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Ringing Out the New Year

 

 

I, for one, am happy to ring in the New Year and be gone with the holiday season. It’s not that I don’t thoroughly enjoy running around town like a chicken with my head cut off, desperately trying to insure my family a Norman Rockwell Christmas, but let’s be honest…, none of us have even come close.


Every one of us has our axes in life to grind and they all seem to surface between Thanksgiving and New Years, while usually drunk. And that will certainly drive you to drink even more.


As my girls get older, they are becoming aware that the holidays “Don’t just happen.”  This is because they are females and are beginning to learn by example. My husband, on the other hand, is totally unaware of how things get done. He strolls through November and December as relaxed as can be, basically with his head up his ass, which is where he is ready to stick mine by New Year’s Eve. This is because he is male and thinks there is a holiday fairy that bestows down upon us and gets everything done. That would be ME, Loretta.


While preparing Thanksgiving dinner for 22, I ask my better half to bring the folding table in and put it in the living room so I may set the (three) tables while he is out at the pep rally. Already, he is having way more fun than I am. He stupidly asks, “Can’t I do it tomorrow morning?”


“No, God damn it, we will be at the football game in the morning and I need to set the tables tonight!” see how cheery the holidays make me. By the 3rd week in December, he wants to shove mistletoe up my ass.


“So where do you want this?” he asks standing in the family room.


“You know, there is a man who looks JUST like you that eats here every Thanksgiving. You mean to tell me you don’t know where that table goes? You aren’t even in the right room!”


“No, but if you bend over I can probably find a good spot for it.”


Apparently my holiday spirit is rubbing off on him.


Immediately after finishing the Thanksgiving dishes, the dreaded question arises, “When are we getting the tree?”


Flash ahead two weeks and you’ll find dear hubby standing in the family room with a10-foot tree. At least he is in the right room, the only one with a cathedral ceiling. Unless he stuck it out a skylight, it’s the only room it will fit in. Not a good option here in New England where a significant amount of snow is possible during the holiday season.


“Tootsie, where do you want this?” he asks.


“Bend over and I can probably find a spot.” I responded with a wink. 


When a tree falls in the family room and lands in the living room while we are out at a party, can it still be heard? Yes, especially by all of the children who are home as it crashes down upon them. As my cell phone is vibrating with panicked text messages (they no longer communicate by voice) “Mom, the tree fell, what should we do?” I turned to “Mr. I told you to tie it off” and said, “Honey, fetch me another drink, I really need It.” and replied back, “Is there any loss of life?“


“We can’t find the cat.”


As New Years approached, I had a crushed tree, no turtledoves, and a missing cat, a dog that does not care, kids that are bored, and a husband hiding in the basement.

As I begin to pack up all the holiday cheer and decorations, which would still be hanging in July if not for ME, the holiday fairy, I wonder…was the Rockwell family any more functional than mine?


According to Google, he was much like the rest of us. Married three times, once divorced, twice widowed, and, oddly enough, all three wives were teachers.

 

In Norman’ s own words,  "The view of life I communicate in my pictures excludes the sordid and ugly. I paint life as I would like it to be." And, “If a picture wasn't going very well, I'd put a puppy in it.”


Happy New Year and relax, he was just like us, but with a talent to paint his perfect family.  None of us are perfect, which makes us real.


And don’t get a puppy to paint your life perfect.  Chances are it will shit in your house it make it less perfect than it already is. 


 

You Want to Look at my What?   

In the past three weeks I have endured: a pap smear, a mammogram, and a colonosopcy. Confusingly, my husband cannot understand why I am “a little irritable” and have no interest in sex. DUH!


And, it being December, I cannot think of a better way to enhance my holiday spirit, can you?


My God, all I need is an emergency root canal to send me out to the streets caroling, dragging the four poor attitude infested teenagers that live in my house with me.


The pap smear and mammogram are pretty standard and expected at my age but the colonospcy brings forth the statement, “Wow, you don’t look bad for 50.”

I am not FIFTY for Christ sake! I am early. As I was for menopause.

Being early for the train or a plane is a good thing; but for life’s passages, I’d rather be late. The only sign a have managed not to stop at is grey hair. As everything else begins to sag and sink south its the only thing I have left to brag about. This truly amazes me and my hairdresser, considering the members of my family, most of whom he has met. “Are you sure you are not seeing someone else for touch ups?” he always asks.


The day of my procedure I apprehensively approached the nurses station and asked “I am here to see Dr. Ullman, am I in the correct place? (desperately hoping the answer was no). The nurse asked “Do you have an appointment?”


“Why no.” I replied. “I just awoke this morning and said to my (very embarrassed husband) Honey, I feel like a colonospocy, would you mind skipping me down to Emerson Hospital? Maybe they can squeeze me in.”


“Tootsie Roll, this is no time to be a smart ass?” my husband whispered in my ear.


I am in no mood for pet names and am desperately trying not to think about my ass right now or anything brown.


In the last 36 hours I digested nothing except jell-o, clear liquids (technically white wine is a clear liquid) and a concoction that even Grey Goose could not make palatable. Said concoction enabled me the pleasure of spending a considerable amount of time in my bathroom, which I now realize is in desperate need of re-decorating. I think this totally JUSTFIES me being a smart or dumb or whatever type of ASS I want to be. Add a HOLE at the end of it and, as they saying goes, if the shoe fits wear it. Or better yet, buy one in every color.


According to everyone I know the prep is worse than the procedure which I am now praying is true; at this point I am only in this for the drugs. Somehow my nurse knew this, “Oh you must be here for a colonospocy, I can tell by the scowl look on your face. If you are a good girl and put this johnny on , I’ll get you hooked up to some nice relaxing substances. You look young for 50, who does your hair?”


OMG, apparently I have become a lesbian; at that moment I love HER more than my husband, children and the best bottle of chardonnay money can buy. Who knew colonospocy could cause this? All along I thought it was genetic.


“I am not, I don’t know, I don’t care.” was the last thing I remember before awakening to eating a big blueberry muffin and the best cup of coffee I have ever had. Starvation will even make hospital food seem fabulous.

“Can I have another?” I asked.


“Muffin?“, asked the nurse.


“No, a colonospocy. That was the best trip I have ever taken without having to drive to Logan. How many frequent flyer miles did I rack up?

“None, and the good news is you are clean. See you in 10 years.” she smirked.


Crap, I thought, 10 years until I fly again.


“Could you check my bladder? It feels a little low. How about a by-pass? Come to think of it, my arteries are feeling a little clogged!” I screamed as she pushed my wheel chair out the door.

Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out and have a happy holiday!

What some people won’t do for a good blueberry muffin.

(My wonderful on duty nurse asked me to write this spread the word. If you are approaching fifty have no fear, it is not a big deal and may save your life. Suck it up and Just Do It! The drugs are great and you might just loose a couple of pounds.)


Don't Ask Me

For the most part, I am a law-abiding citizen. I pay my taxes on time, stop at crosswalks, and curb my dog. Unlike ALL of my brothers, I have never been arrested. I have not quite mastered the speed limit thing, but, all and all, I am a fairly decent person who has worked hard at going “UP” instead of “DOWN” at my demise.


My husband, on the other hand, must be aiming for a warmer resting place and insists on dragging me down with him. For he and his shenanigans somehow always end up involving me. To think we are both Catholic (bad ones, at best), the guilt has (somewhat) kept me on the straight and narrow so far, but not him.


This year, after hosting a Toys For Tots holiday party with my three eighth-grade daughters (that in and of itself should be a free pass through the Pearly Gates with a reserved seat next to the good Lord himself, if not on his lap), I had the job of delivering the gifts collected. While the girls slept off their Diet Coke, “I can’t believe she wore the same dress as me and he didn’t ask me to dance“ hangovers, I headed for the police station.


Upon arriving, I recruited a couple of handsome, nice, (OMG when did they become young enough to be my sons?) officers to help me unload my truck. As we grabbed bag after bag, they were in total amazement as to the amount of toys. The best surprise came at the end when the last bag was lifted which revealed something that left them (and myself) speechless. As we ALL peered into the back of my Jeep, finally someone (not me) dared to speak, “Ma’am, is that a fire hydrant in the back of your car? “ (not to be mistaken with an extinguisher, this was a HYDRANT!)


I am now sweating profusely, thinking my brothers are going to wet themselves laughing at the thought of me spending Christmas Eve in jail for receiving stolen property. And of all things, a fire hydrant! I doubt anyone would believe I got it on e-Bay.


I paused for a moment, looked right, then left, and decided it would not make sense to make a run for it. Instead, I offered, “I have no idea why there is a fire hydrant in the back of my car.” To further insure I was a total ass, I asked, “You don‘t have a fire hydrant in the back of your car? “


“No, Ma’am, I don’t.” I really wish he’d stop calling me Ma’am, it was starting to annoy me; for I am still young enough to remember when I was called Miss.


Dead silence from both officers made me a little uneasy. I wasn’t quite sure if it was illegal to be carrying such a possession, and by the dumbfounded expressions coming from them, I don’t think they did either. I figured I probably should, at the very least, try and explain.


“It’s a Christmas gift for the dog. What did you get yours?” was the only marginally intelligent thing I could think to say while slamming the hatch shut and thinking…”I am going to kill that son-of-a-bitch husband of mine.”


“Great idea, got any for the Little Miss? Apparently, the nice young officer thought I needed to know that not only was his wife still a Miss but was little, too? Now I am passed annoyed…I am pissed.


“Something not as heavy and bright (let’s face it, flaming red does not go with many decors). How about something smaller, crystal clear and that could hang from each of her lobes?”


As I “screeched out of the police station, I called my husband at the fire station, where he works, to give him some holiday cheer, “Can YOU please tell me why there is a fire hydrant in the back of my Jeep?“


Silence…a sure indication that he is “thinking” of what to tell his “Little (big) Miss (ma’am)”. I could almost smell his brain cells burning.

His alter boy reply was…”I found it.”

“You found It! Mike, its not like there are fire hydrants HIDING all over the streets of America. My God, they can be FOUND every 30 feet . Given the fact that they are usually bright red or screaming yellow it makes it rather difficult for them to hide. Considering your occupation, one would think you have an unfair advantage on the poor little “hiding” hydrants.


“Loretta, do you have to wreck everything? The dog and I searched high and low for the perfect gift, and now you have ruined the surprise. The dog will be so upset. We thought it would look nice in the entry, don’t you?”


“NO. Whose idea was it, yours or the dog? And how would I explain to him that it is not okay to pee in the house despite the fact that YOU have provided the perfect spot?”

“You’d better have a back-up, and it better fit in my lobes.”


I ended up with earrings shaped like fire hydrants.


I wonder what Little Miss got?


 

Drop it Deer


Hearing my kids ask, “Mom, how long have you been home?” one too many times, I decided to add something to my life that would greet me at the door with a smile and demand nothing of me except a pat on the head. Really, all I wanted was for someone or something to notice I was in the house. My teenagers take no notice of me until they need a ride and a twenty.


Along came Barney, my 83-pound golden retriever. He is a rescue dog from Memphis, TN, who shares in my love for country music (unlike my children and husband) and has a slight twang in his bark. I wasn’t expecting something the size of a small Buick when adopting him, but, nonetheless, Barney thinks I can walk on water and doesn't tell me to shut up when I sing in the car. I know this is because he is a DAWG and I am food lady. Regardless, he is great for my ego, as he follows me everywhere, eager to please (unlike my children and husband).

Each morning we start the day on a three-mile hike in the woods. This is when all the problems of the world are solved. I babble endlessly as he trots along, shaking his head hopelessly agreeing with me. If men would only behave in the same manner, just think what it would do to the divorce rate. This is usually my favorite part of the day, until last week.


Barney fell behind on the path, so I stopped and with a whistle, as usual, he came running with, what appeared to be, a large stick in his mouth. As I am thinking, "Be careful, you could poke your eye out with that," I realize that he is not a toddler and “it” is not a stick. It was…the leg of a deer, hoof and all.
 

Just last week, my sister had called me in a panic because her dog had eaten an avocado. His inability to pass the pit resulted in a large vet bill. There is a considerable size difference between a pit and a hoof, neither of which a dog should eat.  Therefore, I was left thinking, "Oh, crap, he needs to be stopped."  I, being the only person in the woods, realized it would have to be me. Which means I am going to have to touch the deer limb or call 911.
 

I try to reason with him, “Barney, drop it. You think that chocolate cake you ate last week was tough coming out, you'll never meet a bigger “bitch” than that hoof is going to be coming out the other end!”
 

I can read his mind, “Are you kidding me? Need I remind you that I am a DAWG; and in my world, this is Thanksgiving dinner. Please pass the gravy.”
 

“Barney, drop it now," I command, knowing full well I am going to have to wrestle him for it.
 

Totally grossed out, I hold my nose, close my eyes, and grab hold of it. Because he is a DAWG, he thinks I am playing and shakes his head, which knocks me down. I am now thrashing around in the snow screaming four letter words at my dog while dodging flying deer debris.
 

After pinning him against a tree trunk and wedging my feet up on his shoulders, I finally manage to pry it free from his mouth. We are now both sweating, out of breath, and covered in deer membrane, not a pretty sight even for sore eyes. It is officially no longer a “good hair day."


Neither one of us was happy as we continued on our walk, Barney feeling defeated, and me just wanting to puke. Then it occurred to me. This was just not some inconsiderate deer that happened to carelessly leave its leg laying about for my dog to discover. Something must have ripped it off. And that something just may be roaming around the woods with me.

Well, that certainly put spring in our step as we headed for the house. As I stood at the back door someone yelled, “Oh my God what smells so bad?”  (To think, all I needed was to be covered in deer meat to finally be noticed.) 

 

I instructed my husband to strip me down and toss everything; including my eyeglasses and the dog in the washing machine and once again reminded myself…I love my dog.

 

Oh, and just burn the gloves.


 

Do You Smoke After Sex?

“Honey, what happened to the steering wheel in the Jeep?” my husband cautiously asked.

“I was chewing on it. Why do you ask?” I replied through gritted teeth.

“Oh, except for the fact that it matched the rest of the interior perfectly, I never really liked it either.  Maybe it is time for a new one.” was his way of trying to calm me down.

Day 13 of not smoking, it’s going relatively well, don’t you think? Heck, I haven’t tossed the cat out a window, my four teenaged daughters still have most of their hair, and there has been no loss of life yet.

Smoking was the one thing I really hated about myself. I know there is probably a Craig's List somewhere out there dedicated to "things Loretta does that pisses me off," but for the sake of this story, let's just stick with my bad habit of smoking. I can only focus on fixing one thing at a time.

I guess I needed a brick to hit me over the head to come to the realization that putting toxic chemicals in my body on a regular basis might not be good idea. You see, I did what many other kids did when I was a teenager, followed the Marlboro Man right to the convenience store and bought a pack. He was quite the hunk before lung cancer got him, wasn't he? 

