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There’s a woman in town whose path often crosses mine. She is lovely and very sweet and she never fails to say hello to me. And for the life of me, I cannot pronounce her first name.
I know what her name is and at home, it rolls off my tongue (I’ve practiced). There are songs that have her name in the title and songs where her name is in the chorus. You’d think I’d remember this when I see her at the grocery store, the gym, in the parking lot of our kids’ school.
Sometimes, I call her by her daughter’s name. Sometimes, I get it out with the emphasis on the wrong syllable. Most times, I smile widely and nod. Always, I am mortified. I do not blame her if she believes me to be an idiot.
Embarrassingly enough, she’s not the first person that I have had this mental block with. My first week of college, I met a guy named Andy. I thought his name was Gary. Over the next few months, he had to correct me so often that I jokingly began hedging my bets when I ran into him by calling him Andy-Gary. It stuck. He didn’t care much for my company (go figure). Even today, when I thought of him I had to pause and ask myself, Was it Gary? Or Andy?
My apologies kind lady; I mean you no disrespect. I will try not to make your musical name sound so discordant. In the meantime, I won’t be offended if you start calling me something else. I’m thinking I deserve it.
We have a basement rec room that is largely unused unless we have overnight guests, in which case presto-chango! it is our guest room, or the kids have friends over, when it becomes a free-for-all room.
Henry has a friend over. It is her first time visiting us and of course, the two of them head to the basement. I am getting dinner together when I hear feet pounding up the stairs.
The pounding stops. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” Henry says. “Are you coming?”
“No, I’m staying down here.”
There’s a pause. I know he is processing her expression of independence. Henry rarely chooses to be alone. He is either trailing after his siblings or he is being trailed by his friends. He does not comprehend self-selected solitude.
“Okay,” he calls down. I hear a few more footsteps on the stairs, then: “Oh, Janie*, don’t worry about the scary monsters near the door over there. I turned the light on so they won’t bother you.”
He emerges from the stairwell and before I have composed myself, he darts into the bathroom. I am not surprised to hear small footsteps on the stairs shortly thereafter.
“I’m just coming up to check on the dog,” Janie says.
“Paco’s fine, honey. You know, it’s perfectly safe for you to play downstairs – you don’t have to wait for Henry.”
“No, thanks,” she says to me. Turning away, she calls to him through the bathroom door. She sounds exasperated. “Alright. I came up and am right here sitting next to the wall.”
“I hear ya,” he calls back. Janie and I listen to the sounds of the toilet flushing, the faucet running, the hand towel holder squeaking. The door slides open and he is there, looking for all the world like the cat who ate the canary.
He grins at her, then at me. “We’re going to go back down to the basement. Okay, Mom?” They depart without further ado.
He doesn’t understand privacy but he is a budding master of psychology. My apologies to all of Henry’s friends, present and future. If this is what he’s like at five, Lord knows how he’ll be at fifteen and twenty-five.
*Not her real name.
Small and I were charged with supplying “city food” for 17 preschoolers today.
My first thought was to steam hot dogs and serve them in stale buns; my next was to make sushi rolls. I settled on a more palatable mid-morning snack and something infinitely easier for me to provide – fresh bagels. 
We arrived at our regular bagel place bright and early. Henry marched directly to the potato chip display. Before he could open his mouth to say, “I want,” I had elbowed our way through the commuters to the counter and given my order to the heavily mascara-ed twenty-year old behind it. “I’d like eighteen bagels, please.”
She smiled blandly at me. “Would you prefer a dozen and a half?”
I paused and stared at her. Was she joking? I hadn’t finished my quart of coffee yet, maybe I had misunderstood her. “Yes,” I said, “That’s what I want. A dozen and a half. Six plain, six cinnamon raisin and six sesame.”
She snapped a brown bag open and began filling my order. “What was the last kind, again?”
“Ses-a-me.”
“Sesame, sure. Do you want a different kind for your extra bagel?”
“What extra bagel?”
“Oh!” she tittered, eyeing me like I was the idiot. “We do a baker’s dozen. You know, thirteen instead of twelve.”
“Oh,” I said. “What a relief you can perform simple math, after all.”
Alright, I didn’t really say that last bit. I just thought it. Don’t mess with me before I’m fully caffeinated.
I sit with a steaming mug of coffee and the laptop, idly surfing the net. The furnace guy has just left and I have mopped the floor to erase his bootprints. He has erased my kitchen island budget but he’s given me the gift of hot water and so I am determined not to complain (much). Henry is happily watching the Cars movie for the nine millionth time. I contemplate a shower.
Forty-five minutes and many clicks later, I make lunch. Such a treat to have a morning at home. Three loads of laundry done; all the dishes washed and put away. Lots of time left to get ready for Nora’s teacher’s surprise baby shower. I go through my To-Do list mentally: Shower gifts wrapped? Check. Extra presents for kids who may not have a gift to give? Check. Reminder email sent to other parents? Check. Tablecloth and utensils packed? Check. Serving utensils for the cake? Check. The cake? F*#%!
I had remembered to order the cake but I hadn’t remembered to pick it up.
“Henry, put on your boots! Go to the bathroom! We’re leaving!”
I got dressed this morning in deference to the furnace guy. I had not, however, bothered to comb my hair or put on make-up. We have no time now for such niceties. Henry moseys over to his coat, windmills his arms like he’s off-balance and collapses to the floor, laughing.
“Boots! Coat! Now!”
Slamming the van in gear, I peer out the smallish hole I scraped in the windshield. I pray the defroster works quickly. I spray washer fluid to speed up the melting process. I curse our useless garage and my idiocy for forgetting my own plans. How is it possible to forget the task one assigned to oneself? Damn! Damn! Damn!
“What did you say, Mommy?”
“Nothing! Don’t listen to me!”
I estimate the amount of time needed to drive to Costco, park, purchase the cake and drive back. I calculate how much time I have. Not enough. What to do? My mind races. Brendan! He works half-way between home and Costco. I speed dial his cell. He doesn’t pick up. I call it again. Ditto. I call the phone on his desk. He answers on the first ring. He’s eating lunch. I skip the issue of his not answering his cell phone and get to the point. Can he pick up the cake? He’d like to, but no, he can’t. He doesn’t have his membership card with him at the office.
The van slides into a parking spot at the grocery store. I plead with Henry to hurry. We run to the bakery, nearly bumping into a friend of mine. I shout over my shoulder, “I’ll call you later about that playdate tomorrow!” She raises her eyebrows at me and nods. I know I must look like I’ve lost my mind. I pick out two cakes that cost more than twice the price of the now superfluous Costco cake. I ask a young baker to write out Nora’s teacher’s name. She messes it up. Twice. I dart to the check-out trailed by Henry who has helped himself to a double dutch chocolate muffin and has dark brown crumbs ringing his mouth.
We make it to school with five minutes to spare. The receptionist, either noticing that I am balancing two cakes and a bag with a large knife or catching the crazed look in my eye (or both), courteously signs me in. We ignore the “No Running” rule and fly down the hall, gathering class parents along the way.
We’re just in time. The rest of the plan goes off without a hitch. Nora’s teacher is surprised and pleased; the kids are thrilled. I exhale. It’s all good.
Happy holidays everyone. If you’re in the area, please stop by. I’ll be serving Costco cake between now and the end of January.
Is it me? Or have the current fashion trends come full circle? Having spent my pre-teen and teen years excitedly ordering clothes from J.C. Penney catalogs, I am no fashionista. When I was twelve or thirteen, we visited a family in Pennsylvania. My counterpart was the same age and ethnicity as I but that was where our similarities ended. Shortly after we arrived, she took me to her bedroom with the walk-in closet and proceeded to model a seemingly endless supply of sweaters from the United Colors of Benetton and J. Crew. She was stunned when I admitted I had never heard of either brand.
“But where do you get your clothes?” she asked.
I pushed my pink, twisted bandana headband from my forehead to the top of my head before I answered, “Uh, from Ames.”
Now, my standard uniform is jeans with a sweater. Old, broken-in jeans with machine washable sweaters. I reside in a world lightyears away from couture and a distant cry from even prêt-à-porter lines. In spite of this and my fashion apathy, I do occasionally wander through websites that cater to women who think nothing of dropping $1K on a pair of shoes that remind them of Carrie Bradshaw. And this is what they’re selling:
C’mon people. Really? Weren’t these ensembles in fashion when Kurt Cobain was alive? Who brought plaid shirts back? I wore a vest and gray leggings in the early 90s. And I had a black zippered mini-skirt from Express that I practically wore out. Not that I would (could!) wear them now. If I had them, which I don’t. So, who is wearing these clothes? Better question: Who is BUYING these clothes?
I don’t have the answers but I think Olivia Newton John wants her blue jumpsuit back.
OINKtales 
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