I don’t know why I’m so jealous of the fact that she can pull this cute hairstyle off, but I am. I won’t cut her out of the will, though. You know, if I had a will. The only thing I could leave her is my hair products.

Dear Leta Mallory,

I am absolutely going to inflict some flattery on a popular writer by this entry and I won’t feel one bit ashamed of it unless that author finds this and demands that I remove it. I’m lucky enough that you’re now old enough to drink so if that happens let’s tie one on and forget this whole thing. Today you turn two hundred sixty-four months old. You are one old broad, kiddo. Lest you make the mistake to call me old I shall use my standby retort, “You’re only 15 years younger than I. Do you really want to go there?” In actuality, I love and adore and cherish you so much because you are ALWAYS willing to go there and be comical and entertaining when I challenge you. That right there is DARN GOOD PARENTING on my part and if my arms were longer I would pat my own back or box with God. I should give credit to your dad, the one you grew up with and who raised you to be spectacular in every sense. I’m so glad you grew up to be a Daddy’s Girl, too, even if life didn’t start out that way for you. Correction: you grew up to be a GOOFY Daddy’s Girl.

Unfortunately, I can’t really claim that you’ve grown UP because you are the shortest person in our entire family dating back about 683 years. It’s quite strange, but we don’t tire of teasing you about it. It’s not something I don’t think about a lot until you can’t reach the large mixing bowl on top of the cabinets or turn on one of the ceiling fans at which point every available family member is invited into the room to watch you jump up and bounce around. We’re not deliberately cruel. We just don’t have much money for expensive hobbies and this one provides endless entertainment.

We should have known that you were starting to feel short when you always took pictures standing behind your youngest brother. After much consideration, we realized that you were simply trying to choke him. He is, after all, your brother and the baby boy of the family. I do ask, though, that you not kill him before he reaches the age to watch a rated R movie on his own at the theater.

You no longer wet your pants or argue about sucking helium from balloons or create booger museums on your bedroom wall and I take pride in that. You’re headed toward gum disease and cholesterol watching. I’m certain that lighting your birthday candles won’t be that traumatic, but hey! Only 8 short years until you’re 30! Have you thought about that? Has that crossed your mind? If not, then you’re quite welcome for that little seed I just planted into your cerebral matter. Ginkgo biloba is just around the corner. Hold your head up, child, and respect the morning stretch.

For the last four years you’ve made us proud as you took university seriously. After your first semester when you asked me why college wasn’t like what you’d seen on television and the movies I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. You weren’t learning to tap kegs or finding where the best bongs were. You worked and studied and behaved admirably. But you also made me cry every single time you got back into that car after a weekend home to return to school. Not one time was it easy to see you go.

It’s enjoyable to watch you come full circle after already having been to college with me once before. The first time you weren’t even able to read until you tired of me studying all the time and I hurriedly taught you as you picked it up on your own because of your impatience. One time in particular I recall how we both went to the university library and I sent you off to find children’s books while I attempted to cram economics into my head and I said, “Mallory! Read on your own!” and you sweetly asked me, “But mommy. What sound does the B plus R make?” Exasperated, I yelled, “BR! BBRRRRR! IT MAKES BBBBBBRRRRRR!” No idea where you get your restless agitation from, kiddo. That one’s a mystery. But after you learned to read, there was no way I could plop you in front of the tv so I could get my homework done unless “Eureeka’s Castle” was playing. You swore that the sun rose and set on that show.

My favorite memory of you is when you picked up on my love of music and started learning the lyrics on your own. To hear you sing them as if you had the soul of Aretha Franklin in your little four year old body was hysterical. But when I went through the phase of only listening to Bob Marley you were a hit. Your frequent performances in front of my friends got us invited to a lot of dinners and since we were so broke that was helpful, but please don’t think of it as my pimping you out. I remember one time when we were walking back to our little apartment and you were sitting on my shoulders since I was also carrying my backpack full of books and I could hear your little sing-song voice. “Tree little birds. Each by my doorstep.” It took a few rounds of that for me to figure out you were trying to sing THREE little birds. Then you morphed quickly into “Steer it up. Little daaaaalen. Steer it up.” Again, I realized you were singing Marley’s “Stir It Up” in his Jamaican accent.