Now that my kids are teenagers, I can hardly lecture them not to smoke while puffing on a butt. God knows they already think I know NOTHING. Why give them any justification to let everyone on MySpace know what a moron I am. Can you picture the video on YouTube of me making my famous "enter a famous dish here", while blowing smoke rings over the kitchen stove. 

After picking chunks of brick and mortar out of my hair, I called my doctor to ask for help. She explained that inducing me into a coma for three months was not an option and prescribed the latest miracle drug to help. She warned, “Loretta, most people replace one addiction for another, beware. I‘ll see you in three months.”

“Okay, well, why don’t you start researching heroin rehab centers; I’ll probably need one the next time you see me.”

My husband had his own selfish solution as to what to replace my addiction to nicotine with. When I reminded him that I smoked a pack a day which consisted of 20, he agreed that even he might not be “up” to that.

“I was thinking chocolate, good luck," and with a pat on my back she sends me out to the big bad world without Virginia Slim, who I thought was my best friend and the solution to all my problems.

I had no idea that my car would start nor would my hair dryer without a cigarette. Not to mention I had to learn how to use a phone and this very computer without smoking. My sister began to wonder why I hadn’t called her in three weeks. I finally sent her a text message and explained why. She (a nonsmoker) immediately started sending me words of encouragement, which I desperately needed. “Loretta, even if they are all menstruating at the same time, it is not a good idea, and probably illegal to dismember your children. Oh, just think of the mess. Do not smoke; it is just a test.”

Venting to a smoker is a big mistake; take my mother and my plumber, please, in that order. They do not like when a fellow smoker jumps ship. After her 17th call, I finally found the courage to answer. While we were chatting, I sensed she was smoking, “Mom, how could you? You know I quit,” I complained.

“Oh, for heavens sake, I live in Maine. I hardly doubt it offends you in Massachusetts!”

Thanks for your support, MOTHER. It MUST be me being overly SENSITIVE!

My plumber, who has battled the butt for years, asked me how I was last time I had to, unfortunately, call him (no one ever calls their plumber just to chat). When I said “Don, I quit smoking,” he asked,…”Why?”

After pulling the phone away from my face and staring at it in disbelief, I put it back to my ear and replied, “Donald, did you just ask me why?“

Maybe because I am afraid that the charcoal briquettes in my gas grill look better than my lungs!

So I am on my way to a healthier me. If you pass me on the road and I am munching on my dashboard, just give a beep and a wave, it will keep me going and my kids and marriage alive for yet another day.

Do I smoke after sex? I don’t know…I never looked.


No Parking Zone

How I was elected to be charge of my local cheer program is still a mystery to me.  Obviously, this village found its idiot.  Being the optimistic person I am, I think things went relatively well at our season opener, despite the fact that I forgot to bring the pom-poms until the 4th game of the day.  The poor C-team had no football players to cheer for (definitely not my fault that the opposing team did not have enough players for a game), and I managed to get the tow truck driver to release my car from the flat bed seconds before he took it away.

There I am at the snack shack, putting mustard on my hot dog, the first morsel of food I was about to eat all day, when a fellow coach comes running up to me, sweating, yelling, "Loretta, your truck is being towed.”

This sends me running out to the parking lot, hot dog in hand, only to find my car being hoisted onto a flat bed, "Stop...you put that down right this instant, young man.  Don't you know who I am?"

"Let me guess, the hot dog lady?" he replies, apparently not giving a rat's behind.

"No, the Cheer Director.  I parked here for 10 minutes to unload the cheer stuff out of my car.  Can you please cut it loose?"

"Yes, for ninety bucks, cash," he replies.

Like I would have an extra ninety bucks after having spent the entire day at a football field with four kids.

"Do you take American Express?" I ask.

"No, but I can drive you to an ATM."  His solution to getting my car freed and him getting some drinking money.

"Wait here and hold this," as I hand him my hotdog.  "And if you eat it, I will be forced to kill you."

Now panicked, I ran back to the snack shack and demanded, "I need to cash a check. Someone give me $90, NOW."  Since this is not an everyday occurrence at the snack shack, rather confused, they asked why.

"Because my hot dog is being held hostage in the parking lot."

"Our hot dogs are not that good, Loretta," as they fetched up the cash.

While I was having an embarrassing lecture from the Acton Police Department, he explained to me that the Football Director ordered all illegally parked cars towed.

Well, he should be happy that his wife's name is Donna and NOT Loretta.

Ok, you thought this story could not get any worse.

After I managed to rescue my car, I headed to the field to complain to my husband (which is my divine right as his wife) about my car towing expenses, when he pipes up with, "Oh, I saw the police officer ‘checking out‘ your car when I was entering the field."


Now ready to spit fire out of my nose, I scratch my head and ask, "What did you think he was doing, checking the air pressure in my tires? It didn't occur to you to ask the nice officer why he was ‘checking out’ my banged up Jeep? I doubt he was merely admiring its nice set of...hubcaps!"

"No, you always park there when you are unloading YOUR cheer crap. So I just went in and started watching the game. A-team is playing really well, don't you think?"

"Enough about the game, did you see the tow truck there, too," I ask trying desperately to give him an out and avoid yet another divorce.

He laughs, what a complete ass, and says, "Oh, my god, I would have told them, do you know whose car you are towing? You are going to have one hot-headed little blonde on your hands, and trust me, she won't be very cheery. Good luck to the two of you!'"

I could have just killed him.

But then who would do my laundry?

Do you know how many new tops I could buy at TJMaxx with $90? Mr. laundry man is about to find out.

Parking in a tow zone...stupid!

Leaving 26 seventh and eighth grade cheerleaders unattended on a football field to go to an ATM machine...not an option.

Paying ninety bucks for a hotdog held hostage by a tow truck driver with three teeth...necessary.

Having the Football Director order the Cheer Director's car towed while her husband stood by and watched...priceless.

As they will both discover.

Having grabbed the wrong checkbook that morning, it was my husband’s check that paid the tow fee.

As for the football director…well, payback is a bitch.

And not a very cheery one.


 

 

A Wireless World

Written By:  Loretta Mosca

 

As my husband tried desperately to keep it erect, I turned the corner and gasped, “Oh my God, it’s too big.”

 

“What do you mean it’s too big? YOU picked it out!” he screamed while trying to steady himself.

 

“Well it looked a lot smaller outdoors. I think we should return it, don’t you?”

 

“Loretta, I just may become a Jew, forever eliminating the chore of planting a fourteen-foot tree inside our home.”

 

“Honey, given your poor attitude and your Harley Davidson, I doubt they’d have you.”

 

“There is nothing wrong with my Harley and NO ONE returns Christmas trees! Would you just please tell me if it is straight or not.”

 

My husband is not a big fan of the holiday season or of me during it. Now that I think about it, I have never been married to a man that is.

 

I mean really, what does he have to complain about? I can say with great confidence that I take care of most of the arrangements. It usually starts with me annoying him with the hanging of the lights, which always leads to me blowing all the circuit breakers. Then he will once again remind me that I cannot plug 4000 lights into one outlet, using an in-door extension cord, and accuse me of trying to burn down the house.

 

Meanwhile I think he is overreacting, being a firefighter as such. Next he yells from the garage, “Loretta, are you trying to see how fast our electric meter will spin? It is going faster than a hamster would on his wheel after a coffee from Starbucks.”

 

He is not the only one in our home with a poor attitude during this supposed joyful season; take my four girls, please. What would make a twelve year old think it reasonable to put a 2007 black Ford Mustang Shelby GT 500 convertible on her Christmas list? When I explained to the child in question that she would not be eligible to drive for another four years she was gracious enough to inform me that I could take it out for a spin once in a while, as long as I paid for the gas.

 

The other three lists were not much better; they included new laps tops for all and cell phones that cost more than my monthly car payment. “But Mom, it has Internet access, downloads music, videos and movies, and its wireless!” This eliminates the need for a laptop and antiquates all the other electronic equipment in my house.

 

Apparently they think our last name has changed to Hilton.

 

“Girls, when I was your age I shared ONE yellow rotary phone hung on the kitchen wall with five other siblings and my best gift was a new bike with a whopping three speeds. Which incidentally was my only means of transporting my sorry ass around town. And guess what? Much like the bras we wore back then, it too was wireless.”

 

As I sent them off to revise their lists I wondered; just what does one do to convert to a Jew?  

 

A menorah and candles, which would be the answer to wireless lights too. 

 

Now there's a bright idea!

 


 

 

Pardon Me

 

 

Will Paris Hilton be in danger behind bars???

 

Oh, please, maybe if she was sharing a cell with David Hasselhoff or Alex Baldwin!

 

In her virgin white dress and sunglasses large enough to cover the windshield of her Bentley, she claims the sentence is un-justified. I don’t know about you, but I have never had the confidence to wear white-framed sunglasses.  I thought those were reserved for ladies in their nineties living in Boca Raton! Bling them, and you’ve got the "LOOK."

 

We parents all know that the worst part about grounding a child is that it forces YOU to spend time with them at their worst. You know damn well that the child being imprisoned in your home is going to torture you to no end. You better have some serious alcoholic beverages on hand… they will certainly drive you to drink.  Sober you may be tempted to toss them and you out the picture window. 

 

“But, Mom, it wasn’t my fault!”

 

“They dared me.”

 

“You are ruining my life.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

And then you hear the sorriest cry ever …“I’m sorry, I‘ll never do it again.”

 

And you think, “I bet you are, and so am I.”  Do they think we are having any fun throughout this process?

 

It’s called good parenting.   We good parents know that we will tolerate much more of our children than society will. Therefore, it is in all of our best interest, mostly the child that you are raising, that setting limitations and boundaries are vital. Otherwise, crying eyes, peering through bars, dressed in an orange jumpsuit is a great possibility -- not a place any of us wants to see our kids in.

 

Maybe if someone had set a boundary with Miss Hilton in her younger years, she would not have to embarrass herself in front of a judge, claiming she did not know that she was not allowed to drive after having her license suspended. Of course, she may have known this vital piece of information if she read her mail, which she does not. Apparently, she is far too busy trashing her reputation to be bothered. 

 

The only thing Arnold should consider pardoning is her appearance and not her sentence! Although if I were her I would be less worried about jail and more worried about my crotch being seen all over the Internet. We can only hope that his past run in with the law; driving a motorcycle without a license, will not allow him to feel compassion for the diva and let her off the hook.  His political career would certainly insure more future votes if he just terminated her.

 

 

It all goes back to basic math. Unless they learn it the old fashion way, of counting on their fingers, they are up a creek without a paddle. The batteries may die, the sun may not light the solar screen, and the power may go out, leaving them on their own to solve their problems, without calculating “excuses“. 

 

When my daughters fly the coop, I can only hope that they bend a few rules to make their lives exciting, but know where and when to draw the line.

 

Read your mail, especially when it is from the local courthouse.

 

And don’t wear white sunglasses before Memorial Day or after Labor Day, not ever!

 

They are near dead and simply trashy!


 

 

What was I thinking?

Going topless at my age, call it a mid-life crisis, but if that is so than I am not slated to expire until I’m ninety, which I suppose is good news, for some.

Thinking I was still perky enough but not being totally confident, I called my sister Jen. She had been doing it for years and made it seem so exhilarating. Jen is also the one person on earth that will tell me EXACTLY what I want to hear when I have the impulse to do something naughty.

“Jen, I am thinking of buying a convertible. Do you think I am being ridiculous, or is it fear of old age setting in?”

“Old? Your husband rides a Harley at HIS age; now that is ridiculous. If Mike wants the wind whipping through his freakin' hair, he should ride in the new car with you. You'll both love it. Look how much fun Eamon and I have.”

“Jen, need I remind you Eamon is a dog and has been much easier to train than my husband.”

Mike was not too happy at the thought of being stuffed into my tangerine colored Audi convertible. The color alone would shame even the most sensitive of men and my husband is not the sensitive type.  Since my adolescent children currently have no use for me, and I no longer have a dog, I decided to take the cat for a ride. Cruising alone just didn’t seem like much fun, what would you do?

What was I thinking? Clearly, I wasn’t. Simply put…cats DO NOT like convertibles!

Not a minute after I buckled him into the front seat, he wiggled himself out, running into the back seat, making his way over the trunk and into the driveway, leaving four claw marks down the back of the car. I damn near ran the poor thing over. I figured that if he didn't like the short ride down the driveway, he was never going to make it the 70-mile trip to my summer home.

This required another call to my naughty impulse consultant.

“Jen, how long did it take to get Eamon used to the convertible?”

“Why, doesn't Mike like the hot new wheels? He'll get used to it; having four instead of two.”

“Jen, now you are being ridiculous. If Mike wanted to feel the wind in his hair he would ride his Harley or put the windows down in his F 250? 

“Loretta, I know you no longer have a dog, please don't tell me you tried to take your cat for a ride.”

“Well, sort of. It wasn't much of a ride. He climbed out over the trunk and is hiding under a bush in somewhere in my yard. Apparently, he doesn't want to go to New Hampshire this weekend.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn't make it onto the interstate. Imagine just how happy he would have been to fly out and land on the windshield of a tractor-trailer, not to mention the mess he would have made. How many squirts of washer fluid would it take to clean that up? “

Maybe it’s my sick sense of humor but the thought of that made me laugh out loud. Picturing the cat flying out of the back seat and me glancing in the rear view mirror thinking, “Gee I wonder what that was?” gives a whole new meaning to; don’t let the cat out of the bag - or the back seat in my case.

During my fit of inappropriate laughter I was reminded of another stupid cat trick, like the time I was on my way to the vet to have my last cat put down and I stopped at a yard sale. Again, what was I thinking? It was an antique chair that caught my eye, and heck I was about 20 minutes early for the appointment. Either way the cat was going to have to wait, I might as well make use of my time and his while still here.

Let's face it; cats are not nearly as adventurous as dogs. Mine is just as happy to be snoozing sprawled across my living room couch catching some afternoon rays, usually only arising to eat or pee. Come to think of it, cats have much in common with some men I know and divorced for less. 

Do they really need nine lives? 

Mine has one down and eight to go.


 

Til Death Do Us Part.

 

Very rarely do we get a boating day here in New England in October. But this Columbus day weekend, Mother Nature gave us all a gift, a beautiful rain-and snow-free weekend to enjoy the foliage and our kids, having the day off from school, if that is at all possible.

 

As we packed the kids in the car to head to our lake house in New Hampshire, after having attended three sporting events, which took up most of our weekend, one of them took off their earphones long enough to ask, “Mom, what is foliage anyway? “

 

If Norman Rockwell had a painting of what a New England fall foliage weekend would look like, my family was about to color, outside the lines, all over his beautiful vision, and mine.

To think some folks spend thousands of dollars to tour this part of the country to see it, and the nitwits in my backseat have not a clue as to what it is!

 

“Girls, it is when the leaves on the trees turn the most beautiful colors. Like the landscape is on fire, it brings in the warmth of fall and prepares us for the long cold winter.”

“Mom, I have to pee. Can we stop at the next gas station?”

 

In an attempt to entertain our four very deprived girls, my husband Mike rented a boat for the day. There is a very reasonable explanation as to why we did not take our own boat. Because we live in the ever-so-unpredictable part of the world, the northeast, on the advice of our local weather reporter, which under no circumstance can he be trusted, we had our boat put in storage just four days before.

Again, my girls were bored to death with the colors of nature and were more interested in whatever male species under the age of 18 happened to be brave enough to dare the waters on Lake Winnipesaukee. And they, more importantly, were wondering if we were going to the Nasawa Beach Bar for lunch.

 

 

Despite the constant rolling of eight eyeballs in the bow of the boat, it was a glorious day, up until my Husband took an unexpected swim. He will readily admit he needs a little fine-tuning when docking a boat, and many a docks would agree. When returning to shore to drop us off before he returned the rented boat, he once again overshot the dock and slammed into it. With a chuckle he picked up the tie rope and headed backwards towards the bow. Apparently, he was to busy talking to realize the distance that his “bump” had placed between the boat and the dock. He quickly turned to make his leap and must have thought he had become superman, able to jump over high waters in a single bound, only to land himself in the chilly waters of the lake.

 

While we all stood in the vessel in disbelief waiting for him to pop up out of the water, I am sure we all had the same thought, What the hell was he thinking?

 

Being the loving, caring wife that I am, concerned about my husband, who was then floating in a lake fully dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, work boots, and a Harley Davidson belt buckle that weighed at least 27 pounds, I yelled to him, "You stupid son-of-a-bitch; my cell phone is in your pocket!"

 

Just then I heard a faint voice behind me, “Loretta, we should probably help him.”

 

It, in fact, was me that needed help. As he was pulling himself to shore, he ever so quietly reminded me that we are connected “Til Death Do Us Part“.

 

One of the most argued issues in my family is, whose turn is it to sit in the front. There was not a bribe great enough to convince either of my children to take my place as co-pilot on the way home. Therefore, I was forced to sit next to him, in silence, hoping he would not deposit me in the tollbooth basket instead of a token. Finally, after about an hour of brooding, he turns to me and offers, “Five years ago I would have made it.“

 

 

Just then the radio played “Leave a Tender Moment Alone” by Billy Joel and I replied, “Yes, Dear, you probably would have.”

 

While thinking, try forty years ago and three less feet in between you and the dock.

 

“So, Honey, how was it, swimming in size 12 work boots?”

 

“Probably easier than cement shoes, Loretta”

 

Just another tender moment in a marriage.

 


 

 

 

Handy Men

Written by:  Loretta Mosca

 

 

 

Are you sure you know what you are doing? This statement should be incorporated into the marriage vows as one of the top things not to say unless you really want to piss off your spouse along with, yes, you do look fat in that dress, (especially on the day of the wedding).

 

Our dishwasher has not worked properly since we moved into our home, which is roughly six years ago. My husband has been insisting he can fix it, yes, for six years now. He has replaced every part of it and even added some from our old vacuum, which he is also going to fix.

 

As he continues to customize our dishwasher and I continue to clean up after it every time it has an “accident” on the kitchen floor l, remind him that we put the dog down when he was in this condition; maybe it’s time to do the same for the dishwasher. It’s only fair that we put the poor old thing out of its misery. Just think of what this is doing to its self-esteem.

 

“No, I can fix it, and I’ll be damned if it wins!” was his obviously delusional response.

 

For those of you not married to a handyman, you have no reason to be envious of us who are. You have the luxury of calling some other woman’s handyman and getting things fixed in a timely manner. For those of us married to handymen, we are held hostage to the ever-so-predictable "Male Ego," which would explain why my handyman thinks our dishwasher has somehow taken on the personality of his childhood neighborhood bully, and refuses to let it WIN.

 

“For the love of Pete, do you realize you are competing with an appliance? There is no win or lose here; it's about getting the dishes clean without flooding the kitchen. Just think of all the other things you’ll have time to fix if you'd just cry "Uncle!"

 

Knowing I needed to redirect his anger and attention in a different direction long enough to call Sears, I reminded him he promised to build me a shed five years ago, and he could get started on that instead. This made him immediately slam out of the kitchen, calling me a few choice names that I am not at liberty to put in print, but probably deserved.

 

My phone call to the “appliance engineer” brought to light an entirely different problem, which one to choose. Do we spend half a mortgage payment for the extra deluxe, pot scrubbing, quick drying, and quietist dishwasher on the planet? Come to think of it, with four teenagers living in my house, listening to the dishwasher would be a welcomed change.  Frustrated I said “Lets make this simple, just send me anything in black for under 400 bucks,” with the hopes I’d get a dishwasher and not a new set of tires.  

 

For me, it was like Christmas when it arrived. I was beaming from ear to ear and was tempted to kiss the deliveryman. Taking into consideration that my handyman was pacing the kitchen floor with boxing gloves on, I refrained from doing so.

 

The delivery folks were quite confused as to why my husband kicked the old dishwasher and screamed, "You haven't seen the last of me, you little bastard," as they carried it out.

 

As he was trying to install our "new friend," I made the default mistake of asking;   "Do you have any idea what you are doing?" 

 

It was one of those statements that when it is spilling out of your mouth, you have an outer body experience and think to yourself, I should have engaged my brain before my tongue!

 

Since my big mouth and I cannot figure out how to install our new dishwasher, I continue to wash the dishes, while I am waiting for one of the 10 handymen to return my call for help.

 

Meanwhile, I am hoping my handyman will speak to me again by the time he finishes the shed!

 

Lets hope that is before Thanksgiving, I am having 22 for dinner and could use a hand…e…man.

 

 

 


 

 

Victoria's True Secret

Written by: Loretta Mosca 

I am sure we can all agree, eleven-year-olds have no constitutional right to be shopping at Victoria’s Secret for undergarments. Frankly, I think it should be against the law.

When mine came home from a recent trip from to the most dreaded place on earth, as a mother of a teenager, no not the local “parking spot,” but rather the MALL, and bragged; “Look, 5 pairs for $25.00,” I immediately thought, heck, I was twenty-seven before I would dare to walk into such a place, not without a trench coat, dark glasses, and a big floppy hat, just in case anyone I knew, or worse yet, my mother happened to see me. My next was…let me see those.

Apparently the labels they are wearing do not stop with the designers name plastered across their jeans, shirts, bags, shoes, sweat pants, cell phones and T-shirts. It now includes undergarments. They, the simple minded adolescents who live in my house, offer the following explanation; “We have to dress for gym.”

“Who the heck is looking at your underwear?” I stupidly asked.

“EVERYONE, MOM!”

At least they are only showing off to the other girls, this is assuming they don’t have co-ed locker rooms in middle school.

I don’t know about you, but when I was eleven, my choices were NOT: low cut, bikini, hip hugger, or God forbid THONG. We had simple choices: pink or white, cotton BRIEFS, from Sears or K-Mart. This was the good old days when bras had no underwire and boobs were, well, not so big! And let me tell you, the first time I hear, “Mom, I found this really great bra at Victoria’s Secret, can you buy me some boobs to fit in it, ” I will call my local officials and insist on a new bill prohibiting anyone under the age of 35 from being allowed in such stores. I might as well toss in a cell phone curfew too, just to insure my children NEVER speak to me again.

We grown up girls discovered a long time ago what Victoria’s true secret is; no one actually wears half of what hangs in her closet. Most of Victoria’s secrets do not fit, nor is comfortable on us mere mortals with average bodies. These are completely useless items given as gifts by hopeful desperate men and obligated bridesmaids (knowing damn well you will never wear it, the bridesmaids, not the men.)

When I stupidly explained this is my daughters the all had the same reply, “Mom, Paris Hilton wears it.”

“Girls, Paris Hilton doesn’t count. She is not a mere mortal and may not even be human.  Besides, she doesn‘t have the good sense that God gave her. If you are going to drink margaritas on a empty stomach and only weigh 87lbs, you should not attempt to drive."

And, did you know you cannot wear gray with gray, or black with black? To think, according to my fourteen-year-old I could have ended up on the Don’t pages of Vogue, why, mostly everyday of my life. I should start looking through the back issues; I wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone. This also means I should eliminate most of my wardrobe, which, incidentally, comes from TJ MAXX where $25.00 will by you a trunk load of underwear! I wonder if Paris knows about the new no same colors on the same day rule.

Where will it end?

With me, secretly looking for 5 pairs for 25 bucks!

If you can’t beat 'em, join 'em. I should look just as good as they do in the locker room.


I'm Bored

Written by: Loretta Mosca

Word count: 577

I finally make it to the shore…after having made the beds, cleaned the breakfast dishes, mowed the lawn, and prepared a lake-side lunch for six.

As I plop my exhausted butt into my lounge chair, I glance at my four daughters who are lined up in a neat row at my feet. Each one is on their own colorful beach towel. This is an indication it may be a good day. Having four teenage girls living in the same home (this is not a choice but rather a necessity due to the fact that my husband and I cannot afford to buy them their own condominiums) allows for ridiculous territorial rights to mundane items such as towels. Something as simple as taking someone else’s beach towel could set off a hormonal war. So far everyone seems to be getting along, for the moment anyway.

There is one blonde, one red, one brunette, and one brown, not an ugly one in the bunch, unless of course one of them gets a visit from the zit fairy. This would indicate the world must be coming to an end, or at the very least, one of them will be getting their period. If the zit fairy should ever visit all four of them at the same time, the world might as well come to an end for my husband and I me.

There is no real need for them to communicate with each other at this given moment; each one has an i-Pod plugged into her ears, some double-pierced, some triple-pierced, another boundary pushed to the limit as my husband and I learn which battles to fight. We compromised on this issue, deciding it was ears only and three was the limit. If no one's battery should die in the next 20 minutes, they will have no reason to speak to each other, and I may get through the first chapter of my book without having to referee a fight. Oh, maybe there is a God!!!

At this point they have barely noticed that I am there, which is a good thing. They are too engrossed in their trashy tabloid magazines and worrying if their tan lines will show in the new tank tops my husband dropped half a car payment on for them the day before. Just then, daughter #1 calls daughter #4 on her cell phone and asks if she will pass her the sun-block. Mind you they are only six feet away from each other, but weekend minutes are free. God forbid they leave any un-used! "And I want the 15, not the 30", she demands.

Just then, dawn breaks on marble heads, and they notice I am there. It starts with;

#1: "Mom, what’s for lunch?"

#2: "Is there any gas in the jet ski?"

#3: "Can we go shopping?"

#4: "I’m bored."

"Oh, hi, I’m Loretta, nice to meet you, no, yes, tuna on wheat."

"How could you be bored? It’s the first day of summer vacation. Do you know how many kids would love to be sitting lakeside with nothing to worry about but their tan lines? You know, contrary to popular belief, it does not SUCK being you."

"But, Mom, what do youdo when you get bored?"

"Bored? If ever have time to get bored I’ll let you know!"

Pass the sun block, please. It looks like it’s going to be a long summer.


 

 

Sex on the Golf Course

Written by: Loretta Mosca.

I’m beginning to think I "may" be getting older. Lately EVERYONE seems to be reminding me of my age, mostly my Orthopedic Physician and my Physical Therapist. I spend more time in their offices than my own, due to the fact that I refuse to sit down and let my rear end become the size of a center-entrance colonial.

After acquiring yet another bad habit, The Food Network Channel, "things" have been expanding at an alarming rate. Ladies, don’t bother buying fake boobs; God will give them to you when turn 40-something.  And if you have been really good, he'll toss in hips the size of a tanker ship for free.

It is true; one bad habit leads to another. In order to combat the battle of the bulge I started running. When spotted by my friend Trish and her husband Paul, Trish’s first reaction was, "Paul is that Loretta? We should stop and help her".

"Why Trish, I don’t see anyone chasing her."

"Don’t be ridiculous Paul, there must be, why else would she be running? Women at our age don’t run unless it’s absolutely necessary."

I was thinking I was doing a good thing, but not according to my right hip which has not worked properly since. This is when my Orthopedic felt the need to remind me that I am 44. Did he think I forgot how old I was??? "Never mind my age, have you seen the size of my ass?" I asked.

"It’s really not that large, given your age and all. Where are you running? Do you live near a golf course?" he asks peering over his glasses trying not to look at my butt.

"Actually, I run around the Maynard Golf course." I replied, curiously confused.

"Oh, good, you should try running on the golf course; it will be much more lenient on your joints and your arthritis."

I have arthritis? This is news to me!

"Doctor Wu you don’t golf, do you?" As he shakes his head implying no, I realize I have found the ONE doctor in the country that can’t figure out why he has so many patients on Wednesdays. "If I were to run on the actual golf course, I would be back here next week with large welts on my target-sized butt from in coming balls!"

I promptly left his office and called my brother Dan. No, he is not a physician, but an avid golfer.

"Dan, what would you do if you saw a woman running across the golf course?"

"Umm, it depends; how big are her boobs and is she naked?"

Typical response from my brother…"Why does EVERYTHING have to be about sex, Dan? "

"Oh God, no, you can‘t have sex on the golf course, not during the day anyway.  If, they are small and she is dressed, I’d just whack her with my nine iron and call it a day."

"You had sex on a golf course?" Now I am really curious, "Hypothetically speaking, what if it were me?"

"Having sex? Loretta, at your age?"

"No, running, you idiot. And people my age still have sex, Dan!"

"Loretta, that's a little more information than I needed. Since you are my sister and your boobs are off limits, I’d be forced to run you over with my cart. Whose dumb-ass idea was it for you to run on a golf course?"

"Well, I have a prescription from my doctor; do you think I should call the clubhouse and make a tee time? Maybe my HMO will cover the green fees."

"Loretta, I have one word for you, treadmill." And I don‘t recommend having sex on that either, not during the day or while it‘s running."

Later that week, as per my brother's advice and against my doctor's, I was running on the sidewalk, past the exit to the golf course, far away from the flying golf balls, with my breasts properly covered. I assumed this was a safe place for a pedestrian. Much to my surprise, an obviously exhausted golfer came rushing out of the exit and almost ran me over with his car. As I slammed on his front fender to wake him up I screamed, "For Christ Sakes buddy, you can see a tiny little tee holding a tiny little ball in a BIG grassy field, but you can’t see a 5-foot-2 blonde wearing hot pink shorts and a white tank top (with still OK boobs, due to a great push-up jogging bra) in front of your car?"

By the look on his face, the first thing he needed to do was change his underwear when he got home.

As I finished my run around the course, I wondered which green, if any, my brother got a hole-in-one on.  And, I realized there are worse things than being hit by a ball…a Buick would be one of them.


