Parental Visit

Why do women always feel obligated to clean their houses when their mother comes to town?

Family theoretically should love us no matter how many dust bunnies are happily breeding under the couch. Yet, here I am at 11:00 at night, scrubbing my bathroom and bemoaning the fact that I actually have to sleep - so no more dusting, vacuuming, or cleaning of the fish tank will happen this evening.

It didn't help that I had to work until 6:30 preparing spiral-bound presentation packets for one of my attorneys - but, since the packets were not assembled until 5:47, a bare 13 minutes before general services deserts their post, I received impromptu training on the binding machine (SCORE!). This may not seem like a major achievement - but, somewhere along the way down the path to becoming a large corporate-type firm, somebody decided that all equipment training should be on a need to know basis - and I didn't need to know.

Except, all support services used to shut down at 5:00 p.m., leaving me, my attorneys, and a slew of equipment I couldn't use (like, oh, say, the POSTAGE machine... GRRRRRR).

All I can say is, Dilbert no longer amuses me. I have seen too much of the corporate world. But, as one of my friends pointed out, this is all the more reason to start writing and break out of the corporate America box.

Besides - what damage could I do with a spiral binder?

"I'm sorry, sir, someone has apparently spiral bound all of our briefs in attractive clear cover packaging. It won't happen again."
"It better not. I've only got the one spare set of clothing at the office."

Sometimes, you've gotta take the easy ones. . .

The Mysterious Fountain

There is a stone fountain in my memories - gray, with scalloped edges. It has three bowl-like levels - each progressively larger and lower, and the water it spouts is cool to the touch, and filled with peaceful drifting leaves.

The fountain is one of my fondest memories. It is the only piece of my hometown that I carry with me. I believe the original fountain is gone now - torn out and paved over, like so much of my childhood. The fountain only lives in my memories.

Oddly enough, I just saw my fountain again. It graces the home where I attended the party this weekend (see my blog regarding Saber Toothed Sheep). What are the odds?

Arachnophobe

I hate spiders.

Unfortunately, they seem to love me. Ever since I was little, I have been surrounded by spiders. When I was a kid they would crawl across my face while I was sleeping. In highschool and college I was forever pulling them out of my hair and off my clothes. If you have eight people standing in a circle in a room - with a spider in the center- it will run my direction, and generally up my pantleg.

I know - because it's happened at least twice.

Admittedly, I have never been harmed by a spider (unless it was tripping over something as I ran away). In desperation, I finally asked one of my college friends if I just notice spiders more because I am an arachnophobe - or, if I genuinely attract spiders.

"Honey," she said. "I guarantee it isn't your housekeeping - you attract spiders."

Great.

According to Native American mythology, the Spider is a force of creativity and influence. According to some myths, she gave man the letters of the alphabet. According to others, her body is shaped like the infinite number eight - the google - symbolizing infinite wisdom and power. Above all, she represents creative force - and bringing that force into being through weaving her web. In some myths, she is the being that first wove the world.

Let's explore my personality for a moment. Creative writer in search of spirit guide for journeys in Native American mythology.

Crap. I have a phobia of my spirit guide.

Then I came across the Camel Spider. This spider is the epitomy of my worst nightmare (even though most of the things you hear about it on the internet are false). If you ever want an icebreaker at a party - just encourage someone to look up Camel Spider on the internet. Most of the stories regarding this critter come from GI's who have gone overseas to Saudi Arabia - and beaten these critters off with broomsticks. Their stories are far more interesting than a straightforward scientific analysis.

So far, one of my favorite sites is Camel Spiders.net. You have to love a site that claims "These creatures are not dangerous to humans" and then follows immediately with a link titled "Click here to enlarge this Camel Spider bite."

It kind of brings a tear to your eye.

Prime Real Estate

While one of my friends (from Fuzzy Navel Productions) is having issues with her job - I'm getting back-handed compliments at mine.

In addition to being a legal secretary, I am also a technical secretary - which basically means they give me an extra $1000 a year to help people who move their toolbars, delete their icons, or minimize their document and can't find where it went. Occasionally I do get challenging questions - but those are scary because they usually end with me having to tell a massively stressed out secretary (who is generally trying to make a court filing deadline) that their document is corrupt and will continue asking for a Swedish language plug unless they strip all formatting and redo the document from scratch.

Having said all that... one of the ladies at work was bragging about sitting next to me.
"What am I?" I asked. "Prime real estate?"
"Yeah," she said. "You've upped the value of this cubicle block considerably."

Wow.

Lord knows I don't do it for the money....

My Life, The Soap Opera Part 2

By popular request, I present the following:

Top 3 Signs You Are About To Be Held Hostage On A Mormon House Boat.

1. The pickup truck breaks down on the way to the lake, conveniently pushing your arrival time back from "around noon" to "the early evening."

2. The boat driver demands you take off your shoes (so you don't get shoe tread marks on the seat covers) - and immediately places them in a holding cargo which is completely inaccessible to you.

3. The houseboat has been moved to a remote island in the lake (the only excuse I have for not noticing this one was sheer stupidity. Hey, I was in highschool - cut me some slack).

The boat ride over was pleasant. RJ's mother informed us that his father was desperately monkeying with the engine, as the AC unit had stopped (but, she was sure he would have it fixed at any moment). The air was hot and dry - at least 105 degrees in a desert region. The sun was going down rapidly, but we managed to squeeze in a few rides on the waterskis - just enough to cover us with a film of gritty nasty lake water (apparently the lake was classified just slightly above "oil slick" in EPA records). Tired and hungry, we returned to the houseboat.

RJ's mom set out a few bowls of tostino chips, then happily set about making her salsa. She informed us that it was a family secret. She had taken this salsa to every potluck she had ever attended. EVERYONE loved her salsa. This, apparently, was the salsa to beat all other salsas created under Heaven and Earth.

The salsa was decent. But we were hot, we were tired, we had just come in from playing on waterskis (which is fairly physically taxing), and we were HUNGRY.

"So, what's for dinner, mom?" RJ asked.
She glared at him. "Chips and salsa."
"Ha, ha," he said. "I'm serious, what else?"
"Chips and salsa."
RJ, now looking slightly concerned (and embarrassed) marched over to the refrigerator and threw open the door - revealing shelves packed with food.
"What about the chicken?" he asked. "The steaks, the ribs, the salad? What about all this food?"
"That's for the bar-b-que tomorrow," his mom replied. "Tonight, we are having chips and salsa."

Now, some folks would recommend physically overpowering RJ's mother in a desperate bid for protein - so here is the spot where I explain that she was a fireman crew chief - with bulging biceps. Sherry later told me that RJ's prior fiance, Kira, had once made the mistake of sitting at the wrong place at the dinner table. Rather than asking Kira to move, RJ's mother had silently walked up behind her, lifted her bodily from her chair, and placed Kira in her "proper" chair.

We meekly ate our salsa.

"Well," I said, looking out the window. The sky was black, and I could no longer see the lake. "It's been fun, but I think it's time to go home."
RJ's mother looked vaguely surprised.
"You can't travel across the lake at night," she said. It isn't safe."
"Ah," I said. "Then I need to see a phone so I can tell my parents where I am."

Sherry and I took turns letting our parents know that we were relatively safe and sound (if you call being lost in the middle of a lake with no way of reaching the mainland, minus your shoes - relatively safe). The AC was still out. We were covered with a thin film of slime from the lake. We had no change of clothes, no access to a shower, and our bellies were patiently waiting for the main course to dinner - which sadly, was never forthcoming.
"I need some air," I said, heading towards the door.
"Are you going outside?" RJ's mother asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"I wouldn't recommend it," she said. "There are scorpions."

The woman stole our shoes AND THEN warned us about the SCORPIONS.