But it was listening to you play with your toys in your room as you sang, “Could You Be Loved” that was heartwarming. Life was simple and you were happy and didn’t know how broke we were. A glass of chocolate milk could make your day, a pair of cowgirl boots were your prized possession, and a visit from your friend Pei Pei was all you longed for even if he did call you Mowree and looked through the front door mail slot to see if you were home to play. After a day of riding your tricycle in your boots and drinking chocolate milk on the porch with Pei Pei you got your nightgown on while singing reggae as I sat listening in the other room.

You could be loved, Mallory. You are. Happiest of birthdays.

Love,

Momma

There are 5 school days left. You’re not going to get a sequential post out of me until that’s over and this brain swamp is all cleaned out.

Undisciplined writing coming up. You’ve been warned. Turn left and go grab some smoked almonds or just hop in a taxi and get on to work or start your Christmas shopping now and be the envy of your friends.

Mono hangs on like a mofo. I wish it would have just been some benign influenza. But mofo mono has a ring to it and it’s fun to type. With mono comes unexplained crying and headaches. Sorta fun if you’re the making fun of weepy migraine type.

Every time I see something idiotic like “Say goodbye to cellulite” I want to scream, “Screw off, cellulite! Hasta la vista cottage cheese thighs!” Who wants to send off cellulite with a polite “goodbye”?

On Saturday morning Morgan smiled at me and snuggled up and whispered, “Morning, Momma. Can we go get donuts?” Hot damn, did a chocolate long john sound good right then. I’m a sucker. I did it while the kids were straightening up and when I came home they dug in while I was straightening up and THEN THEY WERE GONE. “There were 12 donuts here, you evil spawn! HOW MANY DID YOU HAVE?”

Mason held up two fingers. Mallory held up one. They simply couldn’t speak while my head was melting. I went trolling through the house for Morgan and bellowed, “NINE? DID YOU REALLY EAT NINE DONUTS?”

My children were strangely quiet around me today.

Work related crises were non stop today. Five days left. Five days left. Five days left. Trying not to count them.

I hit my mutant quotient early today and didn’t much feel like messing around with students but they kept coming into my office.

Lately, I’ve been in a Bob Marley state of mind . “Buffalo Soldier” will make me sing “why yo yo why yo yo yo why yo yo yo yo yo yo yo” in my head for days. Remind me to tell the story about Mallory singing Bob Marley lyrics when she was three. Remind me on Wednesday night so I can write her a Birthday Post the next day.

We watch a lot of “Family Guy” and I can do a pretty good Lois. Peeta!

My gestalt is all off kilter. There were no drugs harmed in the making of this post.

Why can’t grown ups have goody bags after their parties?

Have you ever tried Sterzings potato chips? It’s a really good reason to visit the Midwest. Also, you could come see me and bring donuts.

New realization about myself: I have a really good radio voice. Like Angelica Houston sexy. It’s all deep and throaty and I pronounce things very well. Where can I apply for this?

Tonight after work I was sort of a pill to be around and Mallory summed it up. “We’ll just slap some fun pants on you.”

MacBook Pro. Silver. HOT. Can be used to turn me on. Is there a Sugar Daddy website out there where I can apply to have someone get this for me? Let’s discuss. Wouldn’t this be a great idea? Because the one I currently use belongs to the school district and I want one of my own. This one has a broken mouse pad that doesn’t click and a piece of the arm rest part has recently snapped off. I use the heck out of it and I want my own. Sugar Daddy applications now being accepted.

Slap on those fun pants and bring me a MacBook Pro. Donuts, sadly, will not do the trick this time.

