My hatred of Sundays started around age 10. Well to be fair I disliked them before that, because my mother used to take my sisters and me, kicking and screaming, to catholic mass (yes, in Latin). My father, who has never expressed a religious notion, ever supported my mother’s wishes that we attend church while he killed a Sunday morning crossword in a blissfully empty house alone with the eager anticipation of the pub opening at noon.  I’m pretty sure that for that valued slice of Sunday solitude, he would have supported my mother’s views if she was taking us to a Nazi rally, sex pistols concert, satanic ritual or a weekend job in a coal mine, all four if it kept us out of the house for a few more hours. It wasn’t hatred of Sundays back then, just a mild dislike.

However at age 10 my father got a job abroad and the kids had to go to boarding school. My mother relented and sent us to a Church of England school because she wanted me to be with my sisters and all of the catholic boarding schools only took boys…. and obviously there’s a cheap joke there. Not one to avoid a cheap joke now, I’d like to express my sincerest gratitude to the forces of nature that gave me sisters saving me no doubt from a holy buggering.

My mother, determined, wrote to the headmaster and asked nicely if he’d let us out of school grounds on a Sunday to attend mass. The answer was yes, and the problem was that Chapel was at 9.30 and mass was at 11. So we got to go to both services for a nice double dose of religion on all of the weekends I stayed in school. Well, on a side note here, this was at a time when the troubles in Ireland were pretty prominent and you could guarantee that my half term would always be messed up by a bomb in Liverpool street station, or a fish and chip shop was being bombed in Ireland, or the houses of parliament were being mortared from the back of a car. (Actually, always felt bad they didn’t pull that one off….) but the point is there was incredible and senseless atrocities because to my amazing 10-18 year old mind they were fighting over one church service being better than the other. Well to this day, I figure the difference is one kneels and don’t use condoms, and the others stand and do. Oh, and the hats are different. Clearly, worth a fight.

However, despite my whole religious tirade here, this is not why I dislike Sundays. It was the fact that even if my parents were in England and we got to go home for the weekend or if I went to a friend’s house for the weekend, we had to be back in school Sunday night by 6pm. SHARP. I always had that sense of dread on a Sunday, that my weekend ended before anyone else’s did. As a matter of fact, we had Saturday school until noon so we got screwed on both ends really. (Still, a better option than catholic school.)

5 o’clock would roll around on Sunday, and songs of praise would come on, and just the sight of Harry Secombe roaming the countryside in an anorak was the sight of doom. His tenor voice the death knell of my weekend. I knew I was headed back to school, earlier than 90% of the other kids at school, and most of the rest of the world. I hated Sundays for that very moment. That soul crushing journey back to school, while so many other folks were still digesting their Sunday roast and settling in for a nice relaxing evening I was being driven back to school by my mother. I’d always give her a pissed off glare the whole trip not that it made me feel better. From the very start of a Sunday I always had that dread feeling, all the way through mass, chapel, a nice country walk or while fighting my sisters for the last Yorkshire pudding, that sense of doom for that journey hung with me.

Well boarding school and church attendance both ended at 18, but I’ve been back to my school because I’m grateful they taught me a few things and I have fond memories there. Sundays didn’t seem to suck as much from 18 onwards, but now that I am a divorced dad I am back full circle and worse than before.

My two beautiful little daughters are in bed, tucked in and tuckered out from yet another fun filled weekend with daddy. The bulk of my co-parenting time is every other weekend from Friday at 5 until Monday morning. Sure I get to have my girls Sunday night, but every Sunday I know that come Sunday evening I will have to pack their bags and ready their things for them to go back to their mother in the morning. Just that one job of searching around my house to pick up their little shoes, favorite cuddly toy, clothes and any other bits and pieces they brought with them for their time with daddy cuts my soul to it’s very core and reminds me every time of my biggest regret from my divorce. Every other Sunday, I know that I am going to have that pain, renewed sense of loss and face the start of hours of daughterless emptiness until the next every other Friday night rolls around. Yes, I hate Sundays.

The two things I have learned from this, is that I never once stopped to think how my mother felt driving my sisters and I back to school, let alone her trip back alone in the car after dropping off the sulky kids. Pretty sure it’s similar to how I feel packing my girls bags. So next time I see Mum I’ll go to mass with her because she will love that.

