Out of the mouths of babes

I know I’m one of those obnoxious Moms that posts every totes adorbs thing their offspring says or does.  I don’t care.  I waited my whole life for these little monkeys and I intend to brag.  They are turning out pretty good.

Today we went to Pizza Hut for lunch.  As always, Lala and Loopsy started a discussion with the people in the booth behind ours.  This time, our fellow diners were incredibly inviting of the intrusion to their meal.  They were two sisters, born on the same day a year apart- Whitney and Liz.  And Whitney carried on a conversation with my babes for several minutes.  She was lovely. 

I’m a terribly shy and buttoned up person.  I don’t make friends easily or start conversations with strangers.  I kept stopping myself from telling the girls to turn around, to leave these people alone.  I kept feeling odd, and unsure, and uncomfortable.  But…  my daughters did not.

Today, on Thankful Thursday, I am grateful that my little ones didn’t inherit that gene.

They were so sweet and asked good questions and were polite and endearing.  When Whitney and Liz left, they asked if they’d come back to Pizza Hut another day because they want to be friends.  !!!!

My kids are making plans, making friends, with EASE!

I couldn’t be prouder or more grateful.  I need to take some notes.


My Two Cents

Yup.  Another Scroogy Soap Box post.

This one has been brewing in my brain since that dark, dark day in December when Adam Lanza took all those lives in Newtown, CT.

I don’t want to talk about Sandy Hook.  My heart still aches for those families.  I don’t want to talk about Columbine, or Aurora, or even the shooting here at Perry Hall High School.

I don’t really even want to talk about gun control this time.

What I do want to talk about is some things we need to work on, as a society, that may help prevent tragedies like those, might bolster gun control efforts…

We need to become a community again.  A real one.  People who participate in each others lives.  People who belong.  Not strangers behind closed doors blind to who lives within yards of our homes.  Not friends or family members who cover their mouths or whisper in corners about the problems we see instead of doing something, anything, about them.  We need to be able to reach out when we are hurting, and not fear repercussions or embarrassment.

After Sandy Hook, I read an article about a study done about these violent incidents.  In the study, people who knew the shooters were interviewed and noted that these shooters had told people of their plan.  Or they acted distraught.  Or they became interested in violence as a solution.  And when asked why these friends, family members, co-workers, or neighbors never told authorities, why they never intervened, the answer was that they worried that if they “tattled” it would ruin that person’s life.

This is more than just “if you see something, say something.”  This is “if you know someone is disturbed, don’t just gossip about it, don’t just roll your eyes and ignore it.  DO SOMETHING.”  Or “if you need help, ASK FOR HELP.”

Look, Peeps, I’m as guilty of this as anyone.  I’ve turned my back on family members.  Not in cold detachment, but in fear of making things worse.  I’ve looked away as loved ones were hurting, unsure of how to help.  I’ve talked about these problems with anyone who would listen, except of course, the people who need help or the people who could help.  I’ve hidden indoors wrestling with my own life, feeling isolated and alone.  Dealing with my own depression and anxiety.  Unable to make friends, keep plans.

I know I’m not alone.  It seems to be an epidemic in our society.

We don’t want to seem nosy.  We don’t want to get in anyone’s business.  We don’t want to hurt anyone’s pride or reputation.  We don’t want to seem crazy or be laughed at.

Know what?  BE NOSY!!!  One of our neighbors has shunned us because my husband is constantly watching out for the neighborhood.  He insists we keep our shades open, day or night.  He always wants to see what’s going on.  He’s the guy who will knock on your door and say he noticed your flat tire.  He’ll make a note of strange cars on the block.  He knows the faces, if not also the names, of our neighbors and their usual visitors.  That neighbor I mentioned before said that he should mind his own business.  Well, that’s what neighbors do.  They watch out for each other.  Or we should.

GET IN THEIR BUSINESS!!!  If the friends of Adam Lanza’s mother, the ones who said they noticed she was stressed out about Adam, that they were concerned about him, that her gun hobby was worrisome… if those people had said something to her, to authorities, to her ex-husband/Adam’s father…  all those lives would’ve been saved.  But they all respected her privacy and swallowed their concerns.