Excuse me!!! Just running through.

Fore!!!

 


 

May He Rest In Peace

Written by: Loretta Mosca

As I scanned the room, desperate for a familiar face to relieve my nervousness, I tried to avoid looking at the casket.

Thankfully, my sister Jen entered. She is always a ray of sunshine, even on the cloudiest days. When the sight of our father caught her eye, she gasped and said, "Oh, Jesus, I forgot he was going to be here."

"Jen, given the fact that it is his funeral, I felt it necessary to invite him!"

"I suppose you are right. He looks pretty good, considering the last time we saw him, he was hooked up to a breathing machine," she said as she leaned a little closer to the casket.

"Yes, he cleaned up nicely, although I don’t think he usually wore quite that much make-up."

"I guess I do look a little like him, on a much better day of course," she commented more so to herself. "I didn’t know he wore glasses. Do you think he really needs them right now?"

"He may want to see where he is going when he gets “up there“, of course, that’s assuming he’s going up."

My parents divorced when I was 14 and Jen was 5. We, along with our four other siblings, did not have much contact with Vinny after the divorce. Since his parents passed years ago and my Mother, his only surviving ex-wife, suggested I bury him in my yard, I guessed it was up to us six to host his final farewell. I was quite sure my town had an ordinance against yard burials, and I didn’t want to chance my neighbor’s dog digging him up. That would probably freak my kids out, given the fact they had never met him.

The past couple of days have been a blur of events and emotions, starting with the dreadful phone call from his doctor while I was vacationing in New Hampshire to inform me that he had a heart attack earlier that day and was basically brain dead. They were keeping him alive with a respirator and needed a family member to make the decision to continue with life support or not. My first thought was, Why do these things always happen at an inconvenient time? I’d be home Monday. Couldn’t it wait? My next was, This is so not fair; I had to put my dog down three months ago, now I have to do Dad in, too? Realizing I must have had too much sun and margaritas, I called my brother Dan to explain the situation; maybe a second opinion would be helpful.

Dan’s words snapped me back to reality, "Loretta, I’ll call the others and make arrangements to meet at the ICU. In the meantime, please get your butt off your boat and had it towards Boston. And do me a favor, shower first; showing up smelling like a bucket of tropical suntan lotion would not be cool."

The hours it took to get to the ICU gave us all time to process just how we would handle this situation, although I am not sure anyone can be fully prepared for having to make such a decision. Once we were gathered in his small room, the reality of his grave state began to sink in. No matter what our current relationships were with Vinny, we needed to send him to a better place.

That lead us to the question of, which one of us was going to walk up to the nurses’ station and announce, "Okay, were ready, you can unplug him now!"

Ted was in a mess of tears. When I tried to explain that Elvis had already left the building and this was merely formality, he spit the Coke he was drinking out of his nose and told me to shut up. This is not the first time this has happened.

Bob, who received the brunt of Vinny’s bad moods and backhands, was busy trying to find the circuit breaker he was attached to, figuring if he flipped it soon there would be no chance of him "coming back."

Jen, the attorney, was conducting her closing arguments on behalf of all of us.

Julie was in the bathroom with diarrhea, where she can usually be found during all family crises.

Dan and I were standing in the hall bucking up to determine just who would be the one to ask for the check and wondered if we should leave a tip.

I guess I lost; I had to give the order, although I am still convinced Dan cheated.

They didn’t actually "unplug him." They decreased the medications that were keeping his vital signs regulated, and he passed peacefully in about an hour. We made Dan stay with him, given his bad sportsmanship and the fact that he was the only one who was holding it together.

We met up for dinner later that night at one of Vinny’s favorite restaurants, in his honor of course, to "make the arrangements" a.k.a. figure out what the hell we were supposed to do next. I had already called the funeral home earlier that day, not knowing if I needed to make a reservation. The director was kind enough to explain in his most gentle voice, "Loretta, I really need him to be dead before I get involved." Good point, I thought.

Now, being a woman, the most important thing for me was, Just what was he going to wear? This is when Bob came up with the GREAT suggestion that he had a suit coat that Vinny could "borrow." Ted, once again, spit his drink out of his nose and yelled, "Who the hell is going to pull it off of him before they shut the casket?" Julie ran to the bathroom while Jen called her office to see if that was, in fact, legal.

Vinny would have been proud, as he looked down (or up), on how nicely we all had cleaned up and how many folks came to pay their respects. It became clear to us that there was large circle of friends that had adopted him, in the absence of us, that cared deeply about him.

At the end of the evening and the service, as we all sat and prayed for our forgiveness and for his, it became apparent that Vinny was going to leave us all with one last laugh. While administering the closing prayer, the Chaplin started his sermon with, "Victor was a great man." I leaned over to my brother Bob and asked, "Is there a Saint Victor?"

"There must be, because he couldn’t possibly be talking about Dad."

After the third time (while Bob and I are trying desperately not to wet our pants laughing), Dan finally stood up and screamed, "For Christ’s sake, stop calling him Victor. His name is Vincent!"

Thank goodness Ted wasn’t drinking anything. Julie ran to the bathroom, and Jen was deciding if we should sue.

This is what our family, like many others, has always done…hide behind our laughter, in order to avoid what we are really feeling. But we all felt it, in our own way.

Some months later in late September while sitting at a football game, my friend Judy asked me how I was doing since my father had passed.

P>I immediately spit ho chocolate out of my nose and said "Oh, my God, have to collect him from the funeral home."

"Loretta, he died in July! He’s still there?" she said while holding her breath.

"He was cremated. It’s not like he’s still laying there in the box," I replied, trying not to sound insensitive.

After speaking with the funeral director, he assured me Victor was not being a problem at all; he was just sitting on his desk waiting for one of us to bring him to his resting place. I couldn’t live with myself knowing he had become a paperweight.

As I stood in there cemetery on that brisk October morning, I remembered my ray of sunshine’s final words to Victor on his deathbed. No one could have said it more eloquently than Jen: "Dad, you did the best you could."

And I said out loud, "And we forgive you for the rest," knowing it was it was the only way for him to go in peace, as well as the rest of us that he left behind.

May we all rest in peace.


 




Acton’s Believe it or Not
Written by: Loretta Mosca


Have you read the Public Safety Log in your local newspaper lately? This can be a great source of entertainment or it just may awaken you to the fact that there are folks living in your community who are suffering from O.D.D., otherwise known as, odd.

Monday, Jan. 30 – a caller reported that children in the area were throwing snowballs at passing vehicles.

For Pete’s sake, throwing snowballs is practically considered a sport here in New England. Given the fact that it is January and all the rocks (along with everything else) is covered in snow, is it so unusual that "children" behave in such a radical manner?

Tuesday, Jan. 31 – A caller reported a suspicious-looking vehicle in the area might be looking for her.

Did they mean to say person? Was anyone driving the accused vehicle or was it just driving around by itself, maybe looking for a place to park, or someone to put gas in its tank?

Tuesday, Jan. 31 – A Herald Road resident reported he was concerned about a possible incidence of identity fraud.

For his own protection he would not give his name.

Wednesday, Feb 1 – A School Street resident called to report that his girlfriend had stolen his driver’s license. 

They probably should have referred to her as his ex-girlfriend. This guy pretty much insured that he is not "getting any" for a while when he dialed 911. If he wanted to dump her, why not just say so?

Thursday, Feb. 2 - A Sandy Drive resident called to report that her son’s father had activated her son’s credit card without her son’s permission.

So cancel it already! This one totally confuses me. I get the feeling there is a lot more to this story than meets the eye. How old is the son, and what the heck is he doing with a credit card anyway?

Thursday, Feb. 2 – A caller reported that a man in jeans and a sweatshirt was asking people coming put of Stop & Shop if they had any spare money. Police identified the man as a member of a nonprofit group who was collection donations.

Obviously, he should have worn a suit. Didn’t the bell and the big red bucket that read "Salvation Army" tip this person off?

Friday, Feb. 3 – A caller reported that her son had stolen up to $1000.00 off the Internet. (The twelve-year old wondering minds in my house want to know just how he did it?)

Imagine turning in your own kid? What ever happened to,  Just wait until your father gets home! Certainly this will make for interesting dinner conversation. So, honey, how was your day, and where’s Johnny? Just fine, except I caught the little bastard stealing off the Internet.   He’s down at the police station. I didn’t know who else to call. You can bail him out after dessert.

Saturday, Feb. 4 – A man called to report that he was working for the president, but that kids were knocking on his door. Police left a message for his caretaker.

The president, as in "Of the United States"? I didn’t know Dick Cheney made a visit to Acton recently, hope he wasn't armed. Apparently, this person is well-known down at headquarters. How else would they have the caretakers’ phone number? Maybe there was a shortage of snowballs on this particular day.

Sunday, Feb. 5 – A caller reported that there was a man who was yelling at his kids at K-mart.
(My kids first reaction was; Oh, no, it was probably Dad yelling at us!)

Oh YEAH, I bet that’s the first time that’s ever happened! Like no one else has ever yelled at their kids at K-mart before. As a matter of fact I did twice last week.  Luckily, I didn't make the newspaper. Let me guess, the kids were in the check-out line begging for money to put in those STUPID sticker machines. Or better yet maybe they ere running around in the parking lot laying chicken with on-coming cars.

I have saved the best one for last,  and I swear I am not making this up:

Monday, February 6 – A woman called to report Frank Sinatra was supposed to be at her house but he had been kidnapped.

What, no one told her that he has left the building along with Elvis? Hopefully the caretaker is on speed dail, he has another pick up to make!

So next time you want to feel that your family is not all that dysfunctional just flip to the Public Safety Log in your local newspaper and see what your neighbors are up to.

Hopefully none of them are living next door to you.


Crushed or Cubed?

Written by: Loretta Mosca

Is there enough ice to survive the teenage years?

Why is it that when any one of my children hear the word NO, they mistakenly take it as an invitation to have a debate with me? And just when did they lose concept of the meaning of the word NOW? Or better yet, did they ever have one?

Mr. Daniel Webster has the following to offer: “No” is an adverb meaning: not ever, not at all, not in any degree. NOT IN YOUR LIFE TIME! Reading further, between the fine print, it clearly states, because I said so, God Damnit!

He goes on to say, “Now“ is also an adverb (maybe it’s really an adverb problem) meaning: at this moment, at once. RIGHT THIS INSTANT! Do it now or I’ll be forced to rip all your hair out and perhaps mine, too.

You do the math…No Means No and Now Means Now!

“Can I have my ear triple pierced?” asks my thirteen-year-old daughter. Yes, it could be worse; she could be a he. This is when my husband sets himself up for the debate by simply replying “No.”

“But, Dad, why not? Tracey has five in each ear.”

“I don’t care if she has three in her nose and one in the back of her head! No.”

You all know what the next line is…”But, Dad!!!”

I remember back years ago, before children, when I still had time to get my hair done and more importantly, see my therapist, I STUPIDLY would whine that all I really wanted was to have a baby. They both had the same reply: “Loretta, the real question is…do you really want to have a twelve year old?”

Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Who knew I would end up with two, at the same time? And if that’s not enough to send a person over the edge or back into therapy, what would? Toss a thirteen year old older sibling and the bonus eleven year old into the mix, none of which have a Y chromosome. Do you realize how many piercing debates that adds up to? I don’t think there are enough earrings in my local area to fill all the holes.

How did I accomplish such a feat you ask? Not the earring debate, the four girls under the age of thirteen? Apparently I wasn’t listening to my hairdresser, my therapist, or my inner child. Much to my surprise I gave birth to twins, which gives a whole new meaning to, Be careful what you wish for. Then, after my divorce, just to be insured that life in the fire was better than the frying pan, I married a man with two daughters. Flash forward a couple of years and you have a houseful of pre-menstrual teens, a menopausal mom, a seventeen-year-old rescued cat, and a firefighter dad who roams around Stop and Shop wondering if Tampons will ever go on sale. Now that would have been a good stock tip.

The reality of having just one twelve year old is: as Tony Soprano would say, forgetttta about ever having the opportunity to use your home phone again as well as:

  • The home computer…you better have a lap top, you’ll never get on the home PC again.
  • The bathroom…you’ll never see it again and if you do it won’t be clean. Just blow it up and start over again when they move out.
  • The family room…good luck finding a seat in between all the bodies, most of whom don’t belong to you.
  • The television…unless of course you like watching head banging music videos.
  • The radio station in your car…they call that music?
  • The clicker…is there such a thing a clicker fairy? According to my kids, that’s who has it.

Are just a few of the joys that comes along with: “I just really wanted a baby“. How did I end up with four creatures living in my house who can‘t seem to figure out how to turn a vacuum on but can IM twelve kids while conference calling three others, all at the same time? Somehow they can pay attention to all that, yet have no memory of where the hamper is.

Do you too ever feel like the nuts are running the asylum and all you are good for is a ride and a twenty? This is when my husband and I locked ourselves in our master bathroom, with a large bottle of white and debate just whose dumb ass idea it was to have kids. All the while the creatures are banging on the door screaming over the fan, “Mom, it’s my turn on the computer and little miss butt face won’t get off!”

I guess there will come a day when they are all off to college, and we are left eating cat food due to the tuition bills, that I may welcome and enjoy the quietness in my house. Can you imagine that I have had some folks tell me I will miss all the craziness when they are grown and gone!

I don’t know, it make may take a day or two to make the adjustment. I think if we are lucky enough to find the clicker, my husband and I may just come out of the bathroom, sit in the family room, watch a “grown up” show, have an uninterrupted conversation, a drink, and relax.

It is then, when the most important question of the day will not be whose turn is it to sit in the front seat, but rather, simply put….“do you want crushed or cubed?”

Ya Think?


 

One Man's Trash is Another Man's Treasure 

 

Written by:  Loretta Mosca



Home Depot or a dump? This is a question that the townspeople of my little town, Acton, MA, will vote on very soon. Now my concerns are much different from my husband's. Do I want a huge cement structure placed in between the pretty cow pastures that line Route 2 where our dump now calls home? Do I want to see the small business people within my community suffer trying to compete with the oversized orange icon? No. If it were a super size T.J. Maxx, I might feel differently.

As for my husband and some other frequent visitors to the local dump, mostly men, I don’t think it will make much difference, given the fact that they never actually dump anything in the dump. Instead they trade trash. How appropriate that the sign at the entrance to the dump reads: Transfer Station. That is exactly what happens most Saturday mornings; trash is transferred from one SUV to another. So it is much like a Home Depot, only messier. This is where they go to shop.

After spending hours cleaning out my basement and attic, I constructed a rather large pile of tossed-away treasures in the garage where my husband likes to park his Harley. With no place to park his bike, I figured he would be highly motivated to make a dump run. It backfired.  Later that day I came home to find his Harley in its usual, now clean spot and the small mountain of treasures had been moved to my side of the garage where I park my jeep.