The second thing is that when I get to heaven, the first thing I’m going to do is find Harry Secombe and kick his ass while he sings Jerusalem.

All that needs to be known about the small cakes with sticky stuff on top that come in those fiddly cases that this Dragon cannot get its claws around so just eats as well, can be found on this WunderWeb place:

http://cupcakerehab.com/

When a Tweep posted a link to the news coverage of the said feature today, I felt moved to send a message to them, simply saying that it had haunted me all day.

Imagine my surprise when I received a DM back, simply saying, “WHAT has been haunting you ALL DAY???”

A case of Tweet Amnesia?  I had heard of such things.

I responded via DM, clarifying which tweet I was referring to.

The next response, again via DM:

“Oh THAT.  Yeah, I did put it up as if you read my bio you’ll see I’m against any form of child abuse.”

Oh.  I see.  Thank you.  Yes.

*Thinks, isn’t that the same as saying, “I’m Pro-Breathing”…?!*

My Conclusions:

• I may change my Twitter username to @aloss.
• I need to learn to shut up.

Probably best NOT to retweet this, hybrids, as the Tweep meant well, meant VERY well, actually.  I just wanted to tell you a bedtime story.

Plus, I could be “outted” faster than you could say, “Livin’ La Vida Loca”…

Of course, Ernie and friends are all looking forward to the Bank Holiday celebrations ahead – more importantly 2 extra days for hyperactive playing and blogging … those within a reasonable radius beware!

The ‘Playful One’ found himself listening to the Bacon Man on his Digital Wireless Radio (Fisher Price never did these!) on Radio 5 Live the other afternoon, and he got to talking about ‘Political Correctness gone Mad’ – a little confusing for Ernie! There again, I’m not sure how politically correct him and Bert were back in the day!

The Bacon Man went on to speak about the nice lady Chaplain … sorry, Ernie corrects that she was a Chaplin not a Chaplain, although the latter might be quite apt! Shirley Chaplin was taken off frontline duty at The Royal Devon and Exeter NHS Trust Hospital because she refused to remove her necklace … one which bore a cross. If, as they claim, this is a Health and Safety Policy, they have left it a little late given that Mrs Chaplin is due to retire in 8 months after 30 years of service. If this is based on an apparent need to appease those of other religions, well it seems more than a touch ludicrous.

Ernie does not really do politics … although rumour has it that watched the Budget last Wednesday. However, this is because he wanted to test out his new Abacus! As a non-smoker, juice drinking, cake eating, good Christian boy … oops, sorry, let’s remove the bit about Christian … he wasn’t really affected by price changes in cigarettes and alcohol. (At this point excuse me whilst I stop a certain blogger from dancing to his Oasis album!)

Frankly, whilst much of Britain debates and wonders, Ernie has no political opinion, although he did mention that if Mrs Cameron was having another kid, it would be someone extra for him to go and play with!

When I read Ernie’s draft, I did really think that for an unopinionated, apolitical atheist, he had done a wonderful job of writing a short introductory blog based loosely around personal opinion, politics and religion. Way to go Ernie, set the cat amongst those Trafalgar Square pigeons!!

To be honest, Ernie will write about all and sundry, but hopefully do so in an inimitably easygoing style … should he not, please feel free to tell him in no uncertain terms, whilst threatening not to play with him!

For now, that is it … Questions half asked and half answered … when all is said and done, this forum is equally about your thoughts.

We leave you with one ‘Thought / Question of the Day’, which is vaguely topical for the Holiday Weekend ahead:-

“Why do they call it Good Friday when something bad happened??”

Answers on a Postcard … OK, answers on a Comment please! Ciao for Now

Well, to be honest, I’m a bit of a travelling mongrel. Dad’s English, Mum’s Scottish, I was born in Nigeria and my dad worked abroad, so I globe trotted growing up. I have lived in Nigeria (arriving on planet), Zambia (twice) England (of course) Holland (flat), Malaysia (spicy), Sierra Leone (shithole), Nassau (bikinis), Ghana (dusty) back to England (pubs) for a chunk and for the last nine years in the land of Elvis and Jack Daniels, Tennessee (U.S. of A.)

