This post can also be seen over at Sunshine Scribe, where I’m holding down the fort today while she basks on a Mexican beach with her guys.

I have no present-day little boy tales to tell, as Sunscribe Scribe does so eloquently, making us laugh, think and cry.

My son, who happens to share Little Sunshine’s real name, is not five, but almost 15.

Don’t despair, there is indeed as much joy in having a teenage son as there is when their pockets are full of Matchbox cars and Power Rangers and when their dreams are of flying to the moon.

Sometimes you just have to wade through the teenage attitude and demeanor to see it clearly. Sometimes you have to work harder than you did when they were five, to get and keep their attention. And I do. Because while my son’s pockets hold an iPod and a cell phone, and I wouldn’t even dare to imagine what his dreams are made of, he will always be my little boy. Which means if he still wants to go to the moon, I’m going to make sure he gets there even though he can rest his chin on the top of my head.

He is broad shouldered, tall, and growing still but I look at him sometimes and see a little boy. Sometimes I long to see a little boy because I can’t believe how much time has passed. I remember well countless moments of my pregnancy and of his first hours, days, and years. And I wonder how someone that grew inside of me can wear a size 12 Nike. Then I close my eyes and shake my head, and see a young man. A good young man. But a young man not always as easy to mother now, as he was then.

My son, at fourteen, carries many a heavy load in addition to his backpack full of text books that tempers his pace between classes.

As my son, he has been cursed, and blessed, to be like-minded. He sees between the lines of spoken truths, and of hidden lies. He reads people as easily as I wish he read novels. He calculates moments that add up to days, weeks and months as easily as some people calculate geometry. He is insightful, intuitive, and overwhelmingly sad sometimes. He is pensive and deep, psychologically-minded - though not philosophical. He is also single-minded. He is all-sports all-the-time. He is also eloquent. He can speak his mind and express his thoughts, and feelings on occasion, with alarming accuracy, leaving nothing to be misunderstood or misinterpreted. These are some of the things about him that make him wonderful, not to be overshadowed by the pile of wet towels growing a science experiment on his bedroom floor, but this type of demeanor is a burden for a young person. He wishes he was not as such. I only pray that some day, he will be glad for it.

He is also incredibly, yet quietly, funny. He has a quick wit, but it’s slow to emerge around strangers. His humor is laced with candor, and yet with kindness. I’ve never known him to be mean. Not even to his sister. He isn’t a slapstick kind of guy, or even a joke teller, but a truth seer. He knows, as we all do, that there is nothing funnier than the truth.

He has had many holes to fill in his young life…and the absence of a father is one that can never be completely refilled. He will always be missing that piece of his life and of himself, in a way that no one does. As a mother it’s hard to reconcile that the one thing my children want and need the most is something I can never give them.

But with the hard work and exasperation involved in parenting someone so much like myself, and yet so intrinsicly different, I also reap grand rewards.

With him it is a realistic thing to discuss his future…where he might like to go to college, how he sees himself earning a living. In between spending time with his friends and closing the doors to his room, he asks to spend time with me. We sit together at dinner almost every night, he, his sister and I, being a family of three, with no less depth than a family of four, or five or eight.

At his age, I get to explain things about our family and how our household works. I ask his opinion and quite often get a very mature response. I, in no way mistake this for having another adult in the household. I want him to be a kid as long as possible. I do not want him to take care of me, as was charged to him by some well-meaning but out-of-touch paternal relatives. I want him to grow up, but I do not want him to be a grown-up. Not just yet. And what I’ve told my kids since they were little, is that its my job to take care of them until they are old enough to take care of themselves — and we’re not there yet.

The truth is that I value the adult parts of him that are kicking into gear, when I’m not cringing at the terror that sometimes rightfully accompanies adolescence. That being said, it’s quite wonderful to watch him go from boy to man.

As wonderful, if not more so, than it was to watch him go from baby to boy.

Do you identify yourself a writer or reader of stories, blogs, journals, essays, articles, novellas…epics? Let me know what you think when you read The Write Question with No Right Answer.

It is about how I shared some of my writing with family members and the internal banter that ensued.

