I met her for the first time when she was his girlfriend. That would be after she was his mistress, but before she was his wife and definitely before she was his widow.

You see, I never got the official memo that my husband was cheating. It all just unravelled in the blink of an eye over a matter of months. Or was it years?

For many reasons, they’d have put off a meeting indefinitely, I’m sure. But since I had recently become the mistress of my own fate (no pun intended), I insisted, and initiated the meeting in my time frame, and on my turf.

They showed up at back-in-the-day tee ball. Cordial introductions made by my still-husband had him sweating like a pig on a beautful 70 degree morning. That alone was worth the effort it took for me not to vomit. Though she and I made chit-chat about the game it was barely discernable to me through the heart pounding relief, because quite frankly, she was not the vixenminxadorablecheerleadersexgoddess I had imagined. She had on no make-up. She had wrinkles. And big teeth.

This wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Then, something remarkable happened. To me. As the final veil of secrecy was lifted, an actual physical burden that I’d carried with me disappeared. I was, relieved. For years I spent hours and hours each day imagining what she looked like, pacing the hallways, crying in the shower, and eventually trying to unravel my then-husband’s other life in my head, online, and through various other delightfully devious methods I employed. And for all of it, I blamed…her. Until that moment. Then, and only then, did I place the blame where it belonged. On him. She played her part, as we all know, tangoing takes two. And yes, it takes two people to end a marriage. But, crossing the line, not through simple infidelity, but with complex and conscious betrayal, compulsive lying and painful neglect - that was all him. It was he who was married to me, responsible for his actions, accountable for his inactions. Not her.

Actually, truth be told, she was pleasant to be with.

That day began my travels on the high road, my journey of doing what was right, no matter how strange or uncomfortable, for the sole benefit of my children. So they would never have to look at two sides of the bleachers to find their parents when they made a great catch, so they would never feel like they had to make a choice in who was the first to hear a cool story or who got to celebrate birthdays. So they would know that I would never make them choose - or use them as pawns. So they would never feel more torn apart and disjointed than they already did.

For myself, I needed to pave the way for more revelations and self-rediscovery.

Those were my jobs. And you thought I wasn’t a working mother.

Later that day, still-husband, dropped off the kids.

“How old is she?” I asked, most curiously.

“36″ he answered (I soon learned he was lying. Big surprise. She was older).

But I don’t lie.

“Oh honey, she doesn’t look 36. You better make sure she wears lotsa sunscreen.”

I was already well on my way.

I need this blog to be a reflection of what bounces around in my 42-year-old brain so that it does not get clogged and stop working. I fight the urge to write what I think others want to read or to jump onto each and every blogging soapbox, although tempting. But today, I need to just vent.

Please bear with me, and we will return to our regularly scheduled blogging by Monday.

* * * * * * * * *

Literally and figuratively it all begins with baby steps. We may become a parent in an instant, but we inch our way into trenches of parenthood. Why then, would an educated and seemingly reasonable adult thrust a grandeous and magnamous gesture - a giant step - upon a child?

I have a friend (no, really) whose daughter was invited to the combined birthday party for two turning-five-year-old friends. The invitation, I assume, was cute and appropriate, giving day, time, place and name of Birthday Child #1 and Birthday Child #2. The invitation also said:

NO GIFTS

NO GIFTS?

For five-year olds?

I understand when adults have parties and say “No Gifts.” I always bring a gift anyway, but I understand.

This, I do not understand. And I am not yearning to understand it, mind you, I am delighting in simply being outraged by something outside myself.

Parents of Birthday Child #1 want “no gifts” because they do not take their child to all the other parties (and this is one happenin’ birthday party bunch). They do not want the parents to feel obligated. So, let’s revisit. They don’t want the parents to feel obligated to buy a gift, but they do want them to take time out of one of their weekend days to come to a party for their own child when they selectively pick and choose which parties they themselves will attend therefore interrupting their own weekend schedule.

Got it.

Parents of Birthday Child #2 want “no gifts” because that child has everything already and they just do not want another Spanish language Dora the Explorer Candy Land. They are asking that in lieu of a gift, if you feel you must give something, that parents make a donation to a specific organization in honor of their child.