For the next few hours, Sherry and I huddled miserably in the livingroom, trying to relate to the strange folks around us. RJ's family consisted of his mother, father, two boys, and RJ's sister, Ebonia. All of the boys sported biblical names ending in "-riah" (think Zachariah). Ebonia sounded like a vaguely African name - and we were convinced it was actually Eboniariah. Ebonia was bemoaning her current boyfriend's recent departure to complete a 7 year trek to one of the Holy Cities. RJ cut in and shared a few lovely stories of the time his sister had sucker-punched her highschool teacher and laid him out cold.

We smiled. We nodded. We ran out of salsa.

We finally retreated to the top of the houseboat and whispered back and forth about our Mormon captors. Sherry revealed that she had dared to open a door in the bathroom and found a stockpile of 300 toothbrushes. "I'm scared," Sherry said. "I overheard RJ's mom telling RJ our chore schedules for tomorrow. He was arguing that we were guests, and shouldn't be made to do chores, but . . . I don't know. Do you think we'll really have to do chores?"
"Oh, no. I'm sure she was joking," I reassured Sherry - meanwhile trying to figure out which one of us would be scrubbing the aft deck.

Finally, RJ's mother appeared with a large bundle of sheets. Sherry later confided that she thoughtthat this was the one nice gesture they were making - bringing us our bedding.
It turned out that we had found the coolest place on the houseboat to sleep, and the Family from Hell was kicking us out so they could have it.

The situation had gone well beyond taking lemons and making lemonade.

"We'll sleep inside," I said, remembering the two couches in the livingroom.
"It's hot in there," RJ's mother said.
I shrugged. "We'll be okay."
RJ's mother wrinkled her nose and handed me a sheet.
"No thanks," I said. "It's too hot for any cover."
RJ's mother huffed and glared at me. "The sheets are for the couches," she said. "I don't want you getting them dirty."

Admit it - you're impressed that I didn't commit a homicide right on the spot. Mmmm... bulging biceps. And we were weak from lack of food.

Sherry and I trudged downstairs and dutifully spread our sheets on the couch. RJ opted to sleep in the smaller ferry boat out on the beach. Apparently braving the scorpions was better than sleeping with his family.
I was tired. And scared. And half asleep when Sherry's voice broke through the silence.
"Ummm... Andrea?"
"Yeah, Sherry?"
"Do bats bite?"
Had I been awake, I might have wondered why she was asking, but as it was, I simply rolled over and snuggled into the couch. "I don't know," I said. "But, I do know they have rabies."
At which point Sherry shrieked and flailed. It turned out that a small brown bat had come in through the window, landed on the sheet over her stomach, and had been steadily crawling toward her hair (personally, I think it was attracted the the strawberry shampoo).
Sherry managed to fling the bat back out the window, but saw it take a sharp right and circle back. She frantically closed the miniblinds.
There was a sad little thump, and a few seconds later a small splash.
We slept.

The next morning was July 4th, and bright and earlier - I demanded we go home.
"Can't you stay?" RJ asked. "There really will be food, now."
Sherry and I were too tired to argue. "No, RJ. We really just want to go home."
RJ's mother ferried us across the lake, finally producing our shoes when we climbed out of the boat. Slipping them on brought a pleasant feeling of security. Of knowing that you could stomp on a bug, if necessary.

"You know," RJ's mother said on the drive back to civilization, "you're really lucky we had a funeral to attend today, or we wouldn't have brought you back this early. Would you like a cookie? They're another family recipe. . . I always keep a few in the glove box."
"Not really," I began.
"EVERYONE likes my cookies," she said.
"No, really, I'm fine."
"It's a good cookie."
Sherry later told me she had the impression RJ's mother had been screaming "EAT THE COOKIE" - and she was very impressed that I had managed to stand up to the strange woman. Though my defiance came with a price - stony silence ensued for the next fifteen minutes. Then RJ's mother pulled over at a little tiny gift shop. She sent her daughter in to buy flowers for the funeral.
When Ebonia came out of the gift shop, I couldn't help but smile.

She had purchased a potted plant, instead of a floral boquet. And someone had planted happy little Fourth of July flags beneath the leaves.

A few minutes later, Sherry and I were unceremoniously dumped at a random Del Taco - from which we were able to call our parents (and get a decent meal - which is something I never thought I would say, regarding Del Taco). We stood outside, reminiscing about our brief safari on the Mormon Houseboat.

"I hope they remove the flags for the funeral," I said.
And Sherry and I laughed until we cried.

Sabertooth Sheep

I just returned from an absolutely lovely party at a friend's house, wherein I was introduced to both her fiance and her harps - good company, good food, and a great time.

I also learned that there was such a thing as a saber-toothed sheep. (Raise your hand if you find that image as disturbing as I do.) The skull was in a curio case, along with many other beautiful fossils. . . trilobytes anyone? The sheep skull actually had the flat molars of an herbivore, and two extended arching eye-teeth like a saber-toothed tiger. Ah. . . saber-toothed sheep. Terror of the savannah.

Then again, if you've ever seen the pig-horse on display in the Denver Museum of Natural History, maybe the saber-toothed sheep wasn't all that strange after all. Though one does have to wonder, if sheep had retained those teeth, would we treat them the same way we do today? Or would we have flocks of rampaging wild sheep praying on our tame flocks of wolves?

I take no responsibility for this post. It is late (11:46 p.m.) and I officially lose brain function at 11:00 p.m. I have now turned into a pumpkin and am off to bed.

But I'm sure as Hell not counting sheep to put me to sleep!

The Love of My Life

I never wanted kids.

I was that person in college who rolled their eyes when a baby cried in a restaurant - and ground my teeth when they cried in a movie theatre. (Though I guarantee that it will NEVER be my two-year old seated next to you at the 10:55 PM showing of a Pixar flick.) I was religious about my birth control - and fondly referred to each dose as my "allergy shot."

And then I started feeling ill in the evenings (NOT the morning), and I suddenly couldn't keep any food down. I was fortunate to consume a single microwavable Hot-Pocket in an eight-hour period. I felt terrible, but couldn't figure out what was wrong - so I finally hied myself into a doctor's office.

"Birth control?" they asked.
"The shot," I said.
"Ever been late a few days or missed one?"
"No."
"Well, then you're not pregnant. Is your job stressful?"
(Let's see... I am a legal secretary - which means I support three stressed out people who constantly have even more stressed out people calling with little tiny issues like complete search and seizure of all corporate records.)
"Um... yeah."
"Maybe its an ulcer."

My ulcer just turned two, and has blonde hair and blue eyes.

The doctors requested various samples of body fluids, and sent me on my way with a packet of ulcer medicine (thank goodness I didn't take it for very long). But I was still getting sick every evening, and, unlike most pregnant women on the planet, I began dropping weight at an alarming rate. I shed over 30 pounds at the beginning of my pregnancy - and by the time I had my beautiful baby boy, well . . . I remember the nurse looking at my chart in the hospital room and declaring "You only gained 4 pounds during your pregnancy?!" I laughed and explained that I had dropped 30 - but ultimately gained 34.

One of my co-workers asked me the secret to my diet. I assured her that she really didn't want to lose hers the way I was losing mine.

Everyone at work swore I was pregnant. I kept telling them to shut up. I finally asked my doctor to run the pregnancy test just to rule out the possibility once and for all. So, there I was, donating yet another sample of blood for the umpteenth round of tests, when my doctor walked in.
"Oh," she said. "That explains it. You're pregnant."
You would think they would take the needle out of your arm before breaking a piece of news like that.
I went white as a sheet. The nurse administering to my fluid sample must have noticed something was wrong. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, my heart pounding. I have no idea, I thought to myself.

The first few weeks after I found out were the most frightening. Since I didn't know I was pregnant, I had nearly killed my baby twice. I had gone to get my monthly allergy shot and I had received a tetnus shot at an ER visit (both of which were potentially deadly for the baby). Luckily, neither was linked to birth defects. They either killed the fetus outright - or left it completely alone. And my little critter won that particular lottery. I had been scheduled to get x-rays at the dentist the following week (which proves I was determined to do the little fellow harm). Needless to say, I immediately cancelled.