Long story endless…the essay formerly known as Supermarket Epiphany, as seen on Imperfect Parent, has since evolved into what I’ve posted below, so if bits and pieces seems familiar, that’s why, it’s not your Turkey Day hangover playing tricks on you. Because it was published online, it not eligible to be published in print in most places, or online at other sites, except here. It is long, that’s not an illusion. I hope you’ll grab a cup of coffee or tea, read it anyway, and let me know what you think. A special thanks to Wendy and Blog Antagonist, who have helped me craft this with their feedback and encouragement, and to Sister-Friend for giving me that very first gentle nudge from 600 miles away by simply saying the first version wasn’t long enough…and for reading every single draft, re-write, thought, and ramble.

The following is property of Kvetch Blog and may not be reprinted without paying me an ungodly sum of money permission.
~*~*~*~*~

The Maybe Wife

My childhood was compact. We lived in a row house — a narrow existence. And it was safe, like our one-way street with cars parked on both sides that I was allowed to cross by myself when I was six. It was like every other street in my city neighborhood, a middle-class pattern of attached dwellings and lives. I knew nothing of foreign lands called suburbia and rural routes were only traveled while watching The Waltons.

Academically, I knew that other places existed, but they were merely vacations spots limited to Northeastern cities within driving distance. I never contemplated lives being anywhere else. The world was where I was. I did not think outside my own city limits.

I always wondered, though; how the building we called the Sears Tower was the tallest building in the world. It was eleven stories high and it stood next to our local Sears store. It was my childhood curiosity, but I said nothing in fear of appearing limited. I’m glad I didn’t know then that I was.

But this petite world of mine was always filled to capacity with family and friends and familiar opportunities. It lacked nothing, and until college I looked no further than the bus stop for anything I ever wanted. Even then I didn’t look too far. I was so single-city-minded that I lived at home and went to school thirty minutes from where I was raised.

In my married motherhood, as in my childhood, sameness had its virtues. I strove to remain true to the blueprints that had mapped out my future. It was a definitive plan of how things would be one day. We would live in a big house, and we’d already chosen the Stickley furniture for the living room. We drove around looking for the perfect two-story attached to the right-styled three-car garage. Our wardrobes would be extensive and up-to-date, although not too trendy. We fashioned ourselves the couple — the family — that everyone knew and liked; the ones who had come so far, worked so hard, and earned so much. It took a certain amount of confidence to pursue these dreams for so long. Early on I grasped and embraced the fact that I cheered from the sidelines and kept the home fires burning while the dream was being built on the field, according to plan.

We started drawing up these plans not long after we met as college freshmen on a long ago and far away cold January night. Charlie was a serious pre-med student, studying biology. I was the friend of a friend, studying English. I remember the first time I saw him, sitting on that dorm bed, against the wall. I flirted simply; leaning very intentionally on the door jam. Surrounded by chattering sorority sisters, I didn’t hear a word they said. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was clean-shaven, a little preppy, and nonchalant. Very collegiate, blonde and suburban, unlike the rough-cut urban boyfriends of my short but colorful social past who built their own cars and wore Wallabies and flannel shirts. I had big hair, frosted make-up and tight jeans. I’m sure for both of us, the dichotomy fanned the flame.

It wasn’t until five months later when we’d meet again on our first, somewhat arranged date. Embarrassed at first by being seen with someone in an argyle sweater and boat shoes, I was, however, intrigued by a car with a sunroof. I found out much later that he was equally ill at ease with my choice of wearing dungarees. It certainly goes to reason then, that through this seemingly social incompatibility our fate was sealed over a salad bar dinner in University City and underage drinking at a college pub. We never dated anyone else.

We grew up together from that day on and lived a reality that was based on chasing our dreams. We finished our degrees and while Charlie went off to the last medical school on his list, I got a job writing ads. We were as inseparable as two people could be, living different lives 100 miles apart.

I never lived single. I remained on the one-way street in my childhood bedroom, repainted and rearranged to reflect my adulthood. I visited Charlie on weekends for four years, waiting as he studied for exams, going along to events and to parties, always being the girlfriend, until I was the wife, right before he was officially an M.D. It had been seven years in the making, the end of the courtship and the beginning of more waiting as Charlie began his career and we began our family.