FORGET REPUTATION!  DO NOT BE ASHAMED!  We are all human, all flawed, all dealing with one problem or another.  Why is there such shame and stigma attached to asking for help?  I’m guilty of this myself as well.

As I’ve mentioned in this blog before, I have finally decided to seek mental health treatment.  My therapist made a note at the end of our first session that I was careful to match my outfit, down to my shoes, to look outwardly put together.  I wasn’t aware of the reasons that I did this.  But she was right.  I wanted to project an image of a person who isn’t falling apart.

Why?  I mean, I know that we have to hold our selves together to a point.  We have jobs to do, kids to raise, homes to care for.  But why can’t we show our cracks, be vulnerable and open?

Especially since so many others are dealing with such similar issues?  We’d all be amazed if we just admitted out loud how we are feeling.  So many would say “Oh My God!  Me too!”

I don’t know the steps that need to be taken to change the world in this way.  I only know that I am working on it on my end.

Yes, I am trying to live out loud.

For the first time ever.

Thanks for being my sounding board.  You’ll never know the impact you have.  Don’t forget that.






Sometimes casting is all that counts…

So… I was scrolling through the preview guide yesterday and saw on FearNet that some sort of Lost Boys sequel was coming up, complete with Corey Feldman.  So, of course, I DVR’d that sucker. (Pun SOOOO intended.)

The movie was horrible.  Really.  But…  I was introduced to this smolderingly handsome young actor:

Angus Sutherland as Shane

Angus Sutherland as Shane

He’s the youngest half-brother of Kiefer, who we all know was the super cool vampire from the original Lost Boys.  Sigh…  those were the days.

But truely, the movie did bite (I could do this all day), but he was perfectly cast, and really easy on the eyes, so I watched the whole thing.

Casting counts, Peeps.

He’d be fang-tastic (ok, I’ll stop now) as Lestat in an Anne Rice Vampire Chronicles movie.  Or perhaps as Jason the werewolf in a Laurell K Hamilton Anita Blake movie…

All I know is I’d watch anything he’s in.

Move over Charlie Hunnam.  (But not too far over, mmkay?)

Charlie Hunnam.  Mmmm...

Charlie Hunnam. Mmmm…

When I grew up I wanted to write for TV

Well, there were a gazillion different dream jobs I had throughout childhood.  Fashion designer, baby doctor, prima ballerina…  But the one that stuck around the longest was that I wanted to write for television.

On a tour of a college (not the one I went to), I even asked an English department representative if there were classes in their curriculum that would support this dream.  He sort of poo-poo’d me and said that was a very small niche.  So, hearing that, and similar thoughts and opinions from other well-meaning adults (“That’s a very competitive field.” or “You’d be better off doing something you can actually make money doing.”), I gave up that goal.  I settled for becoming a teacher.  Meh.

I don’t think I was very well suited for teaching.  Although I adore children and I was able to be creative and all of that, I just wasn’t suited for the emotional toll it takes.  Big ups to the teachers out there.  Seriously.  It’s a tough job.

I still think I’m well suited for television scripting.  I really do.

Is 38 too old to make it?  Gah.  Probably.


Advice to Young Women (which I know you won’t heed)

I’m pushing 40, Peeps.  There is no denying the fact that I’m *gasp* Middle Age (ish).  That idea sorta fills me with dread, but then I stop and think, “I’d rather be no one than me, no where than here.”  And that is because, my Young Peepstresses, because I’ve been there, done that.  (If you could see me, you’d see me wiping my hands together all snarky-like).  Now that’s not to say I don’t have hopes and dreams.  I do.  But now I want to enhance my life, not get a new one.  Make sense?  No?  Oh well, back to the subject at hand…  Advice.

