Jose Cuervo and Me

Oh Tequila, you are a friend of mine. Or so I thought...

For the married with children, a wild, carefree night on the town is a rare event, only occuring when the stars are in perfect alignment. The 'stars' usually consist of a number of things including; a responsible babysitter, plenty of cash, a safe ride home, the right environment, the right group of friends, and an uneventful Sunday. Saturday night happened to be one of those nights, at least for the most part. Although I didn't give it great consideration at the time, I realized, too late, that Sunday wasn't exactly the most uneventful day to choose for my bigger than life hangover.

Nothing feeds the soul like good, loud music, preferably 80's rock, good company, dancing and, oh yes, my dear friend, Tequila. Oh Tequila, you are a friend of mine..., or so goes one of my favorite country songs, I like to drink you with a little salt and lime... And then, Amanda Marshal would say, "Oh my god! I woke up with a snake tattoo... and I think that my tongue's pierced too.

Truthfully, I have a love/hate relationship with Tequila. I only love Tequila when I've been drinking. Once I start loving Tequila, I have trouble stopping. When the Tequila begins to wear off I realize how much I hate it, and how much it hates me. If I didn't know better I would think it was because I'm getting old, but my extensive experiences with my dear friend become vivid memories as I suffer through my day-after '26 oz. flu'. Aren't there more bad ones than good ones? One step out of bed sets the world spinning precariously, and me to my knees, which for some reason doesn't seem to help. I crawl into the bathroom for the magical Tylenol and the few gulps of water my queasy stomach will handle. A shower may help, if only I could stand up...

My biggest hangover challenge... tying my son's hockey skates with my numb fingers, and spinning head. Every time I get the lace through the eyelets, a wave of nausea hits, I stand up and need to begin again.

My saving grace... Sponge Bob's new movie. Darkness, preoccupied children, popcorn and a VERY large pop, start to bring me around.

Every once in awhile, I still think I can smell Tequila somewhere, the water in the sink? the pantry? my closet? I didn't get any on my clothes, did I? Oh yeah... there was an upside-down margharita, wasn't there...

It's called the annual mom's night out. There's a good reason why it's an annual event. Any more often could kill one of us. Why is it that so many great things have such painful consequences?

Sometimes living, loving, laughing and having fun can be more painful than you would think. It's a good thing I'm a warrior!

The Wizened Old Woman

The Goal:
Live, Love, Laugh and Have Fun!

The feeling first hit when I was about 23 and snapped my anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) while playing rugby. One second I was running up the field at a breakneck pace, a quick lunge; and the next I was lying on the ground with a dislocated knee. Surgery and 3 months on crutches fixed my knee, but I could never regain the fearlessness I once had. Oh, I tried. My attempts resulted in another ACL reconstruction surgery; but this time on the other knee. For the first time I knew, without a doubt, there were things I couldn't do, aspirations that were beyond my reach, and I was afraid.

Soon, I would know that same fear more intimately than I wanted to. This time I was afraid for one of the most important people in my life, my mom. She was diagnosed with cancer and had to undergo rigorous, debilitating and life-threatening chