Looking for Mr. President

I'm breaking with my usual self-absorption to go on an old-fashioned rant. I am so sick of politics. I am so tired of listening to speeches, ads and debates designed to influence my choice for the next leader of the free world. Let me start by saying, that I think anyone who would actually want that job has to be more than a little bit insane. Given that, our current slate of available candidates seems to be the sorriest lot I have ever seen.

When I think of the money, energy, and time that is being wasted to get one of these yo-yos into office, I can't help but wish that our country would wise up and handle this whole procedure like the Brits. Every once in awhile they call for an election. The parties then have six weeks to convince you that their guy is the guy for the job. They don't have senators, governors, etc. putting their current jobs on the back burner for eighteen months or more while they campaign for a job that they may never get. They don't waste hundreds of millions of dollars on tacky, confusing ads that only serve to make the whole country sick and tired of the political process a year before the election even arrives.

I have no doubt that there are some good men (don't see any more women on the horizon) angling for my vote. But, to tell you the truth, I'm sick of the whole lot of them. They all promise to fix what the last guy's screwed up without ever acknowledging that they might have had a hand in those problems in the first place. Any chance of getting someone into that big, white house on Pennsylvania Avenue that is actually able to change anything is getting more and more remote as partisan politics pushes good sense and compromise right out the window.

I keep hoping that someone will step up to the plate and make me change my mind. He (or she) will have a lot of work to do.

One Proud Parent

You can't see me right now, but if you could, you would want to ask me about the big, fat grin on my face. Three hours ago, I left the house worrying about how I was going to hold my own against a slate of very competitive tennis players in the quarterly mixed doubles social event at the club I work for. I obsessed about the hitch in my service toss, my inability to hit decisive ground strokes and my less than lightening reaction time. Now that it's over, all I can remember is that I got to play two hours of tennis with my son.

To say that I'm proud of the person he's become is comparable to saying that George Clooney is kind of good looking. He was the youngest participant of the twenty teams by almost twenty years but that didn't matter to him in the least. Everyone of his opponents commented on his politeness; his sense of fair play. Several people made a point of telling me that he was a testament to my good parenting. I can only hope that that is true. I only know that he gave up a Friday night to partner with his less than stellar tennis playing mom, always making me feel encouraged and supported. As we socialized with the other teams after two hours of playing, I couldn't help but feel blessed to have such an amazing person for a son.

As luck would have it, I got the added bonus of being able to drive him home. We talked about our matches as well as his plans for the future. He congratulated me on some good shots I had made and told me how much he enjoyed playing with me. He asked if he could come over on Sunday to talk about what path his life is going to take next. He sounded so mature, so ready to take on the next challenges in his life. Any worry I had about his future flew right out the window. As he hugged me, I felt so grateful to have raised this incredible young man. He's going to be just fine. And I couldn't be prouder.

Change of Heart

I've always had trouble with change. True to my astrological sign (if I believed in all of that nonsense) I often find myself mired in the past, forever looking over my shoulder at the good old days. Lest you think that my entry into AARPland has precipitated this sense of nostalgia, I can assure you that this is nothing new. From moving to breaking up, getting a new job to working with a new computer, I've never been all that crazy about shaking up my life.

I know there are people who thrive on this sort of thing, who welcome each challenge to their daily routine with open arms and a sense of adventure. To them I say, oh wait, I can't say that. Maybe I should just say, 'Congratulations' or, better yet, 'How the hell do you do it?'

I'd like to say that this rumination on dealing with life's changes was brought about by my current situation - letting go of my kids and moving on with part two of my adult life - but it was really provoked by something much more trivial. I just found out that my favorite pizza place is closing.

I know, I know. People are losing jobs, families are being forced out of their houses. The loss of a neighborhood pizza joint should be way down on the totem pole of life's problems. And it is. But you've got to understand. This was my go-to place whenever life got the better of me. This was the comfort food that could make it all better for the time it took to eat four or five slices. This was the place that my entire family had gathered for thirty years. Through the decades, we hoisted a variety of glasses while enjoying the tastiest pizza this side of Italy. We solved a lot of problems seated at those dark, laminated tables. We celebrated a lot of birthdays and victorious baseball games sitting on those rock-hard wooden benches.

Maybe that's why this change is going to be so tough. We not only need to find another place that makes phenomenal thin crust pizza, a difficult task in itself. We need to find another place to make some more great family memories.

Dream On

The other day I had yet another conversation with my son that served to illustrate how challenging our attempts at simple communication can be. It went something like this.

We were heading over to Portillo's to grab some lunch, already a good day in my book. Usually, he coerces me into a quick trip through the drive-thru but, on this particular occasion, he decided that his busy life was able to squeeze in the maximum twenty minutes he allows for any meal to actually sit across a table from his very appreciative mom. As we drove the short distance to the hot dog haven, he confided to me that he had had a horrible dream the night before. Here was my big chance. Here was my opportunity to delve inside the inner workings of my son's psyche and analyze the demons I was about to find within.

I have to admit, I'm pretty good at analyzing dreams. I've read a few books and I've had my share of bizarre night time theatrics so I feel right at home putting on my analyst hat and giving my friends and relatives the benefit of my "expertise". So, I turned to my son and said, "Want to tell me about it? I might be able to help." To which he replied, "I dreamed that the Bears traded Devin Hester to Minnesota."