Here are things I wish I could tell Young Scroogy:

  1. Learn how to change your own tires, hook up your own electronics, make your own major purchases.  You’ll be so proud of yourself for doing those things independently.
  2. Get enough sleep, drink more water, make smart food choices, wear sunblock, and stay active.  Good habits are never a mistake.
  3. Find a good hairstylist, your signature style, and a skin-care regimen that works for you.  You are the only you there is.
  4. Remember it’s the quality, not quantity of friends and social interactions that matter.  Five days home alone followed by an amazing conversation with your bestie trumps 6 days in a row of bar-hopping with the gang and waking up with a hangover.
  5. Be your own best companion.  Develop your own interests and hobbies.  Learn to enjoy solitude.
  6. If what you love to do doesn’t pay the bills, don’t abandon it.  It can still fill your life in ways money never will.
  7. Try something new whenever you get the chance.  Never stop learning.
  8. Don’t save the “good” perfume for only special occasions. (Or good shoes, bag, outfit, etc)  Every day is special enough.
  9. You only get one pair of feet, knees, set of teeth, etc.  Take care of your body.
  10. Love will find you.  I swear.  Relax already.

So, yeah, there ya go.  I am certain that someone told me these when I was 20 something, but I was too busy doing shots of Tuaca at Bar Baltimore and hoping that cute boy on the dance floor was Mr Right.  😉

Confession of a Groupie

It’s the last song of their last set.  My last chance to catch his eye.

My mouth is cotton-dry from a joint that some dude was passing around in the back row.  I’d kill for a beer.  The thought of hoppy bubbles makes my tongue feel thicker, scratchier.

But I finally worked my way through the sweaty, gyrating crowd.  I am finally standing at the very front, so close that I can see the glisten on his forehead in the stage lights as he plays.

No way I’m leaving this spot.  I’ve come for him.  And he is what I’ll have.

I watch him slap the strings of his bass guitar, and imagine the roughness of his fingertips on my skin.  His eyes are down, looking at his instrument so that his lashes leave shadows on his cheekbones, and I ache to kiss them.  His luscious lips are parted in concentration, and I yearn to taste them, my once dry mouth watering.  His body is swaying with the beat, and my body responds to his rhythm.  We move together.  We feel the music.

I am transfixed, tingling, titillated.

He flicks his head up to shake a dark curl out of his eyes.  His focus shifts to the crowd.  Our eyes meet.

I see that sultry twinkle in the depths of his rich brown eyes, and I know.  I’ve hooked him.

For the remainder of this song, this set, this show, there is only me and him.  When he smiles, I know he shines for me.  When he licks his lips, I know he burns to lick mine.  When his fingers move up and down the fret, I know he itches to touch my skin.

The song ends, the lead singer speaks, and we are still locked in this silvery flirty dance.  I see him whispering to a band mate, motion in my direction as they leave the stage.

I know what comes next.  This isn’t my first concert conquest.  I wait.

And sure enough, I am soon being led backstage, back to him.

We are divinely alone in this small room.  I take off my shoes.  The checkered tile floor is blessedly cold on my hot feet.  I pad, soundless, across the room to where he waits.

An oscillating fan whirrs towards us, cooling the sweat on my arms and chest, bringing up goosebumps.  My skin is alive, waiting for his touch.

I’m standing before him, and I move in to kiss, but he stops me and mutters, “Wait.”

He’s holding something tiny pinched between his finger and thumb.  He runs his free fingers along the inside of my forearm, and I exhale shakily at his caress.  His fingers continue past the tender bend of my elbow, up to my shoulder, my neck, my jaw, my lips.

“Open.”  He whispers and I comply.

He places a small square of paper on my tongue and I smile, knowingly.  He shows his own hit to me and I giggle.

Finally, his hands are on me, strong and hot, pulling me close.

Now is That Moment.  My favorite moment of all.  Those milliseconds before lips meet lips.

His eyes glow with flecks of gold and green in the brown, his heavy lids nearly close as he focuses on my mouth.

He licks his lips like he had onstage, and he grins greedily, hungrily .  Yes.  This.  Now.

Soft and strong, warm and wet, his kisses taste like orange.

His mouth leaves mine only to lead me to the couch.  He pulls me down to him, I straddle his lap.

We are face to face, heat to heat.

His lashes shade his face once more as he looks at my body as if it were a new instrument to play.  I kiss his cheekbones, taste the salt of his skin.