Then they hit me with the second nasty shock.

"Oh, hmm.... It looks like you are actually three and a half months along."
WHAT?! I MISSED MY FIRST TRIMESTER?!

Do you have any idea how disconcerting it is for any new mother (particularly one who didn't want kids in the first place), to have to turn to Chapter Five in all of the "You and Your Baby" books? I was actually alienated by all of the articles that started with things like "So, now that you've been thinking about your baby's name for the last few months...." AHHHHHHRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGG.

And now? He is the love of my life. I don't know why the little critter chose me for his mommy - but I feel so very grateful that he did. (Not that I want ANOTHER ONE.... thank you very much.) He has taught me so much about my life - and turned all of my perspectives on their ear.

And the laughter. Oh, how he can make me laugh.

Two years old - and he is such a bossy bit of goods. Yesterday I sat down on the couch while the water for his oatmeal was heating in the microwave. He saw me, shot me the dirtiest look a two-year old can muster, and yelled "Mommy! Oatmeal! Kitchen - Now!" It is so hard to describe his little voice - or his little scowl. I coldn't help it - I burst into laughter - and even though he had no idea why, he was quick to join me.

I can't say that it has been easy. . . but, it certainly has been worth the trouble.

Restoring My Soul

There was a time when Writing -
Came as easily as Air.
The Muse within me danced her Dance -
flowers in her hair.
Then college came a-knocking,
and the critics; and the fear.
The Muse within me danced her Dance.
But I refused to hear.
Five years of lonely sorrow
in a place where none would see.
The Muse within me danced a Dance
and faded to memory.
Now every day I search my Soul -
and strain to hear her sing.
I see the Dance the Muse has danced
only in my dreams.

The Davinci Code

I finally caved to peer pressure and read a copy of the Da Vinci Code - mostly so I could participate in all the impromptu conversations regarding this particular piece of writing. The following pretty much sums up everything I think about the Da Vinci Code:

1) The book is VERY poorly written from a technical standpoint; and

2) The best way to piss off anyone who has read the book is to ask them: "Who betrayed the brotherhood?" (This is also a great way to stop all conversation at a dinner party.)

WARNING MINOR SPOILERS BELOW - IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE BOOK AND DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THIS, SKIP THE REST OF THIS POST.

The entire book is essentially a murder mystery, and yet - we never find out who started the whole darn mess. If you answer "no one betrayed the brothehood," then you have to swallow that a complete outsider managed to guess the identities of all four top members of a secret society. I would give the outsider one, maybe two names, but ALL FOUR?

I have my own personal theory, which should prove highly controversial. One of the main themes woven throughout the book is the constant underestimation of women by a patriarchal society. This is made even funnier when you realize there are really only three female characters in the book - and, not to name names, my bet is on the woman who was part of the brotherhood.

I also am of the opinion that Teabing's kidnapping (and everything it entails) is merely an unecessary plot point, put in place to add drama - much as the "suspense" status of the book can actually be tied to a simple writing gimmick. The author never finishes a conversation.

"What's in the box?
DUN DUN DUN - next chapter.

"But I haven't told you my secret yet."
DUN DUN DUN - next chapter.

The actual contents of the box or nature of the secret are really not all that shocking - but, by cutting off the conversation in strategic points, the author artificially creates a sense of "suspense."

THERE IS NO PURPOSE TO TEABING'S KIDNAPPING. The most common answer is "it had to happen because the butler didn't follow orders" but, ahem, the butler broke orders only AFTER THE PLAN WAS SET IN MOTION. If you think you can defend Teabing's kidnapping, by all means - let me in on the secret. Otherwise, it is simply a device whereby the author can show off several clever "cloak and dagger" ideas that he had. Too bad some of us care about little things like motivation and character development.

