I’m a master of the obvious, no?

I am not fake. Frankly, I don’t have the energy to lie about anything. I also don’t cheat. I am honest, loyal and I don’t hide behind pseudonyms. My words on this blog are always authentic and true. This site belongs to me and is for me to write whatever I want.

Circumstances change. Feelings vascilate.

I forgive but I never forget.

Susan Anthony left a comment on this blog and was not pleased with something I said regarding, I’m sure, my life situation and people in it. What she doesn’t know is that blog owners track their readers. It’s like big brother. No one who comes here is anonymous. Not even the yahoos in Thailand.

Yesterday would have been my grandmother’s birthday.

Today I have this story in the Chicago Tribune. I didn’t realize when I wrote it (Wednesday) how the two would intersect.

I have no doubt it is not a coincidence.

As a new parent we quickly get tuned into our babies. We know the cry that means hungry and the cry that means “I want to watch Dora.” With toddlers we know what nonsensical words mean and they end up making sense to us. You end up “just knowing” what your kids mean when they say things. It’s a parenting gift.

Another thing is, all families have their own words for things — like a secret language among people who live under one roof.

In our family I’d have to say that my favorite family word is: Motecon. (sounds like Moken)

Any guesses?

ReMOTE CONtrol.

Duh.

But special language is not reserved for human members of the family. And I realized this once again this morning.

I was blowing dry my hair, in my bathroom. The kids were dispersed and certainly well within the reach of the dog that came to me. Into the bathroom, looking up at me, barking.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

I shut off the blow dryer, looked at her and said, “NO!” in my stern dog-mom voice.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

It could not be an emergency, no other dog was barking (we have 3) and there were no screaming shrieking teens. It was obvious the dog was trying to tell me something.

“Show me,” I said.

She took off like a dog after a mouse in the backyard (another story) down the long hallway. She ran sideways glancing back to make sure I was behind her. With two legs I cannot move as quickly as she does with four, and it annoys her. She strode into the kitchen and sat beneath the kitchen counter.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

And then I knew what it meant. “There is a box of treats up there you forgot to put in the cabinet and I’ll be wanting one NOW.”

I gave her a treat and a little advice.

“You could have asked Son or Daughter for a treat you know,” I said earnestly. “They’re right over there.”

My sometimes crazy dog just looked at me, treat in mouth.

“But you’re my mom,” she said. “You understand me.”

OK, no she didn’t, but that’s what she meant.

I just know it.

*Please tell me you understand the title of this blog post!

The older we get, the more important it is to accessorize. Or is that exercise? Either way, you probably know someone who needs a little of one or the other. Or both.

This public service blog post is brought to you in the spirit of well-dressed 44 year olds everywhere.

Today was “Oh No You Didn’t” Day at my daughter’s junior high school, where kids were encouraged to wear outfits that would send their classmates and affable teachers into fits of laughter saying “Oh No You Didn’t!” It’s the 4th in a week of crazy clothing days, a great idea for the middle of a snowy, cold winter near Chicago.

But my 12 year old’s crazy outfit that included striped legwarmers, multiple mismatched shirts and Mardi Gras beads got me thinking about something I’d heard on Oprah or What Not to Wear or one of the other shows I don’t watch obsessively.

Take One Thing Off.

If you’re of the accessorizing breed, and not all women are, when you look in the mirror in the morning, what do you see? Earrings? Watch? Bracelet? Necklace? Scarf? Headband? Rings?

Rule of thumb for me, for the past few months has been to tow the line and Take One Thing Off. And like with so many other things in life. Less is more. No more do I feel the need to wear my watch and a bracelet. And if I do, I take off a ring. Earrings and a necklace? Sure. But little earrings, or little else.

I have nice jewelry. Real and costume. But that doesn’t mean I have to wear it all at the same time. One day a great necklace — my big super hoops the next. I think that the fewer accessories you have on, the less you look like you’re trying to prove. It’s true that you can’t buy class — but you can fake it and this is a good start.

Unless of course it’s “Oh No You Didn’t” Day in your town — and unless you’re 12, I’m just not buying it.

Five years ago today I had been single for four months. So, in celebration of my 39th birthday, and to check on me in person, three of my oldest and dearest friends left their families and homes on the East Coast for the weekend. And after a lot of eating, a little drinking, and much silliness and carousing they were convinced I was fine and headed back to their families and lives.

