Last year it was young Bella. She could not have been cuter or sweeter, and the way they gazed into each other’s little eyes, I had no choice but to sing out a mocking tune of “Hank has a girlfriend!” as soon as he got in the car every day after school. Did I mention I am a horrible mother?

This year is a new school, which means a whole new squad of girls to woo him with their charms. And the clear winner is one Miss Louisa. Louisa is adorable. So adorable in fact that when I was in charge of the games at the Valentine’s party, and I had to pick a winner out of a classroom of 20 children, I chose Louisa because I like her the best. Keep in mind — I chose her OVER Hank. Back to that horrible mother thing again…

Anyway, Hank does talk about Louisa a lot, so I have no choice but to bring it on. It’s tease time, little man. Get prepared for your mother to cause your blood pressure to rise!

Here is part of the actual conversation that occurred on the way home from school today:

Hank: Good thing we’re walking, because we might see Louisa.

Me: Because she’s your girlfriend?

Hank: No. But we both agree on one thing. We both think you got hit in the head.

Me: Why?

Hank: Because. We aren’t even in LOVE. Besides… a Jedi Knight can’t have attachments.

…and later…

Me: So have you kissed her yet?

Hank: (with a look of disgust) NO! That would be illegal AND inappropriate on school grounds!

Me: Illegal?

Hank: Yeah. Kissing and potty talk are illegal. Oh, and guns.

Me: Potty talk?

Hank: Yeah. You know, like, ‘Hey doc, I need a new butt — this one is cracked!’ That’s ILLEGAL!

Me: But that’s funny!

Hank: I know. But it’s illegal. Kissing and potty talk. And guns.

Kissing, potty talk and guns. Now that’s my tax dollars hard at work in today’s public schools!

Needless to say, we did not catch a glimpse of Louisa on her way home, though Hank did point out which house was hers. Which of course was just another reason for me to ratchet up the teasing a notch — how does he know where she lives? It’s not like he goes out and plays without me knowing where he’s at! Oh well, perhaps tomorrow. As the temperatures continue to rise, we will continue to walk home. And the relentless teasing shall continue!

Did I mention that I am a horrible mother?

Loading up your cart with the black and white generics was rather embarrassing, as if you might as well have written across your forehead, “WE ARE SUPER POOR!!!!” Of course, that was until people realized that generics were basically exactly the same as name brand stuff. Then, in an apparent effort to lure in a  kindler, gentler generation of cheapskates, “they” devised an evil genius plan: store brands.

Now, not only has the stigma been lifted from buying the generic brand, but it’s pretty much encouraged. What used to be embarrassing black and white labels are now chic “private labels.” Nice. And you know them by heart. WalMart has “Equate” and “Sam’s Choice” and “Great Value.”  You can pick up products labeled “Equaline” and “Farmstand” and “Shoppers Value” and “O Organics.” And nothing makes me happier than loading up my cart with these cheaper versions of the exact same name-brand items and watching the savings add up.

That said, I’m not real sure that everyone was paying close attention when someone suggested “Up & Up” as a name for a generic brand. Something tells me that when Target picked up this brand for some products sold in their pharmacy, maybe, just maybe, they didn’t really pay attention to what they were actually peddling:

Kind of creates a whole new meaning for the phrase, “product placement,” don’t you think? I’m just sayin’.

“You know, it looks like you just spread the dirt all around.”

On Halloween:

“This is MY kind of day!”

On why it is pointless to tease him about not being able to say “conveyor belt.”

Hank: “So when we get to the snow hill, we can take the con-vader-belt to the top.”

Brother Tom: “The con-vader-belt? Like, Darth Vader?”

Hank: “Hah. Good one… ’cause of vader. No, it’s totally different.”

On the difficulty of the 2nd grade spelling test:

“It’s just so hard to be good at EVERYTHING but spelling!”

On alcohol (and also, math):

“You know what happens in 14 years? I’m old enough for beer.”

On his mother’s disgust at the minivan parked way too close to her at school:

“You know what the problem is, Mom? Women drivers.”

On his mother’s request that he please not walk from the bathroom to his bedroom naked:

“It’s not like you haven’t seen it before!”

My boy is so smart. I’m sure there is more to come…

Not quite what I meant, Mother Nature. That guy looks mean and angry as hell to be awake on March 3. I think this is what they mean when they say, “be careful what you wish for.”

PS – yes that is a crappy paint job and cobwebs. Don’t hate.

I don’t quite know HOW you could have missed me. There I was, getting ready to do my jackknives, which are hard as hell and yes, I occasionally fall off the ball and make quite the thundering sound when my flab smacks the mat. But I always laugh and get back on. Yet for some reason, and despite the fact that you are no bigger than 4-feet tall, you felt the need to come to that same mat, spread your legs in a T-split, and begin to bounce. ALL THE LIVE LONG DAY. You literally put your foot directly in front of me, even though my ginormous mass was only taking the spot of ONE person. Yet you were taking the place of 4 people.