And finally (and, in my opinion, most annoyingly), FOR THE LOVE OF PETE - if you are on the run from the law, and you somehow end up in an armored car from an extremely famous and influential Swiss bank, I think anyone of average run-of-the-mill intelligence could figure out THERE MIGHT BE A WAY TO TRACK THE VEHICLE (i.e. Lowjack System). I suppose you could argue the two main characters are sleep deprived, but at the same time that they drive an armored car directly to their hideout, they are figuring out the answers to a trail of extremely convoluted and complicated riddles.

AAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Having said all of that, I really think the Da Vinci Code has done the world a service by introducing the concepts of Goddess worship and Paganism into mainstream literature in a favorable light. I think the vast popularity of the book is more due to a fascination with Goddess worship than to the gripping nature of the story (which roughly corresponds to being slapped by a wet jellyfish - intriguing at first, but very little substance).

I am putting away my soapbox now. Thank you for listening.

Amusement Factor

Some random individual made my weekend this morning!

I was returning from a hot, sweaty 1.2 mile hike to the park. I had accidentally locked myself out of the house, and while I waited for a relative to bring me my spare key, I decided to carry a 35 pound weight (my two-year old son) to the park. I was making the laborious return journey, my son sitting on my shoulders, one of his little hands almost covering my right eye, when a subsonic booming alerted me to the fact a car was coming up the street behind me. Then, as the car passed me, the driver stuck his head out the window and yelled, "Hey, Baby! Looking good!"

Now, considering that I had a two-year old plastered to my head - I'm assuming this means I have a really nice butt. Score!

If you can't laugh at life, you spend too much time crying.

The Path Within

Warning. I am not always happy and fluffy. Particularly when I write poetry.

The Me I choose to show the World
is not the real me,
nor has anybody breached the walls,
of my Inner Sanctity.
Behind the Barriers of Glass
I am a Broken Bird.
And every day I strive to Sing
a Song that is not heard.

I must treat my Soul with Kindness -
and my Broken Wings with Care.
Preserve the Song, once Mended,
I shall release into the Air.

My Life, The Soap Opera Part 1

(Please note I have changed the names in this story - though, if Bill or Katie came across this blog, they would immediately recognize themselves. And both would probably hunt me down. Ah well, what is life without a little risk?)

This afternoon, much to my surprise, I found myself sharing stories of my highschool days with a co-worker. I don't talk about my highschool years much. Mostly, because they resemble a badly written soap opera. If they weren't honest-to-goodness truth, they would be the worst fiction ever.

Like my senior prom date.

I went to prom with a manic depressive young man with a black belt in karate. If that combination doesn't give you nightmares tonight - it darn well should.

For the purposes of my story, I shall call him Bill. Whenever I think of Bill, I remember a conversation we had while eating at Taco Bell. Bill declared that if anyone entered the premises with a machine gun and began taking out the other customers, he would not be afraid to take a few bullets, and, with his martial arts expertise, he would most likely be able to exact a fatal revenge on the attackers for me. Now, you tell me which is more frightening: the fact that Bill believed that young men with machine guns would raid a random Taco Bell - OR - that Bill actually had attained the level of martial arts expertise that enabled him to permanently maim and/or kill? (I watched some of the competitions he entered - and the kid had talent).

Maybe this is the place where I should add that my mother wouldn't let me go to the prom without a date - and, believe it or not, this gentleman was the best choice. (Oddly enough, when I went to college, I met Bill's exact opposite - who promised that if anyone attacked me while we were on a date, he would like to think that maybe he might run for help - but that is another story.)

Not only did Bill serve as MY prom date, he also escorted a mutual friend, whose name was Katie. I could honestly do an entire blog filled with stories about this woman - but for now, suffice it to say, Katie was one of those individuals who was severely overweight and in absolute denial about her appearance - which, unfortunately, led to a very cruel prank being played on her. She had a crush on the quarterback of the football team - and I'll be damned if Mr. Quarterback didn't find out about it somehow - and he asked her to prom.

I could hear the train whistle - but I couldn't get off the tracks.