10. Proper cherry eating. When eating a bowl full of cherries I just grab a cup to put the stems into and spit the seeds into but when I know I’m starting to get full I don’t bother stopping. When I get a really sweet one I ruin it and eat another one. I need to stop at the sweet one.

9. Time Zones. When someone asks me my time zone I instinctively let my eyeballs roll upward as I think of what I hear on television. “Law & Order. Eight, seven Central.” and then I shout “CENTRAL! I live in the Central Time Zone.” It never seems to come to me naturally or is readily at the tip of my tongue. Going through the whole television spiel is required, though the show title changes.

8. Getting my eyeglasses fixed. When getting my eyeglasses tightened to fit my face better I let them fuss around with it and put them on my face and say, “Yeah, that feels better.” and forget that my eyelashes are so long they end up rubbing on the lens so the next few days I push them toward the end of my nose and look like an old lady. Mostly I end up pushing them down, pushing them up and then going back to Lens Crafters to have them fix it again.

7. Standing up straight. No matter how often my mother said, “Kelly, don’t slouch!”

6. Cutting my toenails. As soon as I cut my toenails too short I remember to make a pedicure appointment because I can’t seem to do it right. How sad is it that I fail at nail cutting?

5. Not to make post titles with a predetermined number because now I’m stuck.

Tonight I went with Mallory and The Boyfriend out for ice cream and ran into a former student (Hi Adam!) and we all sat outside of Baskin Robbins and talked for almost an hour. I told them about this list that I had begun before getting ice cream and Adam asked me what my number one thing is that I can’t seem to learn thus sparking the teacher in me. I went around the table and asked them all to answer.

It’s a pretty good bet that if I can’t think of my number one item then I shouldn’t have started the list.

That makes my number one thing NOT MAKING LISTS I CAN’T EVEN FINISH.

What about you? What lessons can you not seem to learn?

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We are born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” – Marianne Williamson

Lately, I have had some really nasty thoughts. Gross, sticky thoughts. Once in a while a good thought will creep in. A great friend of mine tells me to “put them in my back pocket for when I’m feeling low and needing a reminder to feel good”. I’m actually done naval gazing for a while, though I will say that I’ve learned some things about myself. My jealousy level can get pretty high. In most situations I am mature enough to say aloud that I want things. Stuff. I know that when I was interviewed by Rita for BlogHer and asked about her new anthology there were pangs of “Why not me?”

That is par for the course. Most of what I’ve gotten in life came from constantly inviting myself in, both literally and figuratively. I’ve done it in church, with the soccer mom groups, in Bible study groups, in fitness groups, in educational circles, and in friendship circles.

Now that I’m older I realize that I don’t need a group. I am myself and I make my own group.

That’s what eight months of therapy bought me. Next I plan on purchasing my first set of pearls or diamond earrings or a flatscreen tv with a Wii. Whatever strikes my fancy.

Make no mistake: I am not proud of being jealous or hoping for things that I see other people getting. There is genuine joy for them but a little piece of my heart feels torn off every time and more than anything, I hate that I feel that. But let’s be honest and just say that WE ARE NEEDY, FLAWED HUMANS. We want things we don’t deserve, that we didn’t earn.

I desperately want to wear a pair of white pants but I need to give up that ghost. I’m too worried about them being see-through and SHOWING THINGS THAT NEED TO REMAIN A SECRET. No one should be made to count the dimples in my thighs without following it up with an acid eyewash to repair the ocular damage my thighs would do to them.

Today I’m feeling lucky and scared and nervous and jittery and a plethora of emotions. For the first time since I’ve ventured on the journey of writing words and stringing together sentences I was offered a chance to write for a major publication. Where this will go I do not know nor do I allow myself to imagine the range of possibilities.

That one goes in my back pocket and will make me not feel like an inadequate hack poseur writer. It goes in the back pocket of my dark jeans though. I know I look pretty good in them.