He then went on to elaborate about the cold sweat he had woken up to convinced his beloved punt returner would no longer be evading tackles on the turf at Soldier Field. I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. Fearing that he would never open up to me again, I quickly composed myself and explained that what he had just described was far from what I had been expecting. He looked at me in all seriousness and said, "Mom, I don't know what you were thinking but I'm telling you, that dream was horrible. Not only was Devin Hester gone, he was playing for a team in our division."

It was then that I saw that glint in his eye; the one that had saved him so many times before. It may have been his definition of a bad dream but now he was playing me - one of his favorite pastimes. By the time he started laughing, we were in the parking lot. I put on my best Sigmund Freud imitation and told him that my theory was that he had a deep seated fear of losing his favorite football player to a rival team. He not only concurred, he ended up hanging out for an entire half an hour.

We may not be able to agree on the definition of a nightmare but I'll take whatever I can get.

Excuses . . . I've Got a Million of Them

Did you miss me? I hope so. Since I've participated in the National Novel Writing Month challenge, I've written exactly one blog. I really did have a good reason for my absence. In fact, I've compiled several good reasons.

1. I got sick
2. My computer crashed
3. I was working a lot
4. I was depressed
5. I had to take care of family stuff
6. I was lazy
7. I missed Italy
8. I couldn't think of anything to write about
9. What I could think of turned out to be pretty lame
10. I was busy
11. I got caught up making a photo album of my vacation
12. Looking at the photos, I got more depressed wishing I was back in Italy
13. I had to put up Christmas decorations
14. I had to buy Christmas presents
15. I had to make Christmas cookies
16. I had to wrap Christmas presents
17. I had to take back Christmas presents
18. I got sick (that one really deserves two excuses - it lasted forever)
19. I had to watch several vile, stomach-churning Bears games
20. I had to change the sheets, put fresh towels in the bathroom, order pizza, etc.
21-1,000,000. Anything I could think of to keep me from writing.

Before I knew it, it was time for Lady Gaga to drop the ball in Times Square. As I reminded myself at 12:01 a.m. (right before I headed to bed), I managed to write 50,000 words in thirty days. If I can do that, I should be able to discipline myself to sit down at the computer a little more often. That's when I decided to add writing this insignificant blog twice a week to my list of 2012 resolutions. Those of you who like my writing and get a laugh or two out of it, can look forward to seeing something every Monday and Friday. Those of you who think my musings stink, (or that didn't even realize I had been depriving you of my insights and/or rantings), feel free to go about your business as usual.

So, Happy New Year! Hope 2012 brings lots of blessings, as well as an end to the Kardashian reign of terror, to all. I'd write more but I have to go clean out my closet, organize my financial files and take down my Christmas decorations.

I should be done by Friday.

It Wasn't a Fluke

It's great to prove to yourself that you can accomplish a goal. It's even better when you can prove to yourself that you're capable of doing it more than once. That's why I'm sitting here, just a little bit proud of myself. Last year, I managed to write a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. It was something I've always wanted to do and taking up the challenge of the National Novel Writing Month, I surprised myself by actually being able to do it.

This year, I'm happy to say, I did it again. I finished three days early this time and I'm on my way to finishing my second novel in two years. At this rate, I'll catch up to Danielle Steel when I'm 137! I haven't actually managed to edit the first one yet and I'm still stuck trying to find an ending to the one I'm currently working on but none of that matters. My very undisciplined self managed to sit myself in front of a computer for two or three hours every day for the second time. I can no longer say that I can't do it. And since this book was complete fiction (with the exception of the European locales I just can't stop thinking about), I can't say I have no imagination. What I can say is that nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it. Okay, that's not true. I will never be able to be an Olympic figure skater. I will never walk on the moon. I will never be able to fly. But I will be able to be a published author. These last thirty days have finally convinced me.

Where I Am

Well, isn't it just like me to pop back in from my long vacation, write one blog and disappear again. No wonder I don't have many followers; they couldn't find me even if they wanted to. Now I am going to hit you with another legitimate excuse for my absence. Remember, this blog is supposed to be about my journey out of full-time motherhood. And this journey seems to be all about the twists and turns my life is taking as I set out to re-invent myself.

As many of you might remember, last year I took on the challenge of writing a 50,000 word novel in thirty days. As crazy as that might seem, I actually did it and am now the proud owner of one proof copy of a novel that has yet to be fully edited (or read) by anyone. What's even crazier than taking on such a challenge, you might ask? How about signing up to do it again?

For the next twenty-four days, (minus work hours and Bears games), I'll be sequestered in my basement, pounding on computer keys hoping to catch lightening in a bottle one more time. At first I thought I should quit while I was ahead. After all, I proved that I could do it. I'm sitting here with the proof, rough and unread though it may be. So why would I want to go through that torture again?

There isn't a simple answer but I think I came up with a few:

1. I need a project to take my mind off the fact that my vacation is over and winter is
about to make its appearance. Both events are making me pretty damn blue.
2. I work better with a deadline. My undisciplined nature would never take the easy
way out and write a novel over a rational time period, like oh, say, the other 335 days of
year.
3. (Most importantly) I want (need) to prove that last year wasn't a fluke. I want to write
a completely fictional, fun novel in a totally different genre. Maybe then I'll truly believe
I can make something out of this "hobby" I've pursued for the better part of my adult
life.

I'll try to check in once in awhile but, like I said last year, I have to write almost 2000 words
a day to meet my goal and, unless my husband is willing to go thru the next month with dirty clothes and an empty stomach, my free time has to be in the pursuit of those relentlessly unforgiving 2000 words. So, please bear with me and wish me luck. I'll come up for air when I can. This business of re-inventing yourself ain't easy.