I’m a list-maker. I make lists of things to do, things to pack,
things I want to achieve/have/buy/fix/change.

Seems my eight-year-old is following in my footsteps. Here is the list of fun activities
she compiled at a recent play date:

[NOTE: You can click on the picture to open it in a new window and see it larger. I had it here full-size but it was making the text all wonky and I couldn't stand it.]

I was a little concerned when I saw #5 (fart? We don’t even use that word!), but then I saw #8.
I am hoping they chose, wisely, to pray in the grass instead.

At least she’s organized.

Remember when you were dating, and Valentine’s Day was a Big Deal? I mean, weeks of planning could go into that single evening. There was the sexy new lingerie you had to buy, along with the thoughtful token of your romantic affection, plus the best-you-could afford wine chosen specifically to accompany the sensual, home-cooked meal you planned to whip up (just as soon as you figured out—and this was without the help of Google, mind you—how the hell to make a prime rib). I won’t even mention the weeks of ramped up workouts endured in an effort to dazzle in the aforementioned whisper of lace.

These days, at least in my house, the preparations are much simpler (Push-up bra? Check!) and the only thing being made in my kitchen is a dinner reservation. No longer do I fantasize about candlelit, champagne-soaked celebrations involving hours of intense eye-gazing; my heart-day hopes are now pinned to a successful combination of a) landing a babysitter and b) not being too full to fool around after dinner.

We’re so programmed by the Hallmark Holiday mentality that we actually fall for the hype. We buy dozens of boxes of chalky, heart-shaped candy and Disney-character cards for our kids to distribute so their classmates will know how much they care. (And the crafting of these cards is done with so much love it nearly hurts. “I don’t fucking CARE if you like Jason or not! You’re doing a card for every kid in the class, like it or not! Now hurry up, I don’t want to be here all night.”) We fork over ridiculous sums for overpriced foliage and prix-fixe dinners at fancy restaurants when in truth, we prefer tulips to roses and would honestly rather stay home and eat pizza in our PJs. We pretend to be thrilled to receive approximately 17 million calories worth of drugstore chocolate we don’t really like and swear we won’t touch but somehow wind up polishing off in a matter of days.

The U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that somewhere in the neighborhood of one billion valentines are sent each year worldwide—85% of which are purchased by women. (Way to go, guys!) I haven’t stumbled across any restaurant, flower or candy industry statistics, but I imagine they are equally staggering. And here’s the irony of this so-called holiday: All that money, all that effort, is sort of meaningless because it’s expected. He sees that relentless parade of diamonds-are-forever commercials, too, and knows he’ll be in the doghouse if he doesn’t do or buy you something.

I don’t know about you, but I could definitely live without the forced affection. I’d find it infinitely more touching if my kids came home with a hand-picked assortment of weeds one random day in March, or my husband slipped a sweet, hand-written love note into my desk—unprompted by any official holiday or celebration—for me to find later at work. And honey, if you’re reading this, just so we’re clear: I’ll take a diamond tennis bracelet any day of the year.

If you know me, you know that weird shit happens to me all the time. Like today, for instance. I was interviewing a renowned researcher and clinician for a very serious piece I am writing about stress and happiness for a national health magazine. And then all of a sudden I was bawling my eyes out and ordering this off the internet:

Here’s what happened just before that:

“Clients pay me to give them happiness makeovers,” the doctor was explaining. “If you give me three months, I can guarantee you happiness for the rest of your life or you get your money back.”

“What about if someone is terminally ill or totally broke or living with an abusive partner or weighs five hundred pounds?” I countered.

“Bring it on,” Doc quipped. “I love a challenge.”

“Okay, my dad died nine years ago, and I miss him every day,” I told her. “Make me happy about that.”

She explained the process that she would take me through and I agreed to give it a whirl. First, I had to verbally acknowledge that his dying was out of my control (which might sound blazingly obvious but holy crap is that hard to say out loud), and then I had to say–again, out loud–that I accepted that it had happened. I could barely choke out the words.

Snot was dripping down my chin by this point.

“I don’t typically ofter this, but… would you like to talk to your dad?” she asked me. “Because I can do that.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I said between sobs. (Yes, I said shut the fuck up to a PhD, during an interview in which I was sobbing.)

“I’m also a Reiki master, and I think you need to do this to be healed,” Doc informed me.

So I lit a candle and got a glass of water like she told me to do while she got my dad on the phone.