"Honey, if I help you load this in the back of your truck will you take it to the dump?" I ask in my sweetest voice possible.

"My truck? You want to use my truck?" he says with panic in his voice.

"Well, just think of all the trips you’ll have to make if you take the bike."

His truck. Yes, it is a beautiful piece of machinery,  with its high gloss red body, custom trim, cap to match, and smelly diesel engine. Why the chrome has enough shine one could apply mascara in it. On occasion I have found strange men in my driveway simply gazing at it with a look of envy in their eye. One would think Pamela Anderson was standing naked in my driveway.

His excuse, or better yet lame justification for us housing this red monster in our driveway, which he NEVER drives in fear that it may get dirty, is he may need it to go to the dump. Well, now is his chance.

"I don’t think there’s any gas in it and it really needs new tires."

"How on earth could it need new tires? You have only driven 27 miles in the last two years. And if my memory serves me correctly it has duel fuel tanks.  Could they both be empty?"

"Where are you going?" he asked as I turned on my very annoyed heel.

"To the nursery to buy some flowers.  If you are not going to drive it we might as well make good use out of it. It will make a lovely planter don’t you think?" 

After carefully lining the bed of the truck with old blankets, ever so neatly he starts to "place" each item in it, all the while picking through every treasure to make sure it couldn’t be saved. "Honey, I can fix this," he says, holding a broken shelf covered in cobwebs.

"You said that four years ago," I remind him.

"I can’t believe you're throwing out my Easy Rider magazine collection. Do you know what these are worth? Some of those date back to 1963!" as he wipes mouse droppings off of them.

Obviously, I missed the value in them, considering I only date back to 1961!

After he has carefully inspected EVERYTHING and we finish our heated "discussion" as to what is deemed an item of trash (having not bothered to unpack the box when we moved here 4 years ago is a good indication that it is no longer needed), he heads out to the dump a.k.a. the transfer station.

Had I only known what weird activities go on at the dump, I would have never sent him. He returns about three hours later looking as proud as a peacock as he carefully backed his big red monster in the driveway, still full.

"Honey, was the dump closed?"

"No, and what great stuff they have there; come take a look," he says with a sense of excitement as he opens the tailgate.

Oh my God, he had a truck full of other people’s trash.

"You didn’t run into anyone we know, did you?" I asked covering my face with intended embarrassment.

"Just Paul Wilton and Jeff Chormand, wait until Trish and Susan see the good stuff we traded."

"Oh, I am sure they will be as thrilled to have our tossed-away crap as I am to have theirs.  What one earth do we need another broken lawn mower for?"

"Parts. Now where are you going?  Aren’t you going to stay and see my new treasures?"

"I’m going to call Trish and Susan and give them my condolences."

"Trish, has Paul come home from the Transfer Station yet?"

"Why, yes, he has.  He’s in the garage thumbing through Easy Rider magazines with Jeff. Why do you ask?"

"I have your lawn mower."

Just then Susan arrived in my driveway; she tossed my broken shelf out her passenger window and offered me the following dump theory:

"Loretta, my husband Jeff thought it to be perfectly reasonable that we stroll our newborn in a carriage he found at the dump. He could not understand why I, a newly-pregnant-with-our-first-born, hormones-raging woman, would find would find it necessary to choke him on our front steps when he presented me with this thoughtful gift. Think of it this way, it keeps them out of the local pubs on Saturday afternoons."

Home Depot or a dump? At least they are trading trash and not wives.

Come to think of it, I really like that wicker rocker on Trish’s back porch. I wonder if she’ll trade it for that antique trunk in my kitchen.

I think I’ll be voting NO.

Let's save the little business people and keep our cow pastures. They will produce a lot less crap in the fields than the big orange icon will cause on our streets and within our community. 

 


 

 

I Should Have Been a Soccer Mom
Written by: Loretta Mosca

Word count: 1191


The mornings have become cool and brisk and days are becoming shorter. Here in New England once Labor Day passes, it sadly brings the end of summer and the reality that yes, you can be arrested for wearing white pants.

Here, in our little Town of Acton, MA, fall brings us something that we take more seriously than the white pants police, FOOTBALL SEASON!

Up until recently my involvement with football consisted of joining in with the rest of the country in disbelief when the Patriots made it to the Superbowl for the 2nd time in three years. Even with Janet Jackson’s "costume malfunction", I thought it was a pretty good game.

My real knowledge of the mechanics of the game, which is minimal, and the character of the folks involved didn’t come until my career as a Pop Warner Cheerleading Coach started. Having four daughters in the program, I was a natural choice to get sucked in for the position. Simply put, these folks are crazy.

Dressing little boys up in head to toe armor and sending them on to a grassy field to ram into each other repeatedly, on purpose, trying to hold onto a funny-shaped pigskin seems a little barbaric to me. And all the while the parents are jumping up and down screaming, "Run, catch him, squash him like a bug" apparently not only condoning this behavior but supporting it. These folks are having way too much fun at the expense of their children's scrambled brains. How will little Johnny ever pass his Monday math exam? Its going to take until at least Wednesday until he can spell his own name again.

From my position on the field, I can hear the loud crunching of the shoulder pads and the banging of helmets as the players "embrace" themselves play after play. This is when I think to myself, For crying out loud someone is going to get killed out there. Given the number of years football has been around and the amount of people who are in the stands cheering, I figured I better get a second opinion before I marched out to the field and try to put a stop to the madness.

I went straight to the director. "Mickey, someone is going to break their neck and who is that lunatic screaming at the kids from the sidelines, the one with the veins popping out of his neck who looks like he may blow a gasket at any moment?"

"Loretta, that is your cheering team's football coach, Louie. He needs to scream at them so they can hear him under the helmets."

"Well, does he have to spit so much when he screams? He‘s scaring my cheerleaders.?" I asked.

"He’s the best cach in the league, the players love him, he’ll probably take them all the way to the playoff’s, and you too."

"Mick, you never said anything about playoffs . I thought this was an eight-week unpaid assignment!"

"Not when your cheering for Louie's team; he knows football and how to win. What’s a couple extra weeks? You‘ll have fun," Mickey say‘s cheerily.

My daughter Ali interrupts, "Mom, how come the score board for the other team never works? It’s always stuck on zero."

"Louie broke them all Ali; looks like we are going to playoffs."

Mickey was right, the first couple of games were fun and exciting. And despite
my better judgment, I too was screaming at a funny-shaped pigskin. I even discovered that “first down” did not refer to the first "player" down. But by the fourth playoff game it was getting colder and Thanksgiving was fast approaching. This would be the game none of us will ever forget.

It started with the most dreadful e-mail three hours before game time, in the subject box marked urgent it read: Game Location Changed. What could be worse than the already planned 55-minute commute for a 6:00 p.m. game on a school night? Having to go to the Logan International Airport Field!

"Are you kidding me? Are they playing on the runway? Is there even a field at Logan?" I started screaming at my computer screen while ripping out chunks of my hair. I try at all costs to avoid flying out of Logan never mind going there for a football game. I read further; Directions: Just go through the Ted Williams Tunnel, drive through the airport, and you’ll find it.

I calm down, call 27 of my cheerleaders, round up 16 who can make it, stuff seven of them in my Durango, give the rest the directions, and head out to the game with two hours to spare.

What I got was a first-hand tour of the "Big Dig" and "Logan International Airport" while under construction.  I went through the "Teddy Williams Tunnel," drove through the airport, as directed, and ended up at the entrance again, seven times. The toll booth collector knew me by name. As most of you who shared in this experience will attest to, "You can’t get there from here!" You could see the field below the highway but there was no exit ramp to bring you there. At one point I thought of pulling over and hurling the cheerleaders over a construction fence. The thought of them getting caught at the top of the barbed wire fence in a pleated skirt and spanky pants made me reconsider. It’s one thing to fling your own kid over a fence, but someone else’s, I am quite sure there is probably a Pop Warner rule prohibiting it.

Out of toll money, with my gas light on, and six cold pizza’s that I had promised the girls for dinner, I headed into East Boston with a truck full of crying cheerleaders. I found a gas station and a money machine. As I am pumping, I spot a youth in a black Mercedes with tinted windows and wheels that cost more than my fine china.

"Excuse me, do you know how to get to the football field at Logan Airport?" I say in my calmest voice possible.

"Oh, yeah, it’s right around the corner." He replies.

Before he could speak another breath, I grabbed a pom-pom out of the back of my truck and stuck it up against his throat, "Get in my car and take me there."

‘Lady, put the pom-pom down, you could walk there from here."

Okay, so he looked like one of Tony Soprano's thugs, but I had a football game to get to! Then it hit me, I had turned (or had been driven) into one of the crazy folks.

Afraid of what I might do next, he was kind enough to lead us there in convoy style. We managed to make it to the game in time for the halftime cheer which wasn’t much to cheer about. Apparently Louie had come across an opponent that had a scoreboard that worked.

In the end when the loss was official, my girls continued to cheer because the season was finally over. "Girls, please stop ripping your uniforms off and don’t look so happy!"

Next year I’m signing them up for soccer.

 


Honey, I have an idea!

Written by: Loretta Mosca

 

"Is that a plasma TV?" I asked with a confused look on my face.

"Yes, it is." replied my friend Darika, gritting the statement through her teeth.

After a moment of silence, I asked her, "Whose idea was it to hang it over the fireplace mantel?

"My husband’s. I don’t let him have too many, they can be dangerous as you can see by results of this one."

Apparently it is true, Men are from Mars! No Woman from Earth or Venus would ever hav such an absurd idea.

I was dumbfounded as to how Darika, a seemingly intelligent person, had allowed this decorative crime to be committed. Darika is no pushover; she has her own mind and speaks it often. She even went so far as to take on the entire neighborhood committee and the builder of her new home because they dared to tell her what color she could NOT paint her house. The shocking purple actually looked nice, I thought.

"Darika, is this some sort of weird Hindu tradition that you must let your husband place the TV in the most ridiculous place in the house?"

"No, we made a deal, wait until you see the master bathroom."

"Is it equipped with a full-time towel boy? Cause that’s the only way I’d put up with that."

This was no ordinary plasma TV; it was larger than the picture window in the living room. Martha Stewart would not approve, even if you hung window treatments over it and closed them while not in use, not to mention that the strategic placement of the TV has deemed Darika’s beautiful fireplace useless.

Now I guess one could consider this as being much less tacky than a 36-by-72-inch oil panting of the bride and groom, or worse yet, just the bride. But really, do you think the talented finished carpenter had that in mind when he designed such a beautiful mantel? I doubt it.

What is this new trend of having home media centers? If anything, I’d prefer to have the media become a smaller part of my life, not bigger. Having my family sit glued gazing at a 36-inch screen is bad enough. As it is, my house could burn down during American Idol and the kids would not notice.

With no gift ideas for my husband this past Christmas, I did look into purchasing him a new television. What the heck, could American Chopper be any more annoying and louder on a bigger and better TV? Maybe I could get him one with headphones. I roamed around Best Buy for an hour looking for what I considered to be a reasonably sized media intruder, but all I could find was "Home Entertainment Centers." I didn’t need an entire "Center", nor did I bring my pre-qualification form from my Mortgage Company in order to purchase one of these.

While standing in front of a screen that was taller than I am, I was finally was approached by a "Home Entertainment Center Engineer" a.k.a. a salesperson. "Excuse me, could you do a price check for me? There seems to be an extra zero on the end of that number?" I asked pointing to the price tag.

"Don’t be silly" he replied "That’s one of our hottest sellers this year, and it’s a steal at that price."

"Oh, far be it for me to be silly; I didn’t pay that for my last CAR. Could you tell me where the regular TV’s are, you know something that I could fit in the back of my truck and take home today?"

"Yes, they are along the back wall, in that corner over there." he said pointing over my shoulder.

There they were, all crammed onto one dusty shelf with cobwebs hanging from them. Not one in this group would be lucky enough to be hung over a mantelpiece. It brought back memories of watching The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family to see these almost antiques that were put out to pasture. Some even had rabbit ears. These were used in the good old days, when parents could actually let their children watch TV without worrying if they will be over exposed to sex, violence or dare I say a "costume malfunction". Can you imagine how lifelike that breast must have seemed on plasma? I bet it even looked REAL, something I have been wondering since I saw it.

Having a screen in my house that would allow Anna Nicole Smith to appear life size (God what a scary thought that is) or MTV to show even larger inappropriate music videos just doesn’t seem like a good investment to me.

I left there thinking:  Darika has a really beautiful bathroom, the TV we own is doing enough damage to my family, and my husband could use some new socks this year. Besides, I like the beveled mirror hanging above my fireplace mantel; it goes well with the photos of my kids.

And most importantly, I can still light mine.


 

 

The Antique Samoyed

Written by:  Loretta Mosca

"He’s still alive?" Yelled my brother, Dan, in an effort to be heard over my dog Indy’s loud barking as he entered the house. My husband Mike was working and the kids were out for the evening. We had hoped for a quiet dinner.

"Barely, the first thing I do in the morning is check for a pulse," one I’m sure is still beating just to spite me.

Dan and his wife Florenzia recently returned home from living abroad. When they moved away Indy was slow and frail, much to their surprise he was still alive and barking at his imaginary enemies when they arrived for dinner.

Dan knows the emotional attachment I have for this dog; having been awarded custody of him in my husband’s divorce. Apparently I should have used a better attorney, one who was more knowledgeable of the life expectancy of an ill-behaved Samoyed. I gave him a year or two at the most. Heck, he had never been walked, groomed, or trained. His dietary habits were, to say the least, "unhealthy," playing the role of the family garbage disposal. How long could this creature possible live for?

Quietly, across the table, Flo appears to have a solution to the problem; "I could probably bring something home from the hospital to make him a little more com-for-ta-ble." Flo is from the Philippines, where sometimes dogs are served on a platter, neatly garnished, of course. Given our language and cultural differences, I question her suggestion. "Will it leave any distinguishing visible marks?"

My brother drops his fork, "Stop right there. I cannot believe you two are talking about offing the dog! I will not have any part of this. And just how will you explain this to your husband and kids when they get home? Have you two both lost your minds?

"So, we will have to off you too."

"Look at him, Dan; he can hardly walk, he barks constantly at NOTHING, he whines all night, he‘s matted beyond what a garden rake could handle at this point and he smells. Id’ have him groomed but with my luck he’ll drop dead the very next day after I have invested yet another 120 bucks in this animal.

"So all the more reason to make the appointment. And you, waving his finger at Flo, Little Miss Kivorkian, your nursing license doesn't allow you to administer to animals; stay out of this!"

Unable to stand the stench any longer, I call the fluff and buff. What do I have to loose?

"Now just do the basic’s on him, no heroic measures. I think you have the health care proxy on file; DO NOT RESUSCITATE UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES."