Remember what I did? How I almost rolled right over your foot. That was fun for me. You kind of got the picture — you moved to the other mat, but continued to do your bizarre bouncy splits routine. Side splits. Front splits. Side splits. Front splits. Over and over. You know what? While I was back doing reverse crunches, and my butt was pointed at you, I ALMOST squeaked out a fart to get you to go away. But I didn’t. I should have, then maybe you would have stopped what I can only describe as acrobatic pornography. At one point, you began to thrust.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I too know how much fun it can be to grab the attention of the male species at the gym. I have, from time to time, realized that a young handsome meathead was staring at my vast chest, and purposely dipped just a little further over during my deadlifts. Seriously, especially when he is like, 22. Sure, maybe he has a Mommy complex, but still, it’s fun to be ogled, even though the feminist hiding in the back of my head is shouting STOP IT! I read Cosmo. I get it.

Remember when I left the mats? I went upstairs to run on the treadmill. I ran for 30 minutes. And when I was done, and I came back down the stairs, there you were, still on the mats, still in the splits. You know what? We get it. You are super flexible. You can jump from standing into a T-split. You know what? Dudes don’t dig that. Do you think they want you to stand over them and do that? You will snap their junk right off, sister! Stop it already.

Then I went into the sauna. I admit, I have no idea what the sauna is supposed to do. I just like the feeling of a good warm sweat. Also, I was the only one in there, which meant that I could sing along with the array of songs stacked on my MP3 player – Miley Cyrus, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Trisha Yearwood, all mashed together. Though I really belted it out to “Walking in Memphis,” the Marc Cohn version, not that crappy country release. I emerged 15 minutes later, and there you were. In the locker room. With one leg up on the counter in a display of flexibility. You were talking on your phone. Apparently, the person you were talking with really, really wanted to hear you sing the dance-mix version of Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me,” which was playing over the gym’s speakers. Because you sure did sing it loud. Into your phone. While doing the splits on the makeup counter.

I noticed at this point that you caught my eye. I’m sorry, you were right. I was staring at you. More specifically, I was trying to will you to shut the hell up and leave. It didn’t work.

Well, creepy gymnast girl at LA Fitness, I hope you are feeling good and limber this morning, I don’t really know how you could feel anything else. You sure are stretchy. But I do hope that I don’t have to deal with your flexing and thrusting again anytime soon. My husband was not there with me, but he would have told you to move your skinny ass out of his space. For some reason, he’s not shy at the gym. I just hope I get skinny and awesomely buff soon, because I’m not sure I can take that shit ever again.

Thanks for your time,

Marney

Obviously, I fear my own death. Who doesn’t, really? I mean, it’s kinda creepy to think about even, when and how will it happen, will it hurt, will it be gross… bah. I think people who say they are not afraid to die are lying, at least to themselves. You should be scared when you don’t know what’s about to happen. But in addition to the fear of possible pain and/or suffering, I worry about my kids. My sons do not have the same fathers. I worry that they would be separated if I died.

I also have fear of anything happening to my children. I cannot really even write about what that fear feels like.

I fear for my siblings. We are five fairly close people (I’m not the quiet one — but I’m pretty sure I’m not the loud one either!). Losing one of them would break my heart. I fear for my husband. It seems like it took me so damn long to FIND him, I don’t know what I would do if he went away. I worry about my nieces and nephews, some of whom are adults themselves now, but they will always be these sweet little babies that I got to hold once upon a time.

I fear for my friends. So much, in fact, that a few weeks ago, when I had a horrible dream that Kayla had died, I had to call her first thing in the morning just to say hello.

But, the thing is, when it comes to all of these people, myself and my children included, I can mentally accept that death is a reality, that we are all mortal, and that there is a possibility that I could outlive one of more of them and have to deal with their deaths. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I am at peace with that, but I at least get it. I think I would find a way.

But there are two people who this simply doesn’t apply to – my parents. For some reason, I still don’t think that my parents can die.

Last week, a friend of my Mom and Dad passed away. He was 70, just a month older than my Dad. I won’t pretend that I knew much about Mr. Winter. In the 36 years I’ve been on this planet, I don’t think I had more than a few conversations with him, all of which consisted of “hey, how are you, how’s it going, nice to see you.” My mother and Mrs. Winter are very close girlfriends, and I know her well enough to engage in a conversation with her. But honestly, I really don’t even know her kids’ names. My parents have so many friends, most of whom they’ve known since the late 1940’s when they were all single-digit aged children. After a while, they all blend into each other, so I know them by face or story, but sometimes I forget who is who. Unfortunately, Mr. Winter had fallen into that category for me.

At his wake, I went with my folks up to the casket. There, we were greeted by one of Mr. Winter’s daughters, who gave us a group hug. She then said something that struck me — she looked over at her Dad and said, “Can you believe the nerve?”

It stuck me because I knew exactly what she meant — I absolutely could not belive that her Dad had the nerve to die on her. Who the hell did he think he was anyway?