One of these women has been my friend since I was five. Contact has waxed and waned over the years, but we’re steadfast friends. Since that day five years ago she met a nice Jewish doctor, got married and now has a delicious one-year-old baby girl.

Another one of these women has been one of my dearest friends since New Year’s Eve 1980 when we were the only ones awake at another friend’s slumber party. We talked all night long, ate a lot of bugles and bonded. She has been an integral part of my life since that day. She’s had ups and downs since that weekend five years ago, but is closer today to being where she wants to be. For that she and I are both grateful and hopeful. Plus, she sends me the absolute best presents.

Last but not least is the woman I call my sister-friend, truly comparable to no other, not to diminish the importance of the other women. Since we were 16, we’ve been best friends (with the exception of the dark year, of which we do not speak). I talk to her AND email her almost daily and on any given day can (or should) know that my 4pm phone calls on Thursdays will not be answered because she’s taking her daughter to ballet. When I call her for 5 minutes at 3:25 she knows I’m in my car waiting for school to let out. She calls me to remind me it’s her anniversary so I can call her back and wish her a happy day. We take notes on our worst days so we can let the other know how bad it is, and laugh about it. We can hang up abruptly when need be and neither takes offense. To me that is the sign of a true friendship.

And I have other old friends. One lives overseas. One lives in Florida. Still another lives in Nashville.

There is nothing like an old friend.

Unless of course, you think about your new friends.

In the past five years I’ve made a few new friends who measure up quite nicely to the very high standards set by my longtime pals. One friend makes me laugh like no other. Another has become one of my best friends in less than a year. I didn’t know that was possible if you’re over 16, but I’m here to tell you that it is. We like to pretend we’ve known each other for years and years because it feels that way and seems to make more sense. Another has moved around almost as much as me, has hit rock bottom and rebounded (yay for him). One other was first my friend, then my boss, but always my friend before my boss. Still someone else shares my strange obsession for baseball and big words. Another has adopted my entire family into her own so much so that we have our own Christmas stockings at her house.

I’ve also made friendships through my writing classes — one with an instructor/mentor who extends herself more than a human being should (she’s in therapy for that) and also with a delightful writer in Paris who has become more than just a critical eye for my work (and an agent, and a book on the way).

She — one of my newest friends — is the one who reminded me today, my 44th birthday when I become as old as she, that “you should feel happy… you have a budding talent that will blossom shortly, 2 well-adjusted kids & sexy eyewear!”

And she’s right — especially about the eyewear! (and she knows sexy, she owns a French lingerie company!)

I’m lucky — even with all the things that make my photo not show up under “lucky” in Wikipedia.

But since this is not Wikipedia…I’ll indulge myself!

Lucky:

That is not a messy kitchen behind my head. It is an illusion produced to make you think I’d rather be on the computer than clean the kitchen. Those are a dozen roses though, sent by one of the aforementioned friends. Oh, and all the falderol around the friends doesn’t mean I don’t have a kickin’ family near and far, because I have that too. And three cool dogs.

On a sunny brisk Saturday morning a little over two weeks ago, my daughter and I headed out on a shopping expedition. We had so much fun that day I almost forgot to mention what else happened that day. Almost.

We got into the car, and donned our sunglasses on a brisk but very sunny February day. We zigged and zagged out of our neighborhood, made a right and then drove straight for about 10 minutes. We arrived at an almost-brand-new shopping center complete with every store we were bent on visiting that day, and then some.

To enter the parking lot we needed to make a left, but the street was blocked by a police car, so I drove straight.

“We’ll go in another entrance,” I said to my daughter. “I guess there was an accident.”

I considered turning finding another way in, but quickly realized it wasn’t going to work. I realized there was no other entrance just about the time my daughter noticed the television cameras.

“Let’s shop somewhere else today,” I said. “But let’s listen to the news to see if we can find out what’s going on.”

I did not expect our little South Suburban enclave to be on the news, but I did think that if the road be backed up with traffic for miles, that it might warrant a mention.

And then at noon on Saturday February 2, 2008 as I was driving past the far end of our intended shopping destination in Tinley Park, Illinois, I found out about the shootings at Lane Bryant, for which there was little to no information at the time.