Near dead was not what I was expecting. "Sorry Mrs. Mosca, we lost him in the tub half way through his bath. We managed to blow him dry but didn’t bother clipping his nails. He looks just fine for a burial. Would you like to pick out another dog to take home to the children?"

No such luck. He was pathetic; he couldn’t get his rear end up off the floor. The six hours it took to groom him only managed to cripple "the poor thing". Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have ice cubes running through my veins. After much debating, I convince myself I should take him to the vet.

"Wow, is that correct?" Asks the vet pointing to D.O.B on Indy’s chart. "I have never seen a dog of this breed live this long. He must be well cared for. So what brings you here today?"

He just had to rub it in! Maybe I should call Guinness Book of World Records. On the other hand, I wonder what an antique Samoyed might fetch on E-bay?

"Well, I tried to kill him, I mean, groom him and he hasn’t been the same since."

"Groomed! At his age, I’m surprised he survived."

"Yes, I am too, but nonetheless, he did, and he is having trouble getting his back end up, which, as you can imagine, is a vital element in the maintenance of my wall-to-wall carpeting. Do you have anything that perhaps would make him a little more com-for-table?"

"Well, by the looks of him, it’s going to be all maintenance from ere on in. He’s probably got arthritis and could stand to loose 10 pounds."

"Oh, he gets that from my Mother. She has rheumatoid arthritis. Should I try Atkins or South Beach? Maybe you could just recommend a nice assisted living care facility."

He loads me up with four new medications to the tune of $270.00 and tells me what a lucky woman I am to have my dog at such an old age. Assuming he is referring to the dog I tell him... "It’s not my dog."

"Whose dog is it?" He asks.

"It’s my husband’s ex-wife’s dog," betting he’s never heard that one before.

"Oh, you are his Stepmother".

I never had an official title in this animal’s life; it was at that moment that I started to bond with him. I looked down at Indy, his fluffy white tail wagging, and thought to myself; "I guess you are my dog".

For better or worse, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, I am his Stepmother and could stand to take off 10 pounds, too.

As we waddled back to the car a stranger stopped us in the parking lot "Wow; now that’s a two tripper."

Again hoping he was referring to the dog I replied, "Are you calling my dog fat?"

"Come on Indy; let’s go home."

Place your bids, no reserve and I’ll ship anywhere!

 

 



 

 

 

He Was a Good Dog

Written by:  Loretta Mosca

 

Human strength can never be measured or predicted; it somehow rises to the occasion whenever needed.

The passing of Indy.

Upon returning home with my four girls, I went out to the deck to see how my "beloved" dog Indy was doing. He hadn’t been feeling well since we picked him up from the kennel where we had to board him while we were away. Now, yes, I have written about my adventures with Indy many times, but this time I do so with a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat. Not doing well would be an understatement.  He was bleeding from his rectum and could not put any weight on his hind legs. As he looked up at me with a glossy glaze in his eyes as if to say, "Retta help me," I knew the end was near.

Then I thought to myself, "Oh, crap, why on my shift?" It’s going to be a hard time convincing the jury on this one. With my husband not due home for 18 hours from the fire station, I was somehow going to have to get Indy in my truck to take him for help, not an easy feat considering he weighs about 10 pounds less than I do.

"Think, think, think," I chanted to myself as Indy barked for help.

"Mom, is Indy going to be okay?" My girls asked.

"I don’t know." Then it hit me, I had to do something so they don’t see him die. Should I wait for my ex-husband to arrive? He was on his way over to pick up my daughters for dinner. Asking him to carry a huge bleeding dog to my car was probably above and beyond the call of being a good Ex or a good sport. Should I call 911? My husband has never mentioned anyone calling his station for a sick dog.  Not that I would use my garden hose to if my house were in flames, but really, was this a 911 call?

I made a sling out of a towel, wrapped it around his belly near his back legs and hoisted him up. "Come on, Indy, you can make it," I yelled to him as we walked wheelbarrow style through the house. Every couple of feet he would have to rest.  My daughters took turns placing towels under his behind in an effort to save what was left of our wall-to-wall carpeting.

We reached the truck but I could not lift him, fearing I would hurt him more. It was my daughter Maddie who saved the day. "Mom, get a board, we’ll make a ramp, quick!"

Somehow, myself and Maddie, who weighs all of 70 pounds, hoisted Indy up the makeshift ramp into the back of the truck. Indy just looked at us in disbelief, probably thinking, "Wow, I must be in pretty tough shape."

I had driven this road only six months before with our family cat. I looked down at my jeans and very expensive sweater which I hadn’t thought to change that was now covered in waste and blood and thought to myself, "God, Damit! How did I get elected to be the killer of our pets?"

I called my friend Mickey.  She is a rock; she will help me. Her words got me through it, "Loretta, it’s just our job. You are strong enough to let him go."

It was pretty clear after speaking to the vet that this would be his last day on this earth. I stayed with him and rubbed his ears like my husband had always done. I don’t know if he was still "here" when I left the small examining room. He may have already crossed over the rainbow bridge, but nonetheless he looked peaceful.

Just this side of heaven is a place called
Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to
Rainbow Bridge.

There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; his eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross
Rainbow Bridge together....

Author unknown...

Looking back, it was my daughters strength and encouragement that got Indy in the truck that day, not mine.

For anyone that has to be strong enough to know when to let a pet go just remember; Now Indy’s pretty white fur is soft and fluffy, he’s eating all the bones and table scraps he wants and he can raise his hind legs pain free.

He o longer barks at his imaginary enemies, for there are none in Heaven.

He was a good dog.

And he will be missed.


 

Mrs. Tool Time

Written by:  Loretta Mosca

 

As I stood in the warm sun on a chilly fall day watching my oldest, Monica, cheer with her squad, I noticed someone approaching me out of the corner of my eye, my ex-husband John’s wife Michelle. I immediately knew something was wrong. The game was almost over and Michelle was just arriving. Her daughter Krystal, who is also on the squad, had been looking for her throughout the entire game. "Mom, where have you been?" she yelled to her with an aggravated tone.

As she came closer, I noticed she was limping and her hand was bandaged. There was blood and bleach stains on her jeans and saw dust in her hair. She looked like she had bumped into Freddy Kruger in a dark hallway.

I cautiously ask, "What happened?" not wanting to pry too much in case John had gone completely mad and tried to hack her up with a saw.

"I am renovating the bathroom," Michelle replied proudly.

"It looks more like the bathroom is renovating you. Do you realize you are dripping on the bleachers? Let me get you some napkins; you are making a mess."

"Oh, this, I was using that funny saw that twirls around and I slipped." As she held out her bandaged blood-stained hand.

"Michelle, do you mean the Skilsaw, Does John know you are using his power tools?

"Well, the trail of blood from the garage leading through the house into the bathroom where he found me using the power drill was a dead give away."

This is definitely worse than when she burned the kitchen down, for the second time. John simply banned her from ever using that room again. Pretty smart move on her part, considering how she hates to cook. Michelle’s idea of making dinner is reheating pizza from the night before without setting the box on fire. I wonder if that’s how the fire started.

I, on the other hand, only lit a potholder on fire while married to him. While his and Michelle’s kitchen was engulfed in flames, I wonder if he thought to himself: "Holy smoke, I've gone from the frying pan into the fire."

"So, how much trouble are you in?" again, thinking do I really want to know?

"He slammed through the house collecting everything that was plugged in, secured it all in the tool box on the back of his truck and locked himself in the garage. He banned me from the bathroom and hasn’t spoken to me since."

Given the fact that John and Michelle and their three children only have one bathroom, I don’t think he overreacted. Do you?

Now you don’t have to be a rocket scientist (or once married to John) to know that you don’t mess with a man’s tools, power or manual. It is like stripping him naked and sending him out to march in the Fourth of July Parade. You have just exposed his entire being in front of the whole town by showing that you can use, or not in this case, a Skilsaw. It’s all about the ego. Men have been struggling with women becoming more independent ever since we figured out that all you really need is a turkey baster and a sperm bank to keep the world populated.

But let’s face it; there are some ways to make really good use out of a man. Take for instance, moving a heavy piece of furniture, or shoveling the driveway after a really big snowstorm or more importantly just who would kill spiders or trap unwanted rodents for you? I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, but I will never set or empty a mousetrap. Maybe it was bacon she was cooking; grease fires can be nasty little buggers.

So let them have the power tools, if that’s what keeps them "in tuned" with being a man. It’s a small price to pay, and in Michelle’s case it may save some of her digits.

"How long will it take for this to blow over?" Michelle asks while picking grout out of her hair.

Knowing John I asked, "Well, did he take any supplies with him like food or drink?"

"A liter of red and a king sze bag of chips. Are you going home after the game? I could really use a shower." she asks with a pleading look on her face.

"Did he bring a cork screw?"I asked, trying to confirm he’d be there for a while.

"It’s a screw top, and the Patriots are on. He never goes anywhere without his portable TV during football season."

"Come on over. Are you sure we shouldn’t stop and get you stitched up?"

As we left the field, I thought to myself, Michelle and I have a lot more in common than being married to John. Like most women, we know that a project can’t get finished until it gets started.

I’m going home to set my kitchen on fire, and after she showers, we’ll rip out my bathroom.

"Michelle, would you like a snack? How about a BLT?"


 

As Time Goes By - The Reunion

Written by: Loretta Chiasson-Mosca

Word Count: 1045

Folks that are good with dates amaze me. Take my friend Sue, "Loretta, do you remember the summer  when we went to Nahant Beach and met that guy Kelly?  Was that 1977? "

"Jesus Sue, I can’t remember what year my kids were born without looking at their birth certificates."

The only dates that come to mind automatically are: 1961, the year of my birth and 1979, the year I graduated from high school. This means I either have no calendar relations or choose not to store such useless information on my hard drive. 2004 minus 1979 (this is a big math problem for me with no calculator handy) equals 25. Wish that was my age or my waist size.

As I walked down the deserted corridor of the school last week with my daughter Monica, I was reminded of my days back at good old Arlington High. She had forgotten her Spanish book and needed it for homework. Lucky me, just what I needed that afternoon was yet another trip to the school. As we approached her locker, she said to me, "Watch how fast I can open my lock." With one spin and in a matter of a millisecond, it was open. She was very impressed with herself.

I started to chuckle, "Honey, that’s the oldest trick in the book; probably 90 percent of the kids leave it on the last number so they can get in fast."

"How did you know what I did?" she asked in disbelief.

"Do I look like I fell off a turnip truck yesterday? It hasn’t been that long since I have been in school.

"Do you wish you were back?" She asked.

"Hell no, I’d rather do four years in a maximum security prison than be back in high school."

Later that day that I checked my e-mail to find my invitation to the Class of 1979 high school reunion. I know there are many of us whose first thoughts were, Holy crap, it’s been 25 years! How am I going to loose 30 pounds and grow all my hair back in a mere eight weeks? Liposuction and a toupee are the only hope at this point.

Then starts the phone calls or e-mail chain of, "Are you going? Oh, I don’t know. I’ll go if you do. Who else do you think is going?" Or more importantly, "What am I going to wear?"

The high school years, back to the time when we were all insecure about whom we were and who we would become, wondering if we would ever become one of the popular kids. I have a feeling that even the popular kids (or the ones we perceived as popular) felt the same way. We all felt the same way. And if you are a parent, now you are seeing your own kids go through it themselves. Lets face it; we have become our parents.

The things my kids think are important now are much like the same thoughts we had back then. Of course, all of my daughters roll their eyes when I say, "It’s not about what's on the outside that matters; it’s about what’s on the inside."

As they beg for the $120.00 Ghetto sneakers and $70.00 GAP jeans, I remind myself, they just don’t get it yet.

I smirk when one of them says to me, "Mom, I hate my thighs; they get so big when I sit down."

"Well, don’t sit down." was the best solution I could offer while thinking; If you don’t like your thighs now just wait until you’re my age.

I have to laugh when I see my daughters get dressed for school. If I knew that hip hugger, bell bottoms, platform shoes, and halter tops would be back in fashion, I never would have thrown all of mine out. But then again, like most of you, I am over forty and would end up in Vogue’s don’ts fashion page, or better yet, arrested if I wore them now. With my luck, I’d twist my ankle in such ridiculous shoes, fall forward, exposing my breast, and split my pants as I hit the floor.

I wonder what has changed. Are there still rats and jocks? Do the kids still hang out at Buttricks? Do the music geeks still hang on the stairs in front of the auditorium? Is it still safe to ride the T to school? Is Friday still pizza day in the caf? Do people still go "parking" down at the Mystic’s? Not that I have any knowledge about that first hand, but how many of us have driven through there late at night checking for familiar cars that our kids may be in? They think we are stupid!

I know that we all have. The greatest thing about being in your forties is having the peace of mind that you are "all grown up" and feeling comfortable in your own skin. Lets face it; we are climbing down the other side of the peak. We are middle aged, given the expectation that we will all live to be about 86. So we can’t wear hip huggers anymore and our thighs are bigger than we ever expected they would get. It’s not about what’s on the outside; it’s about what’s on the inside. If you can stand in front of the mirror and think to yourself, The only person I ever really needed to impress was myself, then you have arrived. We have "arrived", the class of 79, and we get it!

So don’t just come to the reunion, "arrive" there. Show off your stuff, including those couple of extra pounds. Ladies, grab a pair of control top panty hose and stuff yourselves in them. Guys don’t bother trying to tuck that shirt in; just let it all hang out. Who cares if you have no hair? Bald is "IN."

If you haven’t arrived yet, just act like you have; none of us will ever tell.

And don’t forget, we all voted for a person who jumped from the second floor balcony of the old gym (did he break any bones?) to be our Class President. We really "arrived" in 1979 and just didn’t know it. Or at least Larry did.

See you all in November. And if anyone is wearing hip huggers, I’ll be the first to call the fashion police.


 

 

City Girl

 

Written by:  Loretta Mosca

"What are you going to do with that when you are finished," my husband asked me while watching me floss my teeth.

"Here, there’s plenty left, no need to share" as I tossed him the roll.

"You are not going to throw it in the toilet are you?"

Things change when you are married for some time. Apparently he thinks I need not only an audience when I am performing my bathroom duties but instructions on how to perform them.

"No, I wouldn’t dare throw it in the toilet, but I do have to use it. So could you excuse me, please?"

We have a septic system. For those of you lucky enough to have city sewer, just what do your husbands worry about? Now I don’t give it much thought, why with having four girls to raise, a career, an unruly dog and no regular cleaning woman, I have enough to worry about other than my septic system. I simply flush and hope for the best.

In an effort to convince him that he is becoming a little "Anal" regarding this issue, offer the following mathematical solution, "Mike, what is the life expectancy of our septic system?"

"Roughly 30 years, unless, of course, you keep putting floss down there."