Needless to say, the night before prom (after Katie had purchased her tickets and dress), Mr. Quarterback dumped her. Enter me, enter Bill, and enter Katie - who claimed every third song was "their song" and promptly burst into tears. And, believe it or not, it gets BETTER.

Katie's dad had a friend in the limo business, and he arranged for us to have a limo for a discounted price. The limo driver would take us to prom, and then he would take other jobs, rather than waiting around for us. When we were ready to leave, we simply needed to call him, and he would pick us up once he finished whatever job he was on.

Mr. Limo Driver showed up in a purple sweat suit. (I have access to video footage, if you doubt me.) Unfortunately for us, in addition to his fatally crippled fashion sense, Mr. Limo Driver was having personal issues, and he shared all sorts of interesting facts with us - including that he was in the midst of a divorce and had been unable to sleep for several days. I am proud to say prom night is the same night that I learned a limo can, indeed, make a high-speed U-turn on a two-lane street - provided that the driver is hopped up on energy meds and has absolutely no respect for traffic laws.

Suffice it to say, I am one of those few individuals who probably would have been better off missing my Senior Prom and always wondering what it would have been like. To add insult to injury, a few days later the limo company tried to bill us for over $300. It turned out that Mr. Limo Driver chose to wait for us (instead of working other jobs, per the original agreement), and so the limo company was charging us full price. We disputed the bill and refused to pay.

But, hey! Since all stories deserve a happy ending. . .

It turns out Mr. Limo Driver had a nervous breakdown shortly thereafter and was committed to an insane asylum - so the limo company approached us with a new deal: all charges for past limo services would be dropped in exchange for a promise not to sue the limo company.

Our limo was FREE. How cool is that!?

Maiden Mother and Crone

In Celtic mythology, there is a goddess that is represented in three aspects: Maiden, Mother, and Crone. While I do not necessarily believe in the Celtic pantheon, I have found the concept of the triple goddess fascinating - particularly because she can also be used as a metaphor to describe the major phases in my life.

I am a Mother who just discovered she is no longer a Maiden.

I used to believe that hormones were simply an excuse that cranky women blamed their bad moods on - and mid-life crisis were a Hollywood fantasy. Imagine my surprise now that I am a hormonal woman experiencing a mid-life crisis.

Who knew?

Admittedly, you would have thought my pregnancy would have raised a red flag regarding this transition, but some of us require the spiritual equivalent of a two-by-four to the back of the head. Oddly enough, it was not the birth of my son, but rather the purchase of my cell phone, that triggered this particular mid-life revelation.

Let me start by saying: I am a technology geek. I AM THAT PERSON WHO ACTUALLY READS THE MANUAL TO THEIR DVD and figures out what every button on the digital camera is for. But, when I purchased my cell phone, I wanted the cell phone that was cheap, durable, and came with a very practical clock display on the outside so it could double as a watch (which is important, since most of my watches seem to meet a violent and untimely demise). I didn't care about the camera, text messaging, or surfing the Internet.

In fact, I actually have an increasing respect for my old telephone. The one with the cord holding it to the wall. It was much easier to ignore. If I was at a movie theatre, the phone rang, harmlessly, in an empty house. Now, even if I put my cell phone on silent, it is very difficult to ignore when my hip begins vibrating violently.

Just like that, I realized I was no longer a Maiden.

But I find great promise in the triple goddess model of life. Instead of "over the hill" middle-age leading to a depressing and decrepit old age, the Celtic mythology, much like Asian philosophies, implies that these transitions are just that: transitions. As a Mother, you gain wrinkles, but you also have many more experiences under your belt - and those experiences allow you to interpret the world differently. Understanding the triple goddess allows me to accept my wrinkles with humor, and my mistakes with humility.

It is also comforting to realize that, according to the model of the triple goddess, the transition from Mother to Crone should lead down a road wherein the elderly are respected repositories of knowledge and wisdom. I like this version much better than the American version - wherein the elderly are hard-of-hearing denizens of Wal-Mart who should have their driver's license confiscated.

I am finally a Mother who realizes she is a Mother. Kid and all.