Got it.

I think that that Parents of Birthday Child #1 are selfish. They want energy expended on behalf of their child, but will not do so for others. Money is the least of it when it comes to children’s birthday gifts. It takes time and effort to buy a gift, which many times is more valuable and less available than money.

I think Parents #2 are self-righteous. They do not want your gift, but have no trouble telling you where they think you should send your money. They want their child to learn that he or she has enough and doesn’t need or want anything you might happen to bring.

How is any of this right? (it’s right for them, blah, blah, blah, I am ranting, please remember) How do we teach our children the joy of giving if you won’t let wonderfully intelligent, beautiful, kind, caring or even annoying children bring your kid a present? Yes, there are many normal parties, but asking children to differentiate and distinguish seems unfair.

In addition to your child being “different,” at a time and in a venue that I obviously deem ridiculous inappropriate and unneccessary, other children miss out on the pride of presenting a specially chosen, carefully wrapped, gift, to his or her friend. How about the joy on their faces that comes with saying “That’s from ME!”

Oh, we’ll be having none of that feel-good stuff at this party.

Just let them be kids. Let them tear open the envelopes, barely leaving the card in tact, shove it over to you while you read each and every rhyming word with clarity and emotion while they delve headfirst into the wrapped package so that paper and ribbons and bows are flailing all over the room. It’s exciting, it’s fun. It’s part of having a birthday. Half the time they don’t even remember what they’ve opened — donate, re-gift, return. Knock yourself out. Carry a banner. Wear a button. “My Kid Gives His Gifts Away.” Please!

What is the “party” line anyway?

“No, I don’t need any more toys, but I’d love for you to make a donation in my honor and come and join me for some cake and ice cream.”

OR

“Yes, I know I didn’t come to your party, but could you come to mine anyway? You don’t have to buy me anything, really, my mom said!”

These Birthday Parents want their children to have a certain kind of birthday, in a certain kind of way, with a certain kind of lesson learned and certain message sent. To me, this is a very special and certain kind of stupid, and as bad, or worse, than having a dog-and-pony-show birthday party.

All they really want is to eat cake, get a goodie bag, and open presents from their friends. And isn’t it supposed to be about them?

Take two giant steps back, and remember.

My daughter’s seemingly scatterbrained softball coach and I were exchanging friendly banter at the end of another running-late practice, when he tipped down his sunglasses and looked at me.

I just wanted to see the color of your eyes, he said.

Blue. Or green. I replied.

Your daughter’s eyes are so light I wondered where she got them. What color are your husband’s eyes? Uh, her father’s eyes?

Her father’s eyes were brown.

Oh, he continued. She got ‘em from you then!

This man’s daughter goes to a different school than mine. We met him for the first time, at the first practice. Except for the fact that I am the only parent listed on any softball registration and contact information, he knows nothing about us.

My daughter joined this team unencumbered and without baggage. She isn’t the little girl whose father died, or the one whose parents got divorced.

She is simply, the centerfielder with the ponytail.

My daughter is not being defined by her losses; not by herself, nor by others. And that is because she is really OK.

I guess I have done my job. She’s a normal, happy, healthy little girl — with a mit and a ball.

And that’s well-worth the price of admission, even before she’s up to bat.

I love make-up.

Pencils and shadows and blushes (remember when it was called rouge?) and foundation and powders and the hallowed concealer. Browns and greys (it’s never grAy in makeup) and blues and greens and mauves and peaches and purples. From Cover Girl to Chanel, there is always something that is fun to try, that might work better than something else in the ultimate quest to help me look, uh, natural.

While accentuating the positive and minimizing the negative, I strive to strike a balance. Not too much, but enough. I don’t think I look made up all the time, like I did in my mall-chick, big-hair days. But, I do look better than I’d look without it. Anyway, makeup today makes you look like you’re not wearing any makeup. And that is like, totally, in.

I rarely go out without make-up. And when I do, I always wish I hadn’t. I’m not a Hollywood starlight masquerading as a suburban mom. I’m not a narcissist. It’s just how I feel most comfortable. I’m at the place in my life where doing what makes me comfortable is what I do. Even if that means a couple coats of mascara.