I realized at that moment, looking around at this huge group of lifelong friends, that it never occurred to me that THEY were mortal. Looking around at the photos of Mr. Winter and his family, it was clear that their lives reflected those of my own family. Trips and parties and weddings and dances and Christmases and vacations and a whole lotta Schlitz (there’s a reason their generation is so much more regular than my own). Like my Dad’s daughters, Mr. Winter’s daughters see their Pops as a hero. They see their Mom as someone who they desperately want to talk to (only to quickly tell her to just stop talking already — we are weird women). My husband, my children, my brother and sisters, my friends, my nieces and nephews… we are all mortal. But not this generation. These are my PARENTS. These are my PARENT’S FRIENDS. They simply aren’t supposed to go away.

I realized that I do not tell my parents how much I love them even nearly often enough. When I found myself pregnant, single, 27 and freshly fired, my Mom said, “Well just come home.” They helped me raise a newborn and didn’t ask for one thin dime in return. When I was having a bad patch in college, I called home, and my parents listened to every stupid complaint that 19-year-old girl had. My Mom could tell if I was smoking from hundreds of miles away. My Dad threw dookie at me at the lake (because when you find dookie in the lake, what do you do with it other than throw it at your youngest child, right?), though to this day he INSISTS it was just a piece of wood. But, fiercely independent (or trying to be), I rarely called home once I was gone. E-mail helped, but I am still horrible at picking up the phone and saying hello once in a while.

I realized this past week that it’s because I am talking them for granted. I just assume they’re going to be there. I don’t know what happens at the end, because I always just figured Mom and Dad would be there to tell me. I think it’s an assumption that Mr. Winter’s daughter had also made, which is why she couldn’t believe his nerve.

So, what’s the lesson here? Go tell your parents how much you love them. It’s hard to believe, but they are mortal too.

I love you Mom and Dad.

Anyway, as long as I opened my own YouTube account, might as well put the only other two videos I had on it right? They both involve George and his “behavior.” Maybe I shouldn’t share so much. But ah, what the hell:

Ahhh, memories.

Then there’s this:

We all know that I sleep silently like a princess, so clearly, someone is just like his Dad.

I think as a kid I was so conditioned to give something up for Lent that I never really got the point of it all. I’d pick something that I really like and just stop doing it for 40 days. No fast food. No candy. No pop. No swearing. Last year I gave up beer, and that was just stupid. I was super thirsty for a cold one and everyone thought I was pregnant.

I don’t remember the reason for giving up something ever really being explained back in my St. James days (although I am sure it was, we just weren’t listening). As I got older, I just assumed it was because Jesus suffered, so we have to suffer. But while I am not a terribly religious person, I should know that being nailed to a cross and not drinking Pepsi for six weeks can hardly be put into the same sacrificial category.

So today I looked it up. I found this explanation on a Lutheran website:

Lent is all about meditating upon and learning more and more about what Jesus underwent FOR YOU. Giving something up for Lent isn’t about feeling guilty or trying to take away something you like so that you can feel bad about what Jesus did for you. Observing the holy season of Lent is all about receiving more and more of those very gifts that deliver salvation to you: living in your baptism, confessing your sins and being absolved, hearing the Word taught and preached, eating and drinking Jesus’ body and blood which was given into death for the forgiveness of all of your sins! That’s why most churches offer additional times during Lent to hear the Word preached and to receive the Sacrament.

Jinkies… thanks for clearing that up. The post continues to explain that abstaining is not to benefit you, but to benefit your neighbor. I’m sorry, but I don’t see how giving up beer benefits my neighbor, other than to give them something to gossip about as they ponder whether I am pregnant. Which basically means I have the whole spirit of Lent all mixed up.

This morning, Jim sent me an e-mail asking what we should give up for Lent. I had no idea what to say. So I thought about it seriously, and decided that this year, we needed to focus on the spirit of making things BETTER for others rather than making things HARDER for ourselves. There’s the usual things to “give up.” No fast food. No excessive spending. But this year I want to focus on what I can do to, you know, maybe make the world a better place.

To that end, Jim and I have made our decision about at least one thing we will do this Lenten season, and hopefully beyond. We plan to feed the hungry. Our church has a food pantry, and I plan on buying a few meals every week and bringing them over. Mac & Cheese and boxed dinners and maybe even some Spam (which is not as disgusting as people assume it is).

Here’s why this is important to me — I am a total fatty. Okay, I’m not popping the buttons off my Gloria Vanderbilts, but I am definitely at least 25 pounds overweight. My pantry is full and I have a home full of nice things and my children are happy and never miss a snack. I absolutely hate it that right here, within miles of where I am, there are several parents who just can’t afford to feed themselves or their kids, or both, while I throw out half-eaten food on a regular basis. We are not even close to rich. We have a tight budget and sometimes we have to wait to get to the store until payday, which means no milk for a few days or no bread for sandwiches. But we are never, EVER hungry (and we have the fat pants to prove it). We are blessed people. We are lucky people. And we need to feed the hungry.

So to answer the question, what are you giving up for Lent? This year, the answer is, I am giving up being selfish with my food. I am giving up stuffing my face while a mother down the street goes hungry so her kids can have some tomato soup. If I can feed just one family one night a week, I think I am helping make the world a better place. I’m not a religious person. But I think Jesus would approve.