inner guilt here! We all can relate because we’ve all been there. We could all use a good laugh. So, let it out! just click on the word “comments” above this headline and get started

Welcome to In Sock Monkey Slippers’ first installment of “Musings of a Mid-Life Mom,” the monthly column by Ashley Bass. A gut clenching, chin dropping, enthusiastic view on kids, men and all the other stuff that gives us wrinkles!

So, here I am at 36, living next door to the Institution of Marriage, two lefts from a Rite of Passage, and a few blocks over from the Street of Broken Dreams.  I, Ashley Bass, find myself with a husband, two kids, and a small business.  Because of all of this, I’m sure there must be Insane Asylum just a stone’s throw away.

It was only 11 years ago that I was fancy free, in between two marriages, and having the time of my life.  Then, only six years ago I was fancy free, after that second failed marriage, and living and working in Austin.  All that craziness ended when I ran into a high school boyfriend (who I had told in 10th grade that I would marry).  We happily reconnected and settled in to a pretty cozy long distance romance.  After dating for a while, Jason and I decided to make Champagne Sunday a weekly tradition, 9 months later we had a daughter.  Then a mere eight months after she appeared on the scene we had yet another lovely Sunday with champagne, and nine months later we had a son.  He is proof that breast-feeding is not a reliable form of birth control.  Needless to say, we’ve stopped drinking champagne.

Now we are accidental parents.  I say this because I had it on pretty good authority from a ‘Haaavaad’ doctor (that’s Harvard for all of us who don’t speak ‘snob’) that after a miscarriage and a mighty awesome ectopic that resulted in the loss of a tube along with some bad scarring, I couldn’t have children.  When a ‘Haaavaad’ doctor tells you that you need not worry about birth control anymore because you can’t have children, you don’t bother to waste your beer money on the pill.  HUH!  Meet Jake and Libby, my non-children!  And so at 36 years old, I write this column with rainbow painted fingernails.  I can tell all of the reading public with absolute certainty that Hello Kitty brand fingernail polish is not up to the quality one would hope for in a cartoon character’s polish.  After just two days it’s all chipped off and ‘trailer’ looking.  However, this little daughter of mine is so happy that our fingernail polish is chipping in the same way, I have not taken it off.

Imagine if you will, that you have gone into a lovely maternity and children’s clothing boutique.  The nice lady behind the counter asks you if you need anything, takes a few things to a dressing room, and starts speaking with some authority about pregnancy and post-partum care.  As you listen and laugh (because she’s really rather witty and charming) you glance down at her nails…  and there is where you hear the screeching of tires in your brain and all credibility goes out the window.  Who is this person talking to me about breast health and proper posture to ensure a good ‘latch’?  She’s obviously making it all up, and I’m sure she just said the word ‘shit’.  She isn’t to be trusted!  Alas, it is I.  Once the procurer of a degree in Literature and Latin.  Once the reader of myriad books.  Once the young, skinny, mid-twenties gal who made fun of you in the mall while you were struggling to get your toddler to shut up just long enough so you could pay for your husband’s underwear.  I am the walking, talking example of what ‘oops’ can do for you.

However ridiculous this parenting thing is, and however much pressure all those other ‘uber-moms’ put on all of us ‘normal moms’, I wouldn’t trade this stupid, funny, pride-sucking, intelligence-shrinking ride for nothin’!  I’ve never laughed this deeply, hurt this completely, loved this fully, and enjoyed embarrassment this much…ever!  And I’ve been drunk in public A LOT.