That being said, a friend of mine mentioned knowing “A very cool mom who doesn’t wear make-up.”

Shirking convention has always gotten attention. But am I no longer cool in the eyes of other moms because I do wear make-up? Because I succomb to the trappings of conventional beauty? Women who choose not to cover their zits or even-out their skin tone are more admirable than those of us who do?

I don’t get it. A little lip gloss never hurt anyone.

Maybe its an issue with men not having to wear makeup, and women wanting to be equal. But you know, some men should. Cover the dark circles, the zit. And you know some of them do. Just like they color their hair and pretend they don’t.

Maybe its time constraints. My everyday makeup takes five minutes - max.

Maybe its the way it feels. Makeup today is so light that you don’t feel it. Unlike the bygone days of heavy liquids and cakey powders, today’s cosmetic barrons only want us to feel like we do not have their $4 or $40 powder on our faces.

Ok, I will admit that maybe there are women who simply do not want to wear makeup for one or a dozen reasons. It’s their choice, just like it is mine to do so.

But that makes them cool? Cooler than me?

I guess what makes us cool, in this day and age, is doing what is right for us, whether or not it includes lip pencil and eyebrow gel.

I get it.

So I’ll just blot my lips…and move on.

Baseball and softball season in my Midwestern Mayberry start this weekend, although practices have been going on for weeks. I really thought I was finally finding my 2006 groove dropping off, picking up, picking up, dropping off, keeping track of practice times and places and so far only forgetting one or two. I’m on a roll.

It’s a little more complicated this year than it has been in the past. Forget about the dead ex-husband/fatherless children component. Kvetch Teen is playing in a new league and it takes 15 minutes to get to the fields as opposed to the 37 seconds it takes to get to the ones in our town. There is no league for 14 year olds here, so there was no other option, as Kvetch Teen MUST play baseball.

Pre Kvetch plays softball right here in Mayberry. It takes, at most, five minutes to get to any of the practice or game fields. Two of the fields are right at the end of our street. And yes, sometimes I drive.

We finally received the much anticipated game schedules. I leafed through my calendar and wrote down every one of Kvetch Teen’s weekday and Saturday game times from now until the middle of June. Fifteen games he can play in, and that’s before playoffs.

Then I looked at the calendar for Pre Kvetch. Softball games are during the week, at night, (which is a treat since there is still school) and on Sundays. Sundays. Sundays.

On the calendar each weekend game was listed on a Saturday. It must be a typo. In Mayberry, softball is always on Sundays.

Not. Any. More.

One parent, two kids, two teams, multiple Saturday games 15 minutes apart sometimes with overlapping game times. And, with baseball and softball there is no “time frame”, it’s innings. The games can end in an hour. Or two. Or somewhere in between. Thank goodness they end if it gets dark or sometimes we’d be play all-nighters.

Then I thought of something. I really have to stop doing that.

Thinking, that is.

And…breathe.

I flipped pages and pages to look at the calendars, at my calendar. Back and forth. Forth and back. It couldn’t be. Could it? The universe would not be so cruel.

Yes it would.

OK forget breathing.

Cry.

Six weeks ago I scheduled overnights for my kids, each with their best friend, for Friday night April 28 through most of the day Saturday the 29th…knowing there would be some baseball and that we’d work it out somehow.

This coordinated effort was a necessity. I am with my kids, and no other adult, 24/7…and in need of a break. You know, a grown-up meal or outing or movie or event that doesn’t end in 45 minutes with someone waiting to be picked up somewhere and dropped off somewhere else. Granted I have nothing planned, and the reasons therein are fodder for another day’s blogging introspection.

But, I was really looking forward to a night to myself or with friends in a quiet clean house and waking up in the morning to watch a movie while drinking coffee. Yeah, that plan is going out the window with the one where I spend said evening with the man of my dreams on a pillow-top mattress drinking champagne and eating chocolate covered strawberries.

See what I mean about the thinking?

What does the reality show entitled “My Life” really entail during my leisurely 24-hour scheduled hiatus?

Friday April 28th - Pre Kvetch has a game at 6pm.
Saturday April 29th - Pre Kvetch has a game at 9am and Kvetch Teen has a game at 11:30 am.