And then, nearly two decades later, all those plans we made seemed to be falling into place. We created a deep-rooted family life and boasted a successful career. Our pockets were padded. It was a perfect life or so I pretended. What I was feeling on the inside didn’t even remotely resemble perfect.

Despite my doubts and the internal conflicts that ensued, my wonderful kids, one of each, brought me joy each and every day. My true dreams were made of their toothless smiles and scraped knees. I marveled from day one at their little bodies, these pint-sized people who were in my charge – my biggest dream was fulfilled by taking care of them until they were old enough to take care of themselves. Luckily every part of mothering, even the bad parts, made me feel like I really mattered, as did my circle of French-manicured girlfriends. With latte klatches, wine times and PTO committees, Temple sisterhood, a cacophony of Tuesday golf lessons and Thursday tennis clinics, we harmonized and reveled in suburban bliss. I upheld the position of homemaker in high esteem, even without acknowledgement or accolades from Charlie. The title and all the trimmings suited me deliciously, politically correct, appreciated, or not.

Even with me as a stay-at-home mom, our bank account balance was high enough to pay all the bills every month…and then some. We saved money; paid off six digits in student loans and lived in a modest lap of luxury. A brand new Land Rover and champagne-colored top-of-the-line mom mobile, a stable of high-end golf clubs, bicycles, sports equipment and tools took up residence in our garage.

Finally feeling settled after five interstate moves, I lost the 30 pounds I’d been carrying around since Thomas was born. After ten years it felt good to tuck in a shirt again, even wear something sleeveless, and buy clothes at a whim. The kids were able to keep up and excel. Elizabeth took ballet and tennis and had friends within shouting distance. Her seven year old spirit soared when she learned to jump off the diving board at the country club. Thomas’ passion for basketball escalated with our season tickets to the Bulls games.

We lived in a newly decorated four-bedroom Tudor, tucked neatly into an old oak-lined street with a sidewalk, a charming prerequisite for me. Basketball courts and Little Tikes dotted our shady lane, and just down the road were the baseball fields. It all was there in the town we chose as our own amidst the many. A quaint one block downtown boasted wrought iron awning-shaded benches and an exquisitely maintained street perfect for strolling. Overflowing floral planters emblazoned with melon-colored petunias accessorized the storefronts. In the spring, summer and fall blossoming trees set the stage for bare branches that held twinkling lights to brighten the long, dreary winter months.

No matter the season, it was the place for eating soft serve swirl ice cream cones and visiting with friends and neighbors, for gathering at the library or for just running that quick errand or two and bumping into someone you know, which was inevitable. It was a suburb diverse enough not to be Stepford. It was adorable yet tinted with sophistication and ranked as one of America’s best places to live.

Hard-to-come-by reservations at trendy, high-priced restaurants included coveted tables in the kitchens of the worlds most renowned and temperamental chefs filled our Saturday nights with friends. Bottles of wine flowed freely; nary had a drop ever been wasted staining a designer creation worn once nevertheless. We were intricately woven into the social fabric that had become our lives. The laughter amongst this crowd of friends was boisterous and heartfelt and even more so on the days we shared pizza and wiped sauce off each other’s children’s faces.

So, while my children were growing up in a potentially golden life I claimed as well, the fabric was unraveling.

I thought that the career was the means to the dream more than it was the dream itself. I was wrong. Family was always on the backburner – behind work, behind golf, behind everything. I knew that Charlie was disillusioned when he said he was doing it all for us. I believed that marriage would mean that family would come first. I kept waiting.

My own wants and needs had been left out of the long-term equation and much of that was my own fault. I hadn’t even had time to consider what they might be, but it didn’t matter. I was content to be wife, mother and homemaker.

Charlie, on the other hand, wanted me to like what he liked. He said exactly that. He wanted me to surprise him with Tuesday night dinner plans and Thursday theater tickets. He wanted me to look and act a certain way. He didn’t need to say that, I knew because of all he didn’t say. There were several times over the years that I realized that Charlie had no idea about the work I did while he was gone twelve to seventeen hours each day. As time passed I forgot to remember if he ever asked, or I just stopped answering.