I kiss his jaw, his chin.  I kiss a warm, wet trail, cooling it with my breath, until I reach that tender morsel of earlobe.  I take it in my mouth. I graze it with my teeth.

With a groan he lifts me, turns and shifts until he is above me.  I cannot blink, cannot look away as he tears off his shirt, slides out of his jeans.

My eyes take in the sight of him, ready and needy as I slip out of my dress.  The silk falls, pools on the floor like molten wax.

We are skin to skin, heart to heart.

I close my eyes and succumb.






TV makes me cry. Damn hormones!

So, the ol’ Scroogy hormones are crazy out of whack lately.  I blame them for that killer headache I posted about the other day.  And the cramps and sore boobs.  And the undying lust for anything chocolate followed by something crispy and salty.

And they are to blame, Peeps, for the fact that I find myself crying over TV shows.  Gah. Some examples:

  • Lilly on HIMYM said that she sometimes wishes she wasn’t a Mom and sometimes wants to pack her bags and run away.  Scroogy cried.
  • Carly on General Hospital said that she can’t stand the sight of herself.  Scroogy cried.
  • The squints on Bones discovered the remains of a mixed race (Neanderthal & Homosapien) household.  The parents were attacked and killed because their lifestyle was not accepted.  Their last actions were to hold each other as they died.  The child was asleep during the attack & woke up to find her parents dead.  She starved to death, but her last act was to cuddle up with her parents’ remains.  Oh, lordy, did Scroogy cry.

I cannot wait for this shit to pass, you guys.  It’s ridiculous.

Little Angelfaces

Holy snikeys, Peeps, I know I complain about my littles on here a lot.  Or repeat their silliness ad nauseum.  But this post is in complete gratitude of my daughters.

I have had a terrible headache for 4 straight days.  So bad that Friday and Saturday I spent mostly in bed, in the dark.  I’ve been nauseated and dizzy too.  It’s been pretty hellish in Scroogyland.  (Never fear, faithful Peeps, I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow.  The hubs even took off work for it.)

But my girls have been amazing.  So patient and sweet, so quiet and caring.  Quiet has been the greatest blessing as my brain pulses against my skull.  I am in awe of their understanding.

Today I had to brave the big bad world to go to the pharmacy and to the grocery store.  We were out of everything.  And my little monkeys helped in every way.  They even helped load and unload the trunk.  I mean…  Wow.

So, Thank you my Lala.  Thank you my Loopsy.

You are treasured.

Taking stock

I am not perfect.  And I am learning to accept that it’s okay.  I am learning that I am worthy of good things, of love, of affection, of nurturing and care.  It’s a rough lesson to learn when all my life I’ve been my own worst enemy.

Here is a list, dear Scroogy, of all your wonderfulness.  Please read daily:

  1. You are creative.
  2. You are intelligent.
  3. Your soft arms and legs and belly make for great cuddles and hugs.
  4. You are a reader.
  5. You are open-minded.
  6. You are thoughtful.
  7. You have great skin and eyes.
  8. You can be funny.
  9. You made two amazing babies. At the same time.
  10. You keep going.

Old Black & Whites

One of my goals this year is to return my focus on things I love to do- read, listen to music, see films.

In the quest to fulfill this goal, I have rediscovered Turner Classic Movies. 

Instead of thinking it a boring old channel of black and white nonsense, it appears to me now a treasure trove of undiscovered gems. 

Last week, I watched Topper with Cary Grant and Constance Bennett.  It reminded me how much I just adore Mr. Grant.  He was handsome, quirky, dryly humorous.  One of a kind.

This week, I started watching To Have or Have Not with Bogey & Bacall.  To my knowledge it was their first film together.  Seeing them interact colors Bogey in a whole new light for me.  He seems, I dunno, hot. 

I also have Love Me Tender waiting for me on my DVR.  Elvis.  Yes.  The only Elvis movie I’ve seen before was Viva Las Vegas, and I don’t think I ever saw the whole thing through.  I’m looking forward to seeing a softer side of The King.

What old classics do you enjoy, Peeps?  I’m looking for ideas…