In short, all night, and all day, at games.

What do I say? Sorry, honey, I’ve got to go watch Lifetime and drown my sorrows in Pinot Noir, I can’t come to your game? Yes, I know you’re pitching, but I really wanted two cups of hot coffee this Saturday morning instead of the lukewarm 1 1/2 cups I usually manage to down, followed by a leisurely walk, a pedi and a shopping spree…alone? No, I don’t want company, honey, but thanks for asking.

I think not.

All that being said, I am very lucky to be their mom. I am all they’ve got and vice versa. I have been blessed with the opportunity to love them and raise them and watch them grow up. Not everyone is as fortunate as I am. I’m an eyewitness to that, and I know it.

All THAT being said, and with all due respect to the wonders of parenting and age-old tennants of adult and child psychology — my life is f-in’ nuts.

And people wonder why I overeat? Why the laundry sits in baskets? Why the Passover tablecloth is still on the table?

Those are places I have some control.

They also wonder why I talk on the phone - a lot - and sit at the computer - a lot - emailing, posting, and instant messaging? This is how I talk to other adults.

Which reminds me I need to email my ex-husband’s widow’s daughter, the game schedules.

My life is f-in’ nuts.

And strangely enough, it suits me.

Alexander? That’s kid stuff.

JDude and I had been chatting on the phone for a month, if not more. He was a 6 foot tall, husky, divorced, mid-forties, father to one, educated, professional, convert who likes movies, walks in the park and bargain hunting. (Yes, I ignored the obvious red flags. Sue me.)

Since my schedule does not allow for an impromptu rendevouz of any kind unless it’s 10 a.m. on a weekday, clearly meeting JDude would take some planning. He didn’t seem to mind. He was nice and he was calling often. He suggested a few days and times to get together near me that didn’t work for me, so I suggested that I take the train downtown to meet him for lunch. He agreed. We picked a day. We continued chatting regularly. Checking in. Becoming familiar. He was quiet, and obviously overwhelmed with his life, but I tried not to jump to conclusions. While it was clear that his baggage would not neatly fit into the overhead compartment, or even in the cargo hole of a small jet, I wanted to take a chance. I truly believe, nothing ventured nothing gained. And then of course the modern single woman’s motto (all together now) “a girl’s gotta eat”.

Hold that thought.

Anticipation nonwithstanding, I do the usual. Appropriate. Cute. Clothing. Hair. Make up. Jewelry. Parking Pass. Train Ticket.

I love taking the train to the city. There is nothing better than the city on a clear, cool, blue sky day. It puts me at ease and makes me happy, but I do get a little nervous when I have 50 minutes on the train to do nothing but look out the window and think. He called while I was on the train, to tell me where he’d meet me and to say that blah, blah, blah, he only had an hour, but didn’t want to cancel. He’d be so looking forward to meeting me blah, blah, blah, the train pulls into the station.

With JDiva confidence, I ascended the steps ignoring my aching knee. Oy. I knew that at the very least I’d have a nice lunch with a nice guy.

Hold that thought.

Up until then I’d only seen his photo, but I knew just who he was. And, frankly, he was just-as-advertised. Which was fine. What wasn’t fine was the wash-n-wear wardrobe. A well-dressed man, well, just makes me swoooooon. Add a tie? I die. This JDude, excuse me, JDud, was in right-out-of-the-dryer chinos and washed-out button down oxford shirt. Where was the “I’m meeting someone new today” attire? It might have been on the guy around the corner. Too bad I wasn’t meeting HIM for lunch.

From that moment on, I knew then it was going to be a terrible, horrible, very bad date. It had nothing to do with his weight or his face. It was about first impressions. His appearance and demeanor said a lot about him - and about the effort he put into making a good impression. On ME. And although the faded shirt was tucked into the wrinkly khakis, I’d say that the level of importance was slim to none…and slim was at the airport.

We had the obligatory hug hello. It was a beautiful day we agreed that a walk was in order. I knew quickly that I would be taking the lead, as I had in most of our previous conversations, so I suggested a strikingly beautiful city park complete with stunning views, sculptures and gardens.