I had much if you counted possessions, but got exactly what I asked for in terms of companionship, compassion and partnership. Nothing.

I had waited too long to admit that being a doctor’s wife – being Charlie’s wife — was not what I thought it would be. I was not only traversing parenthood on my own, due to twelve-hour surgeries and expansive rounds of golf, I was expected to feed the bottomless pit of an 18 year old ego in a 38 year old body. I was no longer the city kid who took baby steps. I was a grown and educated woman who stood on her own two feet and didn’t grovel, even for oft missed affection, attention and kindness. I filled the emptiness with expensive clothes and custom draperies. Shopping was well-tolerated — though stingy with time and interest, Charlie was generous when he benefited, and a well-dressed house, and well-dressed wife, made him look good too – to everyone else.

I was 37 and realized that money doesn’t solve anything but money problems. I also discovered that fidelity was an option not always exercised, even by a Jewish husband who was once your college sweetheart.

Friends who knew me well offered words of wisdom and advice. No matter what they said they were usually right and that became both comforting and disconcerting. They said that my children deserved to grow up with a mother who was happy. I thought that was selfish. Children are egocentric creatures by design. Believing that my kids would be happier if I was happier was absurd.

No wonder a trip to the grocery store was a treat. It doesn’t matter what kind of car you drive there, that’s when you know you’re in big trouble.

In the grocery story I was as alone as if I was soaking in a hot bath, or taking a long leisurely drive. Walking among strangers was the perfect place to drift off without the fear of anything more than a minor shopping cart mishap. I even muttered to myself sometimes, but caught it in time. Usually. “There she goes again,” I imagined the produce man said as I passed the snap peas for the third time in twenty minutes. I didn’t care.

While pushing a half-full shopping cart and straddling the frozen food and chip aisle, I was contemplating nothing more cumbersome than whether to buy fat free or sugar free ice cream. In the shadow of credit cards, convertibles and country clubs, in the company of fudge bars and corn chips, it struck me. If I did nothing, my children would grow up with a mother who could not bear to look at herself in the mirror. And no way in my neatly manicured personal hell was that going to happen.

It became all about self-respect.

If I continued allowing Charlie to pretend to work on the marriage by faking his way through counseling sessions only to toss the homework to the roadside, I was leading myself deeper into the mirage. He said he was scared to death of losing his family. He never once mentioned a fear, or concern, of losing me.

It became a game of semantics, in which he had met his match. I caught every elusive reference to interests, whereabouts and future plans. I excused his indifference in the hopes of a magical transformation.

I wrongly depended on him for the sense of self he helped me discover twenty years before, but had not nurtured since. I was glad for the expansive list of places visited and cities lived in, and for the introduction into a world far beyond that of the city limits of my childhood.

I owed much to myself, yet he took all the credit and bowed to all the applause. Was I the only one who saw that although he was a supremely well-educated, skilled professional, I was the one who had grown and changed with each year, with each move and with each child? Through those same years and circumstances, Charlie’s world remained steadfast on a pedestal and sheltered behind a surgical mask. I had become a different woman, one with substance of character and strength, as I fended for myself within the confines of my marriage.

Charlie said he would decide if he wanted to stay married to me, while living in the facade of a happy home life and studying for his boards. I did everything I could think of, and everything he asked. I kept the house spotless, I entertained, I lost more weight, I planned vacations he always wanted. I feigned bubbly. Then, through this self-imposed persistence, I questioned my own ambivalence. Even more so I questioned Charlie’s lack of commitment to our family, twenty years in the making. I found it appalling.

I had friends, money, kids, hobbies and standing. I’d lost weight; I had great jewelry and traveled extensively. But Charlie and my marriage were creating within me a separate self who had no will to thrive. I wasn’t happy with the way I was being treated or with the way I felt. From that moment I acknowledged it, I was mortified. I had always believed that good was a given, that it was intrinsic. Now I believed in nothing. I was no longer nestled in either my cozy urban childhood or my precious suburban dementia. I was temporarily homeless. Yet, I no longer felt lost.