That’s exactly where we were headed. And although Lane Bryant was not on our To-Do list, it was right across the parking lot from the Kohl’s, Michael’s and Ulta that were.

I kept driving and driving. I was sick to my stomach. We went shopping 30 minutes in the opposite direction, even though I wanted to go home. I didn’t want my daughter to think she should be scared. I did forbid my son from walking around with his friends that day and offered my services as Mother Chauffeur.

It wasn’t until much later that we found out that Carrie Hudek Chuisso was killed. She was a social worker at my son’s high school. He knew her because she was the one who came to his Honors Chemistry class to explain a situation with the teacher.

And it wasn’t until after that we found out another victim was a resident of our town, with a child at one of the elementary schools, and at the high school.

Two of the five senseless losses that day were a direct hit on the high school one mile from my house, where I drive to every day - twice - where the flag continues to fly at half-staff.

As the mother of a teen and a tween and a part-time preschool teacher I have a lot of real life experience with the trendy behavioral catch-phrase, impulse control.

With teens it’s a matter of stopping and thinking long enough to not follow the crowd down the wrong path - long enough not to smash those Halloween pumpkins in the middle of the street, for example.

Teens do a lot of things, and when asked why, the answer is usually a trademark shoulder shrug. For tweens it’s a little fuzzier, not so much following of the crowd as it is rolling of the eyes, which I’m convinced is just going to happen no matter what. Tweens have a way with words though, and questioned about an action can simulaneously roll their eyes and say “I don’t know.”

With the pre-school set it comes down to hitting and punching and kicking and biting. In that age-group we always know there is a problem needing intervention when a little boy or girl just “can’t control themselves.” Most of the time with the little tikes, we can get them to say “I’m sorry,” although I’m not convinced they know what it means.

But what is the deal when it happens with an almost-44 year old suburban mom?

Let’s say, for example, that said mom gets a much needed haircut one day, comes home and thinks that the brand new do is a big fat no. What possesses an otherwise level-headed overthinker to take kitchen shears and cut her own bangs?

I don’t know. I couldn’t control myself. And I’m really sorry.

When my kids were little we lived in Tucson, Arizona - land of the scorpions and home of silent-G saguaro cacti. In addition to prickly plants and poisonous insects — there is also fabulous shopping.

With my two-year old daughter strapped into her carseat, my son still at kindergarten, we headed out of our faux-adobe subdivision and drove along.

“Where we going, Mommy?” she said from the backseat, very verbally advanced for her age.

“To the mall, sweetie,” I replied.

“HOORAY!” was her response, complete with clapping hands.

I laughed out loud.

“That’s my girl,” I said.

Fast forward to 2008 and a 12 year old daughter walking with me in a department store, shopping for assorted appropriate school clothes and oh yes, new bras.

First she points to a black bra with pink lace. I’m not sure why they make them in her size, but I shook my head.

“A 12 year old does not need a black lacey bra,” I said.

She was kneeling down sifting through the selection, and turned back to look at me.

“Mom, every girl needs a black bra with pink lace!”

She is totally mine.

But a twelve year old must stick to pastels.

Then in the dressing room where I had to close my eyes until I had to wangle the straps
off the hangers and hooks, she tried on a cute white and pink heart speckled bra.

“Ooooh,” she said, “It’s cute and comfy.”

I laughed.

“The two C’s of bra shopping — cute and comfy,” she added excitedly, “Just like there’s four C’s of diamond shopping!”

Now THAT’S my girl!

When you wake up in the morning and pluck a whisker from your chin, you know one thing for sure.

The day can only get better.

And that is when I realized, “Hey, if I was still blogging I would soooo blog this.”

And after five weeks, here I am to tell you that obviously my feminine levels of testosterone have run amock and now I’m going to blame hormones on my lack of recent blogging. While on any normal day I can talk a blue streak, I haven’t had anything I’ve wanted to blog about. It’s not that I’m raking in the big bucks writing for pay - although I am paying to write through a-well-worth-the-money writing class. I never thought that pressure and deadlines and direction and criticism would be the impetus for flowing creativity - but it is. And so was this blog for a very long time. But when I write and write for class I’m sort of written-out. Tapped. Bleary eyed.

But, I’m going to see if I can’t get back into the swing of it, and allow both to be part of the process because I definitely need one more thing to do.