Ignoring the floss comment, I continue, "And you are 52, which means by the time we have to replace the septic system you will either be in a nursing home wearing Depends or six feet under yourself. Both of which should greatly reduce your need for stressing about where I put my floss.

Okay, so I have only set the alarm off once, maybe twice. Did you even know that septic systems had alarms? Neither did I, which alarmed me, when I was awoken to a loud screeching noise coming from my garage. Thank goodness my husband was at work, at the fire station. So you see he is accustomed to hearing alarms but not from his precious septic system. I can’t imagine how he would react, "Quick, drop and roll, me right down the driveway in front of a passing vehicle."

I did the smartest thing a wife could do; I did not call him. I called the septic company. How and why does one choose a career in bodily waste management? About twenty minutes later the "Septic Engineer" arrives. At this point I am wiggling around on my front stairs because I have "to go." I hadn’t gone since I woke up because I was in fear of having a volcano of waste explode in my front yard if I flushed. Is there enough Windex in the state to clean that off my picture window? I doubt it.

"Oh, thank god you came so quickly. My alarm is going off and I don’t know what to do. You don’t have a Portopotty in that big truck of yours do you?" All the while doing the Irish jig and trying not to actually touch myself "down there."

"Hey, City Girl, what did you put down there," he asked smirking enough to allow me to notice he only has about four teeth.

"Look, buddy, I have four kids. For all I know, Mr. Potato Head could have taken up residency down there. Come to think of it, I haven't seen the cat all morning either. Can you just check it? My husband will be home in about twenty minutes and if you have any concerns for the future quality of my life, you’ll hurry." 

My husband is not the only person on the planet that is obsessed about the septic system. While having lunch with some co-workers, I discovered my friend Vinny also shares the same anal behavior, which lead him to a dreadful discovery. He actually watched as the kucca sucker was pumping out his tank, something that I find to be a bit odd to begin with. Normally I would not deem this as appropriate lunch conversation but when he asked, "You are never going to believe what they found floating in my septic system" my ears perked up.

"Floss?" I asked with a slight lump in my throat.

"No, condoms."

My co-worker Joanne and I glanced sideways at each other. I dared to speak next, "Vin, didn’t you have a vasectomy?"

"Yes, which means either my wife is having an affair or my kids are having sex, in my house!"

"Well, look at the bright side, Vin, it wasn’t Mr. Potato Head and at least they are wrapping the little suckers up!"

God help me if he finds any floss floating in mine. But then again, there are way worse things in life than used floss.

The grass is always greener where the leaching field lies!


 

 

Implants

Written by: Loretta Mosca

Word Count: 729

 

“Implants“, now there's a word in itself that most always summons an unsolicited opinion. "Now why would you go and do that?" "You look fine." "Oh I’d never put foreign material in MY body."

Like most folks it was not an easy decision. Yes, I had the full support of my husband, although he assured me he loved me just the way I was. I just knew it would improve my overall attitude about myself. I wondered if people would notice right away or would they look at me and think, Gee, there’s something different about her, but I just can’t seem to put my finger on it. Of course I was having inner thoughts of flashing all my friends, just to show off a bit.

The morning of my surgery I was very nervous, not that I was having second thoughts, but I am like most and prefer not to be in any sort of pain. Maybe I should have taken that Valium as my sister had recommended. As I sat in the waiting room, I glanced around at the other brave, but yes, a little vain folks and wondered if they too were there for the same thing. Of course all the while trying not to look in the obvious places for a hint.

Once I was situated in the procedure room, it was explained to me that the first step was to numb the area. “Are you nervous?” I was asked. Well, I am always a little on edge when I am about to be jabbed with a needle in a pink fleshy part of my body.

Now it was my turn for questions; "You have done this before right?"

“Yes, many times, you are in good hands.” He replied with a little too much confidence.

"Well, have you had this done to you?"

He raised an eyebrow, " I haven’t, but all my patients tell me that in the end it’s worth it."

As we are waiting for me to become numb, he starts to explain the procedure. “First I am going to make a small incision, and then I am going to drill through the bone. After I know that the hole is deep enough I will put the implant in pThe bone needs to grow around the implant for about three months and then we can screw the new tooth on it. It’s very simple, most patients find that keeping your mouth open for about an hour or so is the mostncomfortable part of it.”

Did you say, “drill though my bone“? Just the thought of that makes me want to vomit. “And screw? What exactly do you mean by "screw"? Could I un-screw it if I wanted to?”

“Why would you want to?” he asked.

"Oh, I don’t know maybe take it out at a party and pass it around. I mean, it’s costing me 19 hundred bucks, I’d like to show it off."

"No I don’t recommend it."

I was beginning to think he didn’t have much of a sense of humor. My last dentist was much funnier, like when he looked into my mouth and said to his assistant, "The white things are the teeth right?" “Yes, Doctor Murray, now here are the instructions let's gets started.”

Jeepers creepers, you haven’t read the instructions yet!

Having your bone drilled, one which is located inside your head, is not a pleasant experience. I hope he didn’t dislocate my brain, which whacked off my skull a couple of times. My earrings were shaking so bad I thought one might fly off and sail across the room. And having kept my mouth open WIDE for over an hour has given me a whole new respect for people who work in the adult movie industry, a career choice that I thought required little talent. Take it from me, these folks work hard for their money. He commented on what a small mouth I had which was making his job more difficult. I asked if I could get that in writing. My family would beg to differ.

After it was over and I was resting uncomfortably in the chair he asked me if it was as bad as I had imagined. My comment was..."Next time I’m going for the Boobs!"

For now I’ll be flashing my Pearly Whites!


 

 

I Now Pronounce You Bert and Ernie - Dancing Rainbows 
Written by: Loretta Mosca

Last Friday while driving to work, I glanced down at my cell phone and notice I had a voicemail. The missed call menu told me it was from my sister Jen. Not to be confused with my sister Jenny. She was known to all of us as Jenny up until the age of twenty-one, at which time, she decided that she wanted to be, called "Jen". This took some getting used to on our part. She is the youngest of the half dozen, the baby of our incredibly dysfunctional, but fun family. There is a ten-year difference in our ages, which growing up Jen hated. She felt left out much of the time. But now that we are older and my breasts need under-wire to be as perky as hers do, she admits being the younger one isn’t so bad.

I took her sudden repulsiveness towards the name as she wanted a more grown up name, and knowing my sister as I thought I did, nothing really surprised me. Well, almost nothing.

While sipping margaritas in a Mexican restaurant shortly thereafter, it all began to make sense. Jen informed me she was gay. This is when I switched from on the rocks to straight up. I knew she wasn’t kidding when a few weeks later she shaved her head. My Mother's response to this was priceless: "Well, Jen, this is interesting; you stopped shaving your legs and started shaving your head." See, it’s true, the youngest can get away with so much more than the older ones. I would have never dared to shave my head, much less announce I was gay.

It amazes me how every decade things seem to change with more ease. Being born in the early 60’s, growing up I didn’t know that being gay even existed never mind that it was an option as a lifestyle. How did she survive her teenage years, knowing she was different but not knowing why? The ten-year span had opened the door, but just a crack, for her. She could peek through and see a slight shimmer of light shinning down on her rainbow.

As the decades pass, change becomes more easily accepted. My four daughters, whom were all born in the early '90s , are not the least bit surprised or offended by Jen or her lifestyle. To them it is natural. Yes, they have questions, which I answer honestly and openly. When my twins were four, after having dinner at Jen's house, they began discussing Jen's apartment and asked, "Mom, there is only one bedroom in Auntie Jen’s apartment. Where do she and Nance sleep? "

"In the bedroom," I replied, trying to keep it age appropriate.

"Oh, we get it " they both exclaimed, "they are like Bert and Ernie."

Oh, my God, Bert and Ernie are gay? When did they come out? I thought to myself.

"Yes, you are right, they are just like Bert and Ernie" I answered.

My girls see Jen for the person she is, minus the previous generation's prejudices of her sexuality. They love her, respect her, and admire her. When one of them said to me, "Mom, I want to be like Auntie Jen when I grow up. I want to be a lawyer and have a really cool dog like her," I thought to myself; I would be proud, and if you truly followed Jen in her footsteps to the end of her rainbow, I will be there, standing next to the pot of gold.

As time passes for my girls, in the years to come, it will have been people like my sister Jen that have paved the way to open choices. Being gay is not a choice, and being gay should not mean that your choices are limited. No one chooses to be gay.

In 1953, a young adolescent, at the age of thirteen, found himself greatly depressed by the realization that he was gay. “People who believed that being gay is a choice, apparently believed as a teenager I made the voluntary decision to identify myself as a member of one of the most hated groups of the population." It is not a choice; it is who he is. This same man now, Congressman Barney Frank, regarding his current state of mind, in his own words; “I do not, at this point, regret being gay nor do I think I am currently in one of the most hated groups of the population.” Much to his own efforts, fifty-one years later, he, and the world, have come a long way in making significant progress in eroding anti-gay prejudices and he is happy and comfortable in his own skin.

During the controversial vote I wrote to my local representative, James Eldrige of Acton, MA. thinking I was going to have to beg for his support. His immediat response in support of gay marriage was impressive. My sister had danced at both of my weddings; I owed her a dance. His office assured me that they would help set the stage for Jen and others like her. His office kept me informed and part of the process, just like a citizen should be.

Ann Richards, former Governor of Texas, couldn’t have said it better during a recent interview with Larry King. When asked her opinion of the recent ruling in Massachusetts regarding gay marriages she replied; "Well, we’ve done such a good job with our own marriages, Larry, that I don’t understand why we don’t want to share it with everybody. I cannot understand why anybody gives a damn whethr those people get married. It just is -- really makes no sense to me at all. So if tey want to live together, they want to share a wedding ceremony, if they want to share insurance or whatever it is they would like to have with their soul mate or their life partner, by all means, we need more loving families in this country, not less."

It is folks like these and many others, who have fought for the right to marry, regardless of whom you choose. No matter what my girls' sexuality is,te door has been opened even wider in the early '04s due to the brave efforts of such people.

When I returned home from work that evening, I gathered my girls at the dinner table, "Guess what? Auntie Jen left me the most wonderful voicemail this morning, She and Nance got married."

"And she didn’t invite us? We wanted to dance at her wedding."
BR>"They had been waiting so long. She and Nance had a small private ceremony. They will have a planned event later this summer."

"And we will all dance at her wedding."

I hear Ernie and Bert are relocating to Massachusetts: make room for yet another loving family.

 


 

The Glass Slipper

Written by: Loretta Mosca

Shoes don’t stretch and you can’t change men. There has never, in the history of the world, been a man who actually purchased a pair of shoes that pinched his toes thinking; "I just love them, they’ll stretch."

Let the truth be heard, they won’t stretch and you can’t change men.

I spent the first six years of my marriage trying desperately to change my husband. It was exhausting, to say the least; no wonder it ended in divorce after seven.

Why was I trying to change him? Was I trying to make him more like me? If I wanted someone just like me I should have just stayed single and walked around the house talking to myself. Just how boring would life be if I had succeeded?

I could have saved us both a lot of heartache and attorneys' fees if I had just been more honest with myself when choosing a partner. And that is precisely what you are doing when choosing a husband; you are choosing a partner in life.

Yes, my first choice was the wrong choice, and looking back on it now I wished I had listened to my "women’s intuition" and my mother. I tried to fit a square peg in a round hole. I got caught up in it all; from all my girlfriends are getting married to hearing that biological tick louder every time I had a period.

Like many women, I had been waiting for Mr. Right to start my life. I even put off buying a couch because I didn’t know if my future husband would like it. Funny, I hadn’t even met him, yet he was helping me pick out furniture.

There is a lot more to a marriage than a ring and a dress. If I had just seen him for whom he was, and who I was, it would have turned out differently for both John and me and our twins girls, who are the real victims of our mistake. That is not to say they are still victims. They are a gift, and thanks to a lot of growing and soul searching we are all in a much better place. We actually function rather well as a divorced couple. We have both moved on and found partners in life that suit us much better.

To quote my Mother, "Stop looking so hard for it. Sometimes it's right in front of you and you don’t see it because you are too busy searching for it." She was right. She also was correct when she said to me, "Loretta, he won’t make a bad first husband" while escorting me down the aisle to John.

Finding a partner in life is not about finding someone you think you can live with; it is about finding someone you cannot live without and accepting them as they are, honestly.

When I met Mike, my partner in life, I was older and wiser, and most certainly was not looking. You see, he was not my type at all; we had nothing in common, so I thought. First, he was my manicurist, Lynn's ex-husband. Secondly, we came from very different worlds. He loved Harley’s and I loved Jones of New York. According to Lynn, Mike’s idea of getting dressed up was putting on a pair of black jeans instead of blue. I never thought that as a valid reason to leave one's husband, but that statement did adhere. Third, he had become my buddy. Although he was Lynn’s husband, I did not see him but two or three times during their marriage. In fact, the first time I met him was at my wedding to John. She brought him as her husband. Our friendship blossomed during our divorces. We were each other's sounding boards and support systems. I didn’t want to lose my buddy, but it was during this painful time for both of us that I learned what love was really all about.

Although from the outside, we appeared to have little in common, inside we had plenty. Once I looked past the differences and saw him for the person he was, I was in love. But, more importantly, I looked at what I didn’t love and had a long honest talk with myself. Could I live with the differences in our personalities without trying to change him?

One of the most prevalent differences is that we function at a totally different pace. I am running the Boston Marathon while Mike is on the Walk for Hunger. Since I have learned that the only person you can change is you, I had to ask myself; could I slow down and allow him to move at his pace.

In another area, Mike does not take well to change. Why fix it if it’s not broken is his attitude. That is one I agree with in most cases, except for things like wallpaper and drapes. I welcome change and find it exciting, and I like to sew and decorate. Therefore, it is not uncommon for things to change, somewhat often, depending on what I have found on sale at Jo-Ann Fabrics. Luckily for me, he is a firefighter and works a 24-hour shift every fourth day. That is when I can sneak in little changes. But I accepted his adherence to change and give him enough time to process the bigger changes in life.

We have many other differences, which in this relationship I have welcomed. He taught me to ski, how to love a lake as much as the ocean, and just how good an ice cold beer can taste on a hot summer day. More importantly he has shown how to slow down and relax which has made me a better parent and person.

The key is to look honestly at the differences and the similarities. Can you allow the differences to complement your relationship? Can you live with them and can you not live without him?

We have similarities in all the right places; in our parenting skills and in our overall values. We truly enjoy each other's company. We respect and care for one another like we are friends. There are times when we have difficulties and I stop and ask myself; Is this how I would I treat my best friend? I allow him to be him and he allows me to be me. Honestly.

I have taught him a thing or two; he has grown rather fond of cashmere and fine wine. Again, hindsight is a wonderful thing. I should have picked less expensive ways to open his eyes. The houndstooth pants weren’t a big hit, but I’d never make him wear shoes that didn’t fit. <>So next time you are shoe shopping and you find a pair that pinch your toes, take them off and put them back on the rack.