Did I want to be with someone who was willing to disregard me? It was no longer a question of what I would do without him. It was the recognition that I, alone, was trying to resuscitate a marriage that had already died. How valiant. How humiliating. I was doing it all for maybe.

I could no longer fan the flames of righteous indignation, although somewhat earned, because Charlie saved lives. I had long ago stopped lauding the efforts that resulted in rebuilt bathrooms. I gave life. I built self-esteem in the shape of Lego towers. We were even.

Usually comforted by my rote rendition of life, I realized I had no idea what was next. An unfamiliar but glorious deep spark of hope calmed me. I smiled at the notion that I’d put together the first pieces of the puzzle. I tapped my fingers on the handle of the cart, eager to tackle the rest.

There I was, alone, in a very crowded grocery store, with all the ingredients for either internal combustion or personal redemption. I chose a little of each, paid for all the items I didn’t remember choosing, and drove back to the house I called home.

* Names have been changed. Duh.

It’s easy to forget all we have to be thankful for, especially when we’re in the midst of living life and trying to navigate each day just to make it to the next one. But we all have things, big and small, for which we are grateful and perhaps admitting that to ourselves is a really good thing.

I’m not only grateful for a roof over my head and for healthy children, but also for some things that are innocuous, or perhaps even obnoxious. But gratitude is a good thing, even if it’s for the one last snack size bag of M&M’s from Halloween stashed in the freezer just in case. Maybe it’s not gratitude in its purest form, but just being glad about something is in itself, something to be thankful for.

Please take for granted that I am most grateful for my children, parents, family and friends - our health, our well-being, blah, blah, blah. This is not an exclusive list — I am grateful for bigger and more important things than listed here. It’s more of a reminder that sometimes all the small things added up together could mean that our gratitude might overwhelm us. And wouldn’t that be nice?

I am honestly thankful for the following 42 things, in no particular order of importance. I chose 42 things because I’m 42, and I’m thankful for that too, because the alternative sucks.

Please add your own out-of-the-ordinary and honest thankfulness in the comments - do so anonymously if you wish. The only rule is that there is no judging here, and no assumptions.

Happy Honest Thanks Giving!

I am honestly thankful for:

1. Perennials
2. The pooper-scooper dude
3. Quick dry nail polish
4. Not having to share my children on holidays
5. Bonine
6. Disney World
7. My ability to have one conversation and listen to another
8. Whole wheat pancake mix
9. Static Guard
10. Reruns of Sex and the City
11. Coffee Mate powder
12. Socks without seams
13. The word ’surreptitious’
14. A sense of fashion
15. Baseball not being a year-round sport
16. Someone else cleaning my house sometimes
17. Instant messaging
18. Coincidences
19. Target’s Dollar Section
20. Laura returning to General Hospital
21. The drive up mailbox
22. Old photos in boxes
23. Wine glasses without stems
24. Underwire cami’s
25. Wristlets
26. Funny jokes
27. Snopes dot com
28. Jumbo ziploc bags
29. Juicy Tubes lipgloss
30. Trader Joe’s sugar snap peas
31. Doors that lock
32. The online thesaurus
33. The invention of photo-stamps
34. Intermittent perspective
35. The fact that I can lip-read
36. Skim-mocha no whip
37. Fine tip pens
38. Sunglasses in winter
39. Caller-ID
40. Satelite TV
41. Paper plates
42. Broken doorbells

I’m honored to be writing a new monthly column called “The View From Here” over at The Imperfect Parent.

My first piece is called It Takes A Village. Or Didn’t You Get The Memo? and it’s up, um…today!

I hope you’ll take a look!

I read this post, written by my blog-crush, Blog Antagonist, and it got me thinking about something I think about all the time anyway. Kids and their weight. Doing the right thing for them, saying the right thing to them, setting a good example, not going overboard.

Then I wrote this.

It’s not nearly as poignant or personal (she’s a tough act to follow) but I think it adds another dimension and perspective to the discussion.

Let us know what you think.