He was pleasant. He laughed at my humor. He told me I looked lovely. He offered to carry my coat.

He could barely make it to park.

Which was across the street.

Huffing and puffing, he was thrilled to see a bench on the horizon. He literally exclaimed, “Look, there’s a bench!” Geez, Dud, I’m no hiker, nor do I really even like nature except in a vase on my dining room table, but we haven’t even been walking for five minutes.

So, on this picturesque, 70 degree sun shiny day, we sat. Granted, the view is stunning, and one of my favorites, but there are actually things to do and look at here. You know, things that would and could inspire conversation? And we were sitting. On a bench. So…

We chatted about his divorce. And his kid. And about his kid. And, oh, about his divorce. And about my work. Which is with kids just the age of his own. Then just to jazz things up a bit I chatted with and offered to take a photograph for a lovely Lithuanian couple who was sightseeing, so they could be in the photo together. Then I got back to business.

I asked more about his kid and his divorce, and heard stories I’d already heard over the phone, but knew this was the last time he would get to bend my ear, so I let him. I understand where he is, and where he isn’t, which is no where near being ready for any of this.

He put his arm up on the bench - like, what are you in, 7th grade? I scooted to the front of the bench seat. You are not putting your nail bitten hands anywhere near me JDud. I continued smiling and chatting. The topic varied and he followed anywhere I led. It was clear who was in charge here, folks, and though I am certainly comfortable and quite at home being bossy in the lead, it’s not what I’m looking for when I meet someone. I figure that if I am going to be involved with someone there is plenty of time to share that responsibility. Meeting or date #1 is the time to be a gentleman, not a wimp.

It’s a beautiful day, let’s walk some more, I suggested, and off we went. How far is you office?

Eight blocks.

Do you walk it or cab it? (I hope you say cab it JDud, you are going to plotz if you try to walk.)

He’ll walk it.

Ok, why don’t we walk in that direction then? (You know, past some RESTAURANTS.)

We walked and it was clear to me, and hopefully to him, that this was going no where fast. Knowing enough about him to know that this mediocre sideshow attorney has a cash flow problem due to his divorce, I thought, I should be a bitch have some fun with this and make it abundantly clear that we. are. not. a. Jmatch. Or a match of any other persuasion.

Note to those on soapbox regarding finances: I, in my singlehood, have been crazy about guys with no money. I also lived the majority of my life on a shoestring budget. It’s the lack of panache and class that gives me a rash.

As we walked the crowded streets shaded by the skyscrapers and construction vehicles, the fast paced city flurry gave me a much-needed rush. We shared experiences of city festivals. I told him stories about my weekend with friends and kids at a nearby posh hotel, time on my friend’s yacht, the tickets to Wicked for me and my kids.

Expensive?

Hell yes, but worth it. I only go if I have great seats.

Ouch.

We did chat about architecture and some revitalization and changes in the city. We walked. We talked. Then when it was more abundantly clear than before that lunch was not on the docket for my LUNCH DATE, I needed to, and wanted to end the charade. My blood sugar was dropping. Fast. And when mama gets hypoglycemic, ain’t nobody happy.

We arrived at the next corner.

Well, I know you have to get back, and I really don’t want to walk any farther from the train station.

Hand on his arm.

It was nice to meet you.

Thanks for lunch. Oh, there wasn’t any lunch, nix that.

Take care.

I don’t think I even waited for him to say good-bye.

I turned, walked down the street and didn’t look back. It didn’t even occur to me. Then I dialed my GCP (girlfriend in closest proximity).

HE DIDN’T EVEN OFFER TO BUY ME LUNCH. I WAS MEETING HIM FOR LUNCH!

Well, GCP met me FOR LUNCH and we had a good laugh. I did not feel disappointed, though perhaps a little dumbstruck. That would most likely be evident because she arrived and proceeded to pick up my chin from the floor.

You look a-dor-able.

I know!

It’s not you.

I know!

Men are stupid.

I know!

The worst dates make the best stories.

Unfortunately…

I know!

GCP watched me scarf down my meal. A gal who gets dressed up and takes the train downtown to meet a JDud for lunch and who doesn’t even get a Diet Coke, definitely treats herself to sushi and an Izze.