In fact, just recently, Knoxville Tennessee became the place I have spent the most time in one place in my life. Second is a little pub filled, tiny streeted, memory filled town in Suffolk England that I love dearly called Woodbridge where I went to boarding school for 8 years.

I called mum before Christmas and she told me she was sorry that I wasn’t coming home for Christmas, and I told her it’s OK as America is actually home now, it’s awfully convenient. Open 24 hours a day.

But despite that, I’m glad to be British. There’s an important reason why.

When I got serious with an American girl who years later became my ex wife and mother of my two children, (honestly, we planned it that way) we lived in a pub I was running in Bristol. Our first real argument came over the fact I did not have any coat hangers. As bachelor who exclusively kept my clothes on the floordrobe, with no need to break into cars I had no coat hangers. Well, she needed some coat hangers. She reached for her coat as it was raining and said she was going to buy some.

This was at 9 o’clock on some mid week day in 1999. Don’t know if things have changed in England since then, but the only thing open then were the pubs, cinema and the take outs. (Yes I would kill for a kebab right now.) I advised her that she would have to wait until Tesco’s or the market opened in the morning so getting some coat hangers was a no. This actually led to a bit of a meltdown from her about how inconvenient and generally shit England was for just about anything after 6 o’clock and how you can get anything at anytime in the USA. Well, I’m British, this is not a newsflash, of course it’s inconvenient and you just bloody well get on with it and make do. For god’s sake, it’s not like we’ve run out of tea. But because I didn’t care enough about it, we had an argument. Well, it wasn’t that I didn’t care, you just had to bloody well get on with it.

That story had a happy ending because about 15 of the punters in the pub that witnessed said meltdown were knocking down the door the next morning with armfuls of coat hangers hoping to get a free pint for saving the landlord from his enraged coat hanger-less American girlfriend. Brits are a resourceful bunch when there’s a pint involved.

But being British is all about making do and bloody well getting on with it. Let’s face it, it rains all the time, never a bus when you need one, nothing on the Telly, Milton Keynes, we’re going to get screwed in the Eurovision as well as lose on penalties to the Germans and the list goes on. But you just bloody well get on with it. Still…mustn’t grumble, well except about the Germans.

Flash forward to 2008 and during the pregnancy of our second child we were advised that there may be some developmental issues with the baby. My second daughter was born in September of 08, spent her first month in intensive care and was misdiagnosed with Dandy Walker Syndrome, and eventually at 6 months was correctly diagnosed with Joubert Syndrome. It’s a developmental disease with mild to moderate retardation. If you want to know more, feel free to Google it.

Throughout the whole nightmare process I always knew it would be OK, I told my wife, her family, my family, all of our friends etc that it would be OK. (Cup of tea in hand.)  And well if it wasn’t then we’d just bloody well get through it. Tilly arrived and I loved her. She struggled to learn to eat, she had alleged seizures, had surgery at a month old, but mate, she was lovely and is even lovelier today. You should hear her giggle.

Before my divorce my wife sent me a piece of work she had found on the internet which described how to fully accept all the joys of a special needs child, you must first mourn the death of the perfectly healthy child you had imagined they would be. There was even a simile of how if you planned the trip of a lifetime to Italy, only to be diverted to Holland, then of course you would be disappointed at not seeing the coliseum of the tower of Pisa, but once you opened your eyes you would see a new beauty in the tulips and the windmills of Holland and realize it had a whole different set of joys to offer. My wife even went as far to let me know that I personally had not mourned the death of the healthy child Tilly might be, and it was impossible for me to move on until I had.

I actually got very upset at this, oddly enough. Because I’m British and I never had to mourn any loss as  you just bloody well know that although some things might be a little inconvenient or not how you had hoped, there is still going to be those wonderful sunny days in the pub garden with mates, Jaffa cakes, two busses at the same time, Grange Hill, guy Fawkes night, full English breakfasts, royal weddings, literally every British comedy ever made, Singing 3 lions in a pub full of strangers, Fish and Chips, Bucks Fizz winning the Eurovision (no really), Bagpuss, Scones with clotted cream, seeing the beautiful Suffolk countryside, and of course a 5-1 win over Germany.

Thank god I have my lovely little girl Tilly, and thank god I am British. Put the kettle on……..

