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Welcome to the new ChicagoNow, welcome to my own private Idaho.

If you are reading this, it means that I did something right.  It also means that you did something right, too, as my stuff is the shizz.  But trust me when I say I do not know what in the hell I am doing.  Good Lord, when did writing a blog about mothering turn into an ordeal of epic proportions?  A technological odyssey?  A panic attack stretched out over three months, roughly the lead time we had to learn our new operating system?  Melodramatic?  Perhaps, but I’m allowed, as it’s my blog. 

One of my facebook friends recently posed the question:  What are you most capable of?  Hard core procrastination was my answer.  Word.  I procrastinate with the freaking best of them.  My procrastination is legendary.  Seriously.  Ask Mr. Mary Tyler Mom.  And yet, somehow, I survive.  Mary Tyler Son gets clothed and fed every day.  Bills get paid.  Laundry gets done.  Dinner gets cooked.  I am a responsible citizen who uses avoidance to not deal with the stuff that either:  a) annoys me; b) scares me; or c) I simply forget due to my also legendary lack of organization. 

Learning this new operating system for ChicagoNow falls under the categories of a), b) and c).  Yes, while I love Mary Tyler Mom, I am annoyed that since her creation in January I’ve had to learn three new operating systems just to give her a voice.  Mr. Mary Tyler Mom is annoyed by my tendency to frustrate so easily at all things tech related, so me learning three new systems has been challenging.  Which directly leads to b).  Technology scares me.  It’s cool and all, but my brain is just not wired to tackle it easily.  It intimidates me.  And every month when I go to the bank to pay my credit card bill (because of the aforementioned procrastination) and the teller cheerfully informs me that I can automatically pay online, I kind of want to hurt her.  And the passwords.  Egads!  Who on earth can remember all of the passwords and strange machinations programmers develop on an all too regular basis to make them more “secure.”  For me, passwords are the ultimate child proof lid.  That leads to c).  When something annoys and scares me, but I know it must be dealt with, I keep it on the back burner, simmering slowly.  These are the niggling to dos that I must do, will do, but not without some drama to make them interesting.  Sigh.  I exhaust myself. 

So here I am and here you are.  Welcome to my panic attack.  Hope you enjoy your stay.

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Do Not Underestimate a Determined Mother.

I need a pedicure.  Desperately.  And tomorrow I’m going to the beach.  So there will be toe nail polish.  Oh, and this is something that I don’t do for myself.  This is something I like to contract out.  Yeah, I need this pedicure and I will have it.  Do not underestimate a determined mother.

I sort of act as den mother for my condo association.  Which sucks for them, as lordy, I can barely manage my own life, let alone the residential matters of five other units.  But here I am.  Maybe it’s because I’m the oldest mother in the place.  Maybe it’s my sparkling wit and charm.  Yeah, probably not that.  Who knows? 

In September 2009, a month before my daughter died, my condo initiated almost $20K of tuckpointing work.  I wrangled five units to both agree to a contractor and cough up the dough to pay for the work.  A month before my daughter died.  Kind of sucks, no?  We had been prattling on about the need for the work and quibbling about contractors and estimates for over a year.  But when push comes to shove, I got it done.  The same needs to happen today.

I learned yesterday that the City was threatening to turn off the water to our condo.  Why?  Because the sink hole at our front curb, the same freaking sink hole I’ve been calling the City about for fourteen months.  Sigh.  City tells me they’ve been communicating that the problem is ours for over six weeks, but with no response.  Seriously, people? 

When push comes to shove, I will handle this too.  From the beach with my toes freshly painted?  Why?  Because I am a determined mother.  Apparently, I am a determined den mother as well. 

 

 

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So Independent. So Smart. So Freaking Helpless.

This is a confessional, ladies, so prepare yourselves for some shameful admissions. 

I am a smart cookie.  I know my way around a book.  I have opinions about important things that I share freely.  I love to debate and I can support my arguments with the best of them.  I am tough as nails.  I’ve buried a child and still manage to put lipstick on in the morning.  Really, what more can I say than that that demonstrates my mettle? 

But despite all of these credentials, I am still a total wife.  Circa 1958 wife.  Stand behind your man kind of wife.  Sigh.  I don’t mean to be, but I am.  I rely on my husband to change the lightbulbs, solve all my computer problems, and pay the bills.  I don’t know nearly enough about our finances and today I am in panic mode.  Today, ladies, I have to fly through Atlanta airport.  Alone.  Good Lord that makes me anxious.

You see what I mean about a confessional?  It shames me that I can describe myself as I did above and still, despite the aforementioned mettle, I can be whimpering on the inside that somehow, all alone, I will need to navigate the ATL all by my lonesome this afternoon.  Betty Friedan, the same Betty Friedan that gave the commencement address at my alma mater, is rolling in her grave.  Gloria Steinham assertively requests that I no longer use the word feminist to describe myself.  My astute carpool mate wondered if that is why I wore my prettiest dress to travel in today – – to make it that much easier for strangers to help a gal out in the Big Bad Airport.

She’s not wrong, my carpool mate, and the irony that this dress is a modern version of a 1950s housewife at the market shirtdress, complete with nipped in waist and a-line skirt is so not lost on me.

Okay.  The recovering Catholic in me feels a bit better.  I got to suck it up.  Woman up, if you will.  I can do this.  I.  Can.  Do.  This.   

But, seriously, send up some prayers for me around dinnertime and send them down to ATL.  That includes you, Mr. Mary Tyler Mom, dear GPS of mine.