It’s 4pm somewhere. That means in neatly manicured suburbs across America, moms are revving up their hybrid minivans and converging in living rooms ready to rumble. Or at least to have a glass of wine and some adult conversation before heading home to Sponge Bob and soccer games.

That’s because Wine Time, by any name, is the new mom’s time out. It’s replacing the yesterday’s coffee klatch with a souped-up model. Kids? No. Lipstick? Yes! In lieu of chicken nuggets and Match Box cars on the coffee table, there is an assortment of international cheeses and perhaps some babaganoush. Sometimes, we even light a candle.

If I have left-over energy after a week of carpools, meetings, homework, housework and part-time jobs, I look forward to tasting and talking for an hour or two on a Friday. It’s less of a way to rehash the week than it is to gear up for the weekend like a grown-up. Although mothering is all about being an adult, it often leaves me more along the lines of hassled and harried than suave and sophisticated.

But, a glass of Pinot Noir or Nuevo Beaujolais – along with some swirling and smelling and sipping? Something to nosh on that kids would never dream of eating without saying “eww?” No “Where are the car keys?” Two hours without “What’s for dinner?” That all has a way of revitalizing the spirit.

Julie Brosterman, founder and CEO of Women and Wine, a California based company that offers wine clubs and custom wine-country travel packages for women, understands. “Motherhood is challenging and demanding - a full time job,” she said. “Getting together with other women to taste and connect over learning about wine is both and educational and social experience.”

Not only do mom-centric wine groups capitalize on women’s need to connect with each other emotionally, but raising the glass together offers a safe, non-threatening environment for women to raise their own comfort level in purchasing and asking for wine in a store or restaurant.

Brosterman, whose company is also an online community for women who want to learn more about wine, agrees. “With the proliferation of the Food Network and stores like Whole Foods and Trader Joes expanding throughout the US, it became obvious to me that learning about wine was going to be the sociological “next step” in the evolution of appreciate for sharing a meal with friends or family.”

She notes that women make 60% of the wine purchases in the United States. Women are not only sharing in an interest in wine with male colleagues and partners and friends, but branching out on their own. So in a way, Wine Time is a sign of the times.

At this point in my life, Wine Time feels like a promotion. The days of strolling strollers in Starbucks hoping the baby will nap or meeting for an hour at the local playground are long gone. In my local Wine Time group ages range from late thirties to early fifties. Most everyone has children, and their ages range from preschool to college. Our children have grown and diversified, and so have we. This is a new way to meet social needs that are increasing harder to navigate with busy schedules and lives. It not only keeps us connected to one another, but to a trendy passion for women, if only once or twice a month. We don’t take it too seriously; we just want to have a good time.

“It’s a great way to relax and have fun!” Brosterman said. “Groups like these will help communities grow stronger as women get to know each other better - they’re not just waving out the car window - but relating to each other in an intimate and personal setting.”

It’s more than simply a way to taste and find wines to enjoy and more than a social gathering with a little panache. It’s a cultural swing taking moms by the hand and the nation by storm. Wine Time is itself a conversation piece, proving that being behind a picket fence no longer means being behind the times.

We can also add academics to the mix because some Harvard researchers believe there is a link between Reservatol, a substance found in wine, and maintaining a healthy weight.

Wine Time? Meet multi-tasking. It’s now socially, emotionally, and physically beneficial for women to get together and drink wine.

And if that’s cliché, I’m OK with that.

Here’s to your health!

Let me know what YOU think!

Lashon hora is Hebrew for gossip. Negative speech. Evil tongue.

It’s a no-no of biblical proportions.

I’ve been thinking a lot about gossip lately. Girls do it, boys do it. Women do it very well, which in this case makes it worse. Men do it too, but claim to not.

Fact is, sometimes the bad part of human nature overwhelms our better judgment.

It’s like a purse on sale. Actually, even like a great purse, on sale, grown-up gossip is something I can definitely do without.

But in my suburban adulthood, both remain haunting and alluring. Neither the studded, suede, oversized, caramel-colored satchel, nor the mouth-watering gossip, add real value to my life. Each is a momentary fix that satiates and quickly goes out of style, losing it’s panache.