“Your dad wants you to talk to him more,” she said. Which totally freaked me out because shortly after he died I had this crazy-real dream where he said to me, “I hear you talking about me but I want you to talk to me,” so I proceeded to drive around and talk to him where nobody could see or hear me and if they did they might think I was just talking on the Bluetooth that I don’t technically have.

“He wants you to get an angel statue to put on your desk, and talk to him through that,” she added. “A male angel.”

Now I am sobbing and chatting with my dead dad and also Googling for angel statues, so you can imagine how totally professional I felt.

Turns out there are a shit-ton of male angel statues to choose from. But most of them were just… wrong.

This one was too holy. (Dad might be the only person I’ve ever met who liked the word fuck more than I do.)

This one was too garden-y.

This one was WAY too naked.

But then I saw Black Angel and I started cracking up. Doc couldn’t see what I was looking at (shit, maybe she could!), and she couldn’t have known how funny my dad was (or maybe she did!), but my cackle was all she needed to hear. “You just found your angel,” she told me.

So now I feel good because Black Angel is on its way, and Doc also told me that I should totally get a new car because it will make me happy on a daily basis. (Just so you know, a new car only makes most people happy for 30 days before they go back to being just as miserable as they were before the purchase–even if the new car smell is still there and everything–but because I want a new car so I can take my kids and their friends places, it will lead to legitimate, ongoing, sustainable happiness. Or something like that.)

Joe is going to be so on board when I tell him that the Reiki master who talks to dead people says we should get a Mercedes! (Fine, she didn’t say we should get a Mercedes. But she didn’t say we shouldn’t get one either, and I’m pretty sure my dad would want me to drive a Benz. Damn it, I should have asked him when I had him on the phone.)

When Black Angel arrives, I will vlog one of our conversations if you guys want.

p.s. I absolutely am not mocking the good Doctor in this post. Just so we’re clear. She’s brilliant and fabulous (and not because of the Mercedes car thing, honest) and she thanked me for “opening up to her so willingly” (i.e. hysterically sobbing) and if I wanted to grow up I’d want to be her when I did it.

p.p.s. I’m adding these pix for Joy Meredith, who would like to be able to picture my fantastic dad without espresso-colored skin and fluffy wings, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

p.p.p.s. Yes, I used to dye my hair dark brown. Obviously.

p.p.p.p.s. Can you BELIEVE that bitch Debra?

*totally those kind of balls

This weekend I took my daughters to Ben & Jerry’s, because I’m a kick-ass mom despite what that bitch Debra said. (Yes, I’m going to milk that one for the rest of ever.) My six-year-old asked me to read the flavor menu, which normally I wouldn’t do because these are teachable moments, and plus she can read. But the menu was sort of high up and all tricked out in fancy fonts so I indulged.

“Banana Split, Brownie Batter, Boston Cream Pie,” I recited, “Milk and Cookies, Mint Chocolate Chunk, Mud Pie…”

Thoughtful stares.

Jesus, kids, it’s ice cream, not your fucking burial plots.

“Phish Food, Strawberry Cheesecake, Schweddy Balls…”

Shit.

“Sweaty balls! They have sweaty balls? I want sweaty balls!”

Raucous laughter.

“They’re not talking about those kind of balls, dear,” I tried to say, but it’s kind of hard to talk when you just peed your pants in Ben & Jerry’s. “It’s Schweddy, named after a very famous–”

“Sweaty balls! Sweaty balls! We want sweaty balls!”

We got Cookie Dough cones (the chocolate-dipped kind covered with fucking rainbow sprinkles because I didn’t have the energy to breathe, no less say no to anything) and the subject was dropped.

Or so I thought.

Tonight, I was bitching at asking the girls nicely to get ready for dinner when my savvy six-year-old stopped in mid-tracks, put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to one side and stared me right in the eye.

“Why aren’t you doing what I asked?” I hollered inquired sweetly.

“Sweaty balls,” she said.

I tried not to laugh but I suck at that, so instead I collapsed into hysterical fits.

“Sweaty balls, sweaty balls, sweaty balls!” she sang.

I may have been chanting “sweaty balls” with her, I’m not entirely sure. You know, because of the hysteria.

“I’m going to say that every time you’re mad at me, because I like it when you laugh,” she announced.

So now my six-year-old a) likes to chant sweaty balls, and b) is officially smarter than me.

You totally wish you were me.

(No really, you do. It’s really fucking fun at my house. It’s just too bad we’re all going to hell.)