Hold that thought.

And a new purse.

Images conjured by the above terminology ranges from moderately perverse to intricately culinary. It lets you know where my mind is these days.

On Passover.

I never made matzah meal pancakes before, although I’d eaten them and other make-believe delicacies made with bread (gasp) crumb size matzah crushlings. Matzah meal is used everything from grainy bland pancakes to cardboard facimilies of a roll or bagel to a crunchy coating on a piece of chicken or fish. I have memories of my maternal grandmother making Passover bagels and trying to pass them over to us as a option to hold some tuna or egg salad, or a leftover piece of brisket. My mother never attempted such feats, as far as I can remember. The legacy is left to me.

We started to make the MMP yesterday, PreKvetch and I, until realizing the googled recipe clearly stated that it is best for this matzah concoction to sit overnight and be well-chilled. Since it’s an infinite truth that we could all use to chill a little these days, I thought not to take this part of the directions lightly. Said batter and bowl of separated egg whites went into the fridge until morning.

Fast forward to morning, I beat the egg whites into stiff peaks. This is also something I’ve never done before, as I usually bake with Ms. Crocker. I felt like a poorly dressed Barefoot Contessa but a maven nonetheless. Stiff peaks there were!

After folding and frying and following the long list of directions, the pancakes were, well, tasteless at best. The good part is that I felt like I had fulfilled my obligation as a Jewish mother by having them as a sacraficial offering breakfast option for my Jewish children on this Jewish holiday.

Of course, just when your taste buds desensitize to the lack of flavor and variety that makes Passover, the special much-constipated anticipated holiday that it is, the eight days are up, and it’s time to pop Pop-Tarts and order Domino’s.

I just realized that I was, in fact, tagged again.

This time it has to do with a pseudo-communal Seder I’m dragging my kids going to tomorrow evening.

I was tagged to make 100 matzah balls. So I did.

No one in their right mind should ever make 100 matzah balls.

Oh.

*craziness

I played tag as a kid. I’ve played phone tag. But I’ve never been tagged by another blogger!

Mommy Off The Record tagged me to list six weird things about myself. And since today I am cooking and planning and getting ready for a Seder at my house tonight - it’s the perfect quick post to keep me writing while keeping it short.

I’m not sure if there is a right or wrong way to do this…so here goes:

1) Chewing gum gives me a headache.

2) I ate frozen KitKat bars when I was pregnant with my son. Didn’t like them before that and haven’t liked them since.

3) My head is so big that most hats do not fit.

4) I have had a penpal since I was 9 (which is good weird, not weird-weird)

5) I flew on an airplane for the first time when I was 21, to visit aforementioned penpal.

6) Carrie Fisher (Princess Leia, Postcards from the Edge) is my second cousin.

Play along and leave a weirdness of your own!

I imagined that the special double-agent from Geek Squad who was dispatched to my house to save our deteriorating desktop so that my kids would keep their grubby paws hands off my laptop, would be a kid. What I didn’t imagine was that he would be a 30-year-old, 6 foot tall, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, crew cut, dimpled, former Navy Seal.

God Bless America.

When he volunteered the fact that he was 30, I was relieved. After all, I was thinking he was around 24 and that I COULD BE HIS MOTHER. And what I was thinking, well, wasn’t very motherly.

And then…

I realized…

I was…

playing with my hair!

I caught myself out of the corner of my own eye, hand through hair, pushing it gently beyond the shoulder. What was I doing?

So, after the invisible internal combustion was finished I figured — what the hell — it wasn’t a date, he was working, he couldn’t leave. I had a captive audience. So I sat there unabashedly flirting chatting with my special agent. I knew in the dark recesses of my mind that he was just being friendly because it’s actually boring to run a myriad of tests on a computer and sit there and watch the time tick away. But one can daydream. I also realized that in his mind I was some old, sweatsuit housewife (because I am married to my house) who can’t figure out how to stop the natural progression of aging from slowing things down and clogging thing up.

I’m talking about my computer.

And while I’m grateful he was able to fix the desktop, and I’m grateful I was able to watch him do it — I’m really just grateful that he didn’t call me Ma’am…because I was waiting.