I start the day with just the youngest two. I gratefully receive my school-made cards, sickly-sweet strawberry cupcakes (avoid! avoid!), kisses and hugs, and then I can almost see the metaphorical dusting of hands and the thought “That’s her done. Now, back to me!”.

We have the inevitable “Why is there no Children’s Day?” discussion. My time-tested reply is met by the indignant assertation from the ten year old that she does, in fact, do lots for me. She doesn’t. Every request for help is met with a reaction so violent it is worthy of Cinderella being asked to scrub the steps while the rest of us hang out down the castle with the prince.

Dutifully, we trot over to my mum’s. I present her with the latest Alexander McCall Smith (and metaphorically dust my hands). The children are restless. Their beady eyes dart the room, searching for something, anything, to make a scene about. Two adults trying to hold a conversation is anethema to them, it simply cannot be allowed to happen. Finally they decree their argument shall be about cushions. They screech, they stomp, they slam many doors and they thwack each other about the head with said fluffy upholstery. In the end they win themselves a ban from next week’s pre-arranged tea-at-nanny’s-after-school visit. Nice work, guys.

We are met by the ex and my eldest children for a long family lunch. These two are positively angelic in comparison to their younger siblings. In fact, they are so atypical of assumed teenager behaviour that, while I count my blessings, I often ask myself where I went wrong. They are lovely, and I am utterly thankful.

Meanwhile, my little devil duet systematically wreck the entire day. Wearily, I conclude that sitting nicely and being considerate do not feature in a small child’s mentality. They want to run, scream, bicker over who gets to eat the most of my chocolates, and cause each other severe injury. Mother’s Day has become Mother’s Five Minutes: presents, and then business as usual. Only more so.

At bedtime they look beautiful. With sleepy rueful eyes I get cuddles, apologies and promises of better times to come. I forgive them, of course. The last strawberry cupcake quietly binned, I can enjoy a tranquil Mother’s Evening, happy that peace has been restored.

Besides which, it’s the little one’s sixth birthday next week. HIS day. And revenge will be mine…

I divorced from my wife of 9 years last march. Due to health reasons of my youngest daughter, it was best that my wife had the majority of the co-parenting time. Apparently, it’s dreadfully bad form to call it custody these days. So I get my little ladies every Wednesday night and every other weekend.  I pushed hard for equal co-parenting time, but sometimes you just have to make a decision that totally sucks for the right reasons.

My youngest is 18 months, and the eldest will be 5 this April. In the great state of Tennessee, when you have kids and go through a divorce both parents have to attend 12 hours of parenting classes. These classes give you some legal understanding of parenting plans, financial advice, how to deal with your ex, how to recognize abuse and report it as well as some other gems such as “Y’all be sure to tell your kids you love them y’all.”

Overall, the program is well meant but generally dumbed down to the lowest level, and as a hands on dad who has always been deeply involved with his children, it wasn’t the best use of 12 hours I’ve ever had.

Yes, hands on dad. My father was always there financially and my parents are together, but I struggle to come up with more than a three of memories as a child of what my father and I ever did together. Once I was 18 and could go to the pub it was a different story, but my biggest fear of fatherhood was being that dad.

While married, I always played with the girls, gave baths, pushed on the swings, read bedtime stories, ran around doing airplanes with them, pushed them on the swings, stomped in puddles when it was raining, took them to the park to (you’ve guessed it) push them on the swings, to name but a few. Frankly, I adored the time alone with the girls when the wife needed a break and was more than happy to be with them and take care of them for as long as she needed to be gone.

Well, there are just some things that mums do, and some things that Dads do. My eldest daughter’s favorite restaurant has awful disgusting food and…….free ice cream. Whenever we get the ice cream we always play tricks on each other and “bomp” each other’s noses with ice cream. Mummy doesn’t do this as it’s just for Daddy and the girls. The girls don’t get shoulder rides or Airplanes from Mummy and she only does a very poor impression of the real Tickle Monster.

At those wonderful times I get my girls, I have to now do some of those mummy things that I took for granted. Like hair. Little 4anddidyouknowmybirthdayisnextmonthdaddy year old girls have a lot of hair. More than my very limited experience of manscaping has trained me for. So last Wednesday night after bath time and my alternate roles as King Triton then Tickle Monster, it was time to brush hair. This night unlike any other her hair was particularly tangled and while trying to brush it out I hurt her. This led to an inconsolable little girl who wanted nothing more than Mummy.