If the shoe doesn’t fit, don’t marry it!

And when you do find the perfect pair, make sure it’s a comfortable fit, you’ll be wearing them for a lifetime.


 

Get Out Of The Water - Liberating Barbie 

Written by: Loretta Mosca

Each morning the alarm rings at 6:00 a.m., I stumble out to the kitchen to start the coffee. This is my favorite part of the day; everyone else will sleep until 7:00. As my eyes begin to focus, I peer out the window to examine my dogwood tree, looking, hoping and praying for a bud. Just one would be a sign that spring is finally here, and winter is behind us.

Here in New England, one never really knows what Mother Nature has in store. Last week she threw a pop quiz our way and tested the waters, and all of our sump pumps, if we were lucky enough to have one - or unlucky enough as in my and Barbie’s case.

If you are all wondering why Barbie and Ken split up, I have the inside scoop; it happened at my house during the rainstorm.

I had been demanding for weeks that my four girls clean up the playroom in the basement. I even went so far as to threaten them; that is part of my job description. Mom’s can make idle threats and not be sued, according to my attorney. I told them If they didn’t clean it by sundown Friday, I would clean it myself first thing Saturday morning and everyone and everything would be in a big trash bag on their way to the dump. Can you just hear the Barbie collection’s (having more than ten of any one item constitutes a collection) cries for help squealing from the inside of the tightly sealed garbage bag; "Oh Ken, I beg of you, please save us“?

Well, the water got them before I did. Thursday afternoon all four girls came running upstairs screaming "Dad, come quick; the basement is filling up with water, and Barbie can’t hang on much longer."


My husband Mike raced down the stairs, and there were all 300 Barbies and their 600 shoes, which can never seem to stay on their feet, floating in the water. Due to her unique build, Barbie floats face up. Did Mattel have this in mind when they placed those extra large flotation devices on her front, otherwise known as her breasts? Okay, loss of life will be minimal, until Mom gets home to see this mess.

The only one in danger of drowning was Ken; hopefully, no Barbie would get her hands on him. He was floating all by himself in Barbie’s big pink slipper tub. Attached to the back of the tub on a toe rope was Barbie’s jet ski. "Oh, Ken, pick me, pick me" they cried out. He ignored their pleas for help and kept paddling toward dry rug, actually hitting a few off the head with his makeshift oar on the way.

"Girls, don’t make me choose between you.  If I try to save all of you, we will all perish in the chilly waters. You saw the movie Titanic; I have no intentions of ending up like Jack. I must save myself to protect the future of Barbies everywhere. What would Barbie be without Ken? There are 200 more of you upstairs: just roll over and breath deeply. You can be replaced."

"Hey, did I just hear someone say, "You Pompous Ass?" Mike asked the kids.

"Dad, do something, You’ve got to save them, Look at poor Skipper, She‘s too young to die!"

As he scanned the room looking for some kind of life-saving device, he thought to himself, Wow, Barbie is really having a bad hair day. This is worse than when the girls gave a group of them haircuts. They then hot-glued the left-over hair onto the dolls' legs and armpits claiming to liberate them. "Dad, don’t you think they look more realistic? We know we are not allowed to use matches, but we needed to burn their bras."

The liberated group, incidentally, was fine. They learned long ago that the best and only use for Ken is when they need a heavy piece of furniture moved. Being a self-sufficient bunch; they fend for themselves. When the waters started coming in, they quickly got into the Barbie camper and headed for drier grounds. There they were, on top of a bookcase, hanging out around the campfire. They had the Barbie Coleman stove fired up with a nice vegetarian stir-fry simmering and plenty of Sam Adams in the Barbie cooler. Melissa Ethridge tunes were playing in the Barbie c.d. player; some danced while others played Frisbee with Barbie‘s dog, while waiting for the waters to subside. If you looked hard enough, you could see a faint rainbow glowing over head. It was illuminating the "boys drool, chicks rule" bumper sticker. This was a group to be admired.


They looked down at the poor floating Barbies "Girls, you really need to get more in tune with yourselves. You don’t need Ken; stop lying there like an unmarked water buoy and swim. And for crying out loud leave the stilettos in the water. They went out in the 60s and are murder on your back. Here, try on a pair of my clogs.  You’ll love them. Have you ever thought about cutting your hair? It’s way less maintenance. And do you know what that bleach is doing to your brain, never mind the environment? Let it go!"

So at the end of the night and after 12 hours of wet vacuuming Mike came to the following conclusion: we need a sump pump and none of our daughters are dating anyone named Ken.

Barbie, meanwhile, is looking out the basement window trying to figure out who she is and what the heck she saw in Ken anyway!

Maybe she will see a bud on the dogwood tree before I do.

As for Ken, it was a bit of a tragedy when the wave hit him, but more so when his pink slipper tub capsized sending him into the chilly waters right in front of the vacuum. As he twirled around in the whirlpool of water heading for the hose, Mike did his best to save him, but as soon as he reached for his hand, he disappeared. Mike thought he heard him moan on his way down the hose shaft, but it could have been when he shot out the other end and dropped into the bottom of the tank along with the other crap that‘s been collecting on the basement floor. And I do mean crap! Our cat has been known to miss the litter box occasionally.

Hey, Barb, pass Ken a Bud. He could really use one right about now.

Now that‘s making good use of a guy named Ken.

 

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I Am Limited Too - Over Priced Parenting  

Written by:  Loretta Mosca

My daughter recently received a birthday party invitation. I thought to myself, Peas and Rice...another social event to fit into my child's already overstuffed calendar. It gave the usual information; time, date, and which ridiculously extravagant venue this child had picked to celebrate the day of her birth. At the bottom was the r.s.v.p. instructions: call the work, home, cell, or pager numbers listed or e-mail your response. Then, at the very bottom of the invitation, it informed us where she had registered. I wanted to puke. Save it for the wedding. It’s a BIRTHDAY PARTY, for crying out loud!

What happened to six little girls sitting around a kitchen table eating cake and playing pin the tail on the donkey? I suppose that in this day and age you would have to provide a live donkey to hold their interest. Although the animal activists may have a problem with an Ass running around your back yard being terrorized by a bunch of screaming girls trying to pin his tail back on. Certainly removing the tail in the first place could be deemed a violation of the donkey's rights and you could wind up in court facing a cruelty-to-animal charge. It hardly seems worth it for a child's birthday party.

I am just as guilty as the rest. "But Mom I want to take thirty-seven of my closest friends to Disney World. Look, Delta is offering really good rates this time of year; it says so right here on their web site." "What? Get the hell off that computer." "No, Mom, look, I found a really cool site that will help us plan the biggest, bestest birthday party ever, like no other kid I know has EVER seen, guaranteed or your money back. What's your American Express number?" This confirms the rumors that the Internet is a dangerous place for children.

I have taken measures of my own to stop the insanity. I refuse to participate in "goodie bags", otherwise known as all that crap that is strewn around the back seat of my car. Just whose lame-brain idea was this? I would love to meet the first over-ridden- with- guilt working mother that started this ritual. I would take all the useless candy, pencils, crayons, mood rings, and silly putty (which in my opinion should be outlawed along with goodie bags) stored in my car and dump it in hers. Have you ever tried to remove silly putty from wall- to- wall carpeting? Forget it, just replace the rugs; it takes a lot less effort.

This kind of overpriced parenting leads to other terrible habits, like shopping at the MALL. Do you agree they should have a Xanax vending machine inside the Limited Too? Or at the very least a Martini Bar. I have four daughters, so when one comes out of the dressing room with the "to die for" jeans that cost $40.00, I immediately do the math in my head. That pair of jeans is going to cost me 160 bucks. Suddenly I am snapped back into reality, "Take those off your body right this instant. I don't pay $40.00 for a pair of dress pants for myself; I’m certainly not shelling it out for you so you can outgrow them in two months or stuff them under your bed." I pointed my finger at the other Mothers in the dressing room, "You people should be ashamed of yourselves." As the dressing room fell silent, my daughters locked themselves in a dressing room to avoid further embarrassment. Just then, a person 30 years my junior came stumbling out, "Mom, my tennis bracelet is stuck in the tag, can you get it out?" As the facet's beamed off of the dressing room mirrors, I glared at the woman and asked, "Is That Real?"

I had enough. I marched up to the service desk; "Hi, may I help you?"

"I'll have an Apple Martini, straight up. Do you have an intercom system? I need to page my daughter."

Before she knew it, I grabbed the mike, "Attention Limited Too shoppers, shopping at this over priced retailer will lead to other ugly habits: it starts with $40.00 jeans, which leads to a top to match, hair scrunches and a belt. Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Too are sunning themselves in West Palm getting fat off of your retirement fund. The next thing you know, you're down at the BMW dealership trying to decide on the 500 or 700 series for the sweet sixteen party. All this for a kid who is barely pulling n C’s. Just what will you fill the goodie bags with then, plasma TV's?"

"Freeze. Put the microphone down and place your hands on the counter slowly." Mall security at its best.

"Oh, please, put the plastic handcuffs away; I have been thrown out of better places than this."

I did manage to convince a few people to see the error of their ways and we were off. We did look rather peculiar, dragging thirteen half-dressed preteens through the Mall heading for the exit; Mr. Mall Security keeping a sharp eye in the event we headed into the Gap.

"If we hurry, we can catch the one-day sale at Wal-Mart and still have enough left over for a latte`."

I do seem to have an uncanny knack at making new friends wherever I go.



Ice Fishing

Written by:  Loretta Mosca


While brushing my teeth the other day my daughter Maddie asked me "Mom, what’s your next story going to be about?"

"Fishing" as I dripped toothpaste down the front of my blouse.

"Fishing? Mom, you don’t know a THING about fishing!"

She is right, nor do I want to. What could be more boring than fishing? Ice fishing!

Yes, in some cultures it is a matter of survival, but around these parts of the world, one can usually go to a local fish market and avoid the hardship of having to break a hole through the ice for the daily catch.

What kind of a person does such a thing? A pot bellied townie who’d rather be locked in an outhouse on the ice than spend time with his wife and kids. Calling all balding, beer drinking, middle-age men who are trying to avoid household responsibility and family togetherness....have we got the hobby for you!

Not being completely without survival skills, when they get cold they simply light a fire. Fire and ice do not mix. Now what happens if you set your little outhouse on fire? I suppose if you have phone service you could call the local fire department and explain that your house is on fire and not only are you in danger of burning to death you may drown because you are ICE FISHING! Sorry Jr., Daddy can't take you to hockey practice...he fell through the ice.

Don’t ever expect them to come home with fish. They say they toss them back into the water. That’s like going food shopping, bringing the groceries home, and just flushing them down the hopper. Makes you wonder what the are really doing out there doesn’t it? If you look under the door you would see no rod in the water, just a man sitting on a porta potty, pants down around his ankles reading a Monster Truck magazine. Some men will do anything to avoid spending the day with the family.

My one and only experience fishing was back when I was YAS, young and stupid. My best friend Joanne was invited on a deep sea fishing trip by her boyfriend. I agreed to tag along, heck I wasn’t going to meet anyone sitting in my apartment all alone. Looking back on it, now that I am OALS, older and less stupid, it was merely a ploy to torture us. What the hell was I thinking, I don’t like boats, nor was I too fond of the guy she was dating. It was a nightmare, not so much for me, more so for Joanne. The moment the boat anchored in the deep waters and started to sway Joanne turned such an interesting color green, one I have yet to see in nature. "Jo, have you ever been on a boat before?" "Nooooooooo", covering her mouth as she ran to the side.  Evidently she was not aware of how un-sea worthy she was.

There we are in a bucket of bolts being tossed around the dark Ocean with 70 drunken men. Talk about a disgusting display of manhood. They would swig down a beer, toss their rod and then their cookies, omitting the need for bait, into the ocean all the while laughing and joking. If there was ever a time in my life that I thought about swinging the "other way", it was then. You would never, and I mean NEVER, find a seemingly sane group of women behaving in such a manner. I had no chance of meeting anyone I liked better than myself given the company I was in.

Joanne, meanwhile, is on the top deck losing those five extra pounds she had gained over the winter. Me mentioning she was not having a good hair day was probably unnecessary as well as throwing in, "You know we are stuck out here for the next three hours."

As she lay on a plank trying desperately to communicate with me, in between gagging, she managed to scream; “I don't really care what my hair looks like, get me off this boat“.

“Jo, what do you want me to do call us a cab, or better yet the Coast Guard?” Not a bad idea, maybe I would meet a guy tonight. “I can’t very well march down to the lower deck and demand that the Captain interrupts the gross display of male bonding to take us home. And, as sick as you are, I highly doubt this constitutes a disaster at sea”.

"Loretta, I am begging you, do something. I don’t care if you have to promise him sexual favors. I’ll pay you back, I swear."

Now those are the words of a woman having gone completely mad, I can‘t believe she no longer cared about her hair.

"ARE YOU NUTS! Joanne, that man looks like he hasn’t shaved in eight...maybe nine days. Nor has he changed his clothes. His breath probably smells worse than the bait bucket." Yes, I hadn’t had a date in some five or six months, but was I willing to sink that low? That goes above and beyond being a best friend. She had a better chance of me feeding both of us to the sharks.

"Here, give me your hand, I’ll hold it, did you bring a brush?"

"Jo, look at the bright side, you’ll fit into your skinny jeans tomorrow, providing we make it back to shore."

"Loretta, shut up!"

A long three hours later we did returned to shore, Jo and I and 70 absolutely inebriated "fisherman". In between several pats on the back and high five’s there came a slur; "heeeeey girfs, did youu have a good time?" Followed by a loud belch.

“Yes, It ws just lovely. Now give me the keys, I’ll drive home.”

He should have quietly handed them over, but because boys will be boys and drunks never know when to keep their mouths shut he made the almost fatal mistake of asking Joanne what happened to her hair.

I lost count of how many ugly names she called him as she went sailing across the dock swinging her pocket book over her head aiming for his. He may have jumped, but given his condition he probably fell. My eyes were focused on the keys as they went sailing through the air landing in a pile of fish guts as he plunged into the harbor.

Joanne, with mascara dripping down her cheeks,  looking like she would have de-bone him if he dared to speak, turned on her heel and said “If we hurray we can make last call.”

knowing one should never mess with a woman with a loaded Gucci,  I held my nose, fished out the keys and followed her toward the car. “Jo, shouldn’t we give him a ride? It is his car.”

“If you can find a fish cooler big enough, stuff him in the trunk.”

As Joanne touched up her lip stick up in the rear view mirror I realized why we were invited; a designated driver comes in handy after a fishing trip.

Come to think of it, I don't know a thing about fishing.  As for Joanne, she gave it up for golf.

 


 

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