I know this -but it is hard to walk away from either one.

Although I did put myself on a purse diet that started this summer. Nothing new for me that would qualify as extravagant. SIGH

And recently I made my life a gossip-free zone.

I’m not sure which is worse. Or better.

According to Judaism do you know what the worst thing about gossip is? Listening to it. Yep. We passivists who simply listen and say nothing, who don’t interfere, are the only ones who have a choice. The person who is talking about someone else has already made his or her decision. The person being spoken about doesn’t have a say.

Although I have never been a gossip monger, I just wanted to pull the plug completely. More than anything it’s that looming parental responsibility that gets the best of me every time because wanting to set a good example weighs heavily upon me.

Pippiiee has entered into Junior High like gangbusters. The preteen girl thing is going strong, and we’re experiencing social misgivings, hurt feelings, wannagetbackathers and youwon’tbelievewhatshedids on a daily basis along with the constant instant messaging, new friends, giggling, and phone calls. While she doesn’t seem to be gossiping - or be the target of gossip - I want to circumvent what’s bound to happen simply due to momentum and hormones.

So, I have put a personal moratorium on gossip. Spreading it or listening to it. (And I certainly hope I am not gossip fodder myself). And let me tell you, it’s not easy stop bending your ear to be in on the latest. I’ve realized that sometimes talking about others is the only thing that bonds you to someone else, or is a major part of a friendship. And in that case, it’s probably time to reevaluate that relationship.

And none of it is easy, even if it is good. Especially without a new purse to soothe my soul.

I’m not completely innocent either, of course. More than a few times recently I have picked up the phone to “tell” a friend something that was in no way a rumor, but certainly something not very nice. And you know what? I hung up the phone. No good comes of talking badly about someone else, or making fun of them in any capacity.

But because I have to cover all my bases, and because although I rarely like to admit it, I am human, I do have a few caveats for my new no-gossip lifestyle.

The Pick One Person Rule: That means you can have one person to whom you can tell anything, nasty or nice. Since I don’t have a spouse, who would hopefully be that person, anything I tell Sister-Friend is not gossip. She lives 600 miles away from me. Which leads me to rule #2.

The Distance Rule: If you need to get something off your chest because you’re about to burst at the seams, and in any way what you are about to say could be construed as gossip, you must tell someone who doesn’t know the people you’re talking about, and preferably lives several hundred miles away. If this person never visits you, you can use names. If they do visit you, using names is optional because it may lead to obvious ‘ah ha’ moments down the road.

The All-Bets Are Off Rule: If someone does something to you or your children personally, and it is 100% true because it’s first person, you can tell anyone you wish. If it involves someone else and me, revert to rules #1 and #2.

I think that about covers it, don’t you?

The next thing I’m going to work on is a change of mindset. Meaning, not even giving any of this a second thought. Why is it that tidbits are so juicy? (Oh, Juicy Couture has some nice purses). Why is it that if I see someone looking just plain awful in the grocery store I feel the need to tell someone else? Maybe I should just think to myself that he or she is having a bad day or isn’t feeling well. If someone decorates their home hideously, is that bad taste, or just taste different from mine? And why should I care?

I think it’s just human nature to be curious, and yes sometimes, nosey. I think we like to feel a kinship with others and sometimes that means having a common cause, and sometimes that means talking about someone else. One of the worst things about human nature is that unintentionally, and sometimes intentionally, we do things that hurt others - and ourselves. In hindsight, someone looks really ugly when they’re gossiping even though they may be glowing in the midst of it.

And truly…you know the worst thing about purses? You can only carry one at a time.

Maybe I need to go shopping.

As I crawl around and hopefully find my way out of this hole I’m in lately, I turned back to some of my favorite music…some of it that got me through some of my darkest days.

Now I will swallow hard and admit that the video is not state-of-the-art or even entertaining. As a matter of fact it looks like a really bad aerobics video without leg warmers or headbands…and that’s coming from someone who likes country music!

But the lyrics? They do it for me in a big. big. way.

So click here, and enjoy if you’re so inclined.

And although it is just a little bit country, the words rock.