Holding my little girl that I had just hurt while she cried for her mummy who wasn’t there was a kick in the balls. Probably the biggest one I’d ever had. And yes, it bloody well hurt. The good news is we got through it with an extra story and a glass of milk, and the very next day at work I interviewed several of my female long haired employees to learn the secrets of detangling hair. 12 hours of parenting class and no one thought to say “oh by the way, get some Spray De-Tangler it’ll save you a wicked big kick in the hairy bean bag.”

I’m sure I’ll get kicked again sometime, but as the proud owner of the world’s biggest bottle of spray detangler as well as hairspray for staticy hair (another secret omitted from parenting class) it won’t be for tangled hair.

Few things make this Dragon more angry than to see a human adult that is too drunk to fold a buggy up trying to get onto a bus with a small human. Especially when the human adult does not understand that there are already 2 buggies on the bus which is why he must fold up his, and then spends 5 minutes trying to find a ticket in his pockets only to fail and have to buy another one. Then as the bus pulls away, the small human is standing between bus seats watching the adult human sway precariously while telling the small human to go up the back of the bus and find a seat.

The expression on the small human’s face is an image of devotion and fear. The small human would rather wait for the swaying drunken human than sit next to a white-haired human lady who pats the vacant seat next to her. The small human acknowledges her for a mere second before returning its gaze to the now staggering adult human. They make it to the back of the bus, and the small human begins to chatter to the adult. The adult begins to snore.

No hatchling should see a Dragon behave in a way that brings shame upon Dragons. Dragons do not understand humans with no self respect.

My top achievements today include:

• Purchasing cereal.  I even managed to carry the box of cereal home.  No mean feat when your knuckles are dragging on the pavement.
• Unloading the dishwasher. Just realised it doesn’t count because I got bored and tired halfway through.
• Planning writing a list (though never fully committing to actually sitting down and writing the said list).

Disappointingly, I only managed to drink two cups of coffee.  I couldn’t even be bothered to indulge in my favourite pastime with any determination, the one that normally keeps me powering on through the day.

Herein lies the problem?  Perhaps…

I met the “old” group – Madeline, Kathryn and Virginia – through an accelerated bachelor’s degree program in 2002. They’re late bloomers like me … raised families in lieu of college after high school, sacrificed their dreams or simply did not feel that a college education was important to them at the time.  Ranging in age from 45-58, I’m the spring chicken in this brood of hens.  We have children and husbands in common but honestly not must else. But I’m getting ahead of myself …

The “young” group – Star, Whitney and Amethyst – are 30, 25 and 23 respectively, which makes me the old hen at 45, and frankly old enough to be any one of their mothers.  I know…you’re doing the math now, aren’t you?  And you’re thinking, “No way.”  Or maybe not if you’re from the Jerry Springer, trailer trash town I grew up in.  For the record, my mother is 60, so based on that, I could be these hot chicks’ mother hen.  Cluck, cluck!

Any hoot…I met these girls at work.  They’re fun, fearless and full of life… just like me most of the time but that’s where the similarities end.  They’re single and childless, career-focused (I was once but am feeling less and less enthralled about “working for the man” these days), boy crazy (again…I was once but I’ve learned my lesson there), and mood-alternating substance centric (been there, done that and am thankful that I never caught a disease, got killed or was arrested).  These girls love hip hop, rap and pop music; sip cosmos in a very “Sex in the City” fashion; and buy shoes like I buy gallons of milk. Life is one big party with very little responsibility other than keeping on top to the sales at Barney’s.

The two groups recently found out about each other when my monthly outings with each group occurred within two days of one another.

I had dinner with the hot “young” chicks on Tuesday. We dined on sushi, which we washed down the purple haze martinis at a very trending fusion restaurant surrounded by pretentious up-and-comers and beautiful people…all half my age. The primary topic of conversation was the waiter’s ass, followed by the virtues of pilates and yoga, and their collective quest to become a size zero (they’re all a size 2 or 4 and going for that whole heroin chic look).  Then the discussion segued to the girls’ acquiring some highly coveted tickets and backstage passes to a 50 Cent concert (I wasn’t invited and am quite fine with that actually – I’ve thoroughly exhausted my supply of Vicodin, and there isn’t enough Advil on the planet to make hip hop music tolerable).

So I said, “His music gives me a freaking headache.” And the girls exchanged looks, raised their eyebrows, rolled their eyes and gnashed their terrible teeth in “Where the Wild Things Are” mode … and then they looked at me oh so dismissively. I quickly sucked down my third drink and announced that I had to go “… early day tomorrow, girls…have to get up at 5 a.m. … lots to do.” Surprisingly, they encouraged me to out of dancing with them. This was a test, I was sure of it, one which I quickly failed, by saying, “On a Tuesday night?” Okay…shit, now I was really feeling old. There was a day when I’d be out until 9 a.m. the next morning on any given weekday but that was 25 years.  It was then that I realized that I was the odd duck out in this flock; time to fly the coop.

So, I reminded the girls that I’m older than them, had another girls’ night out planned later in the week and needed to save my energy.  They became excited for me and began to probe, wanting to know who I’d be hanging out with, what we’d be doing, where we’re going, etc.

Wanting to put the night in context, I figured an explanation of who my friends were and how I met them might be appropriate.

“Well,” I said, “I met Madeline, Virginia and Kathryn about 8 years ago at …”

“…a nursing home?” Whitney interrupted, finishing my sentence.

“No,” I continued. “I met them at…”

“…a funeral home?” Star laughed.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Will you let me finish, please?”

“…I know…I know…you met them at a cribbage tournament,” Amethyst said.

“Are these old biddies,” Star asked, snorting her martini like a fire hose from her nose. “How freaking old are these bitches?”

“Do they use canes or walkers?” Whitney chirped in.

The girls left me speechless, which is no easy task.

We all laughed, and I finally got to finish my story.  As you might imagine, I took a lot of shit from the hot chicks about the old hens that night.  They excused me of wanting to feel young by hanging out with geriatrics. I reminded them that 58, the age of my oldest friend, is far from geriatric.  They said this technique, assuming their suspicions were correct, wouldn’t work.  In fact, they assured me that I was bound to feel old and resent the smell of mothballs in short order … because “50-year-olds preserve themselves when they retire for the night with mothballs,” according to Whitney.  Sheesh …

Long story, short… the check came. We split it equally four ways. I made my escape at about 11 p.m. as the chicks made their way across the parking lot to a dance club.

The next day, I battled a screaming mimi of a headache well past dinnertime and hoped that I’d feel good enough to go out with the girls the next night. I thought about cancelling but wondered how that would look. Like I can’t keep up with 20 and 30-year-olds… that’s how.

Thursday night, I met the old hens at a rustic tavern attached to a sports bar in the Basketball Hall of Fame. The place was loaded with blue-collar workers, chugging draft beer and watching the hockey and basketball games on the dozen or so television sets that donned the walls of the bar.  On my Tuesday night out, I was under-dressed in black slacks and a cotton sweater (the chicks worn short skirts and four-inch heels). Thursday, I was overdressed in, I am sad to say, the same outfit, now flanked by dudes and dudettes dressed in jeans and sneakers.

Virginia and Madeline were already seated, waiting and looking at their watches when I arrived … two minutes late.  Clearly, they were upset. But since I didn’t see Kathryn at the table, I thought that I had a get-out-of-jail-free card to play.  Nope, turned out Kathryn wasn’t coming. I missed the text message that she had sent to all of us about her daughter being in labor.  Kathryn was about to be a grandmother, and I was being chastised for keeping the hens waiting. Shit…

After a brief berating about how inconsiderate I could be sometimes (by the way I was the first to arrive Tuesday night, the hot chicks were 20 minutes late, and I didn’t squawk about it), Virginia and Madeline ordered burgers, fries and beer.  I ordered seared tuna, salad and a glass of wine.  The hens asked if I was on a diet.  I explained that I was saving room for dessert, which is, I swear to God, the only freaking reason they stopped hassling me.  I am, of course, too thin from their perspective, which coming from plus-size women makes sense.  Even still … I wear a size 8.

But it’s the “new 8.” You know what I mean…right?  Allow me to fill you in …

I finally find a pair of pants that fit perfectly without having to go a size up, despite the fact that I’ve put on about 15 lbs. over the last year, and when I bring them up to the register, the cashier says, “Don’t you just love this brand? You can go a size smaller than you actually wear.”  I wanted to choke the fucking bitch.  Instead, I asked her if she worked on commission. When she said, “Yes,” I took the pants across the store to another register.  I digress …

Banter over dinner and into dessert consists of grown kids moving back home, husband bashing, hot flashes and the virtue of elastic waist pants.  We’re all approaching or beginning menopause.  But unlike the old hens, I don’t hate my husband.  I honestly can’t fathom why my friends married these men in the first place.  Not that there’s anything wrong with the guys … but clearly these ladies have nothing in common with them.  It starts with their views on politics. The hens are democrats and their cocks are members of the GOP.  The hens hate sports – yet it was one of their smart ideas to have dinner at a sports bar.  Go figure.  They don’t like watching the same TV shows as their spouses and complain incessantly about disconnects on every possible level – music, vacation spots, activities and sex…the hens aren’t interested and I’m shocked that their husbands would be either!

They have separate beds and long for separate lives…especially since their husbands retired and began “disturbing the peace.” Of course, they don’t understand why I tolerate my husband. He’s been out of work since June, and I work remotely three days per week, which means we spend a lot of time together … way more than years passed.  But my hubby isn’t a pain in the ass.  We have the same political views, and the same taste in food, music and TV shows. And while I don’t love sports, I’m happy to compromise occasionally. What the hell? It’s the least I can do.

Hub gets our younger son off to school every morning. Once the kid’s on the bus, hub comes back to bed and cuddles with me…and occasionally we enjoy morning love.  Who says the best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup? I beg to differ.  I like to start my day a different way.  When it’s time to get up, hub makes my coffee and a bagel.  He builds me a fire to keep me warm and makes working from home a pleasure.  I’m convinced my friends resent me for this.

I listened to my friends drone on about what complete assholes their husbands are.  It was not the first time that I’d been exposed to the venom they spew about men who I frankly feel are their better halves at this point. Then we started talking about politics, an utterly stupid thing for us to do.  I side with their husbands, who, by the way, think I’m “fun.”  I’m sure my friends resent me for this, too.

We took our turns filling each other in on our respective lives and then Virginia exclaimed excitedly, “Oh, I forgot to tell you … I got concert tickets for me and Larry … yes, I’m going to drag him along … to the Carly Simon concert.  They’re great seats, three rows from the stage.”  Madeline squealed with envy and asked if Kathryn knew because she’s a big fan, too.  Then, Madeline and Virginia both turned to me, clearly looking for a reaction — an oozing of jealousy, a lusting or a longing to join the Carly Simon bandwagon.

Big, awkward, pregnant pause!

“What?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Aren’t you excited for me?” asked Virginia.

“I suspect she’s not a big Carly Simon fan,” Madeline said.

“Well,” I confided, “to be honest, not really, but don’t feel bad. I don’t like 50 Cent, either.”

“Who?” asked Madeline.

“He’s a rapper, I think,” said Virginia. “Are you going to see that guy?”

I explained that the hot chicks Star, Amethyst and Whitney are going to the concert but that I’m not invited.

“Star? Amethyst? Whitney?” Virginia asked. “Are these girls strippers?’

“I believe the correct term is ‘exotic dancer,’ dear,” Madeline said, chuckling. “With names like that, they must be.”

Truth is Whitney did “dance” for a time — after deciding that she didn’t need to take medicine for bipolar syndrome and before checking herself into rehab for an addiction to a plethora of other pills.  Today, she’s clean and sober, thankfully, and a much better person for the experience.

“Why are you hanging out with these girls?” Virginia asked. “Are you going through a midlife crisis or something? Do you want to feel young again? Because if that’s the case, get ready for that to backfire. You’ll never be able to keep up with those girls. You know that, don’t you?”

“Plus, those bitches will get you in trouble,” Madeline added. “Where’s our bill?  I want to get home before it gets dark.”

When the waitress brought the check to the table, Virginia quickly grabbed it and pulled out her calculator to figure out who owed what because she had no intention of subsidizing my drinks.

I just laughed and thought about what I’d give for a pair of Bon Jovi backstage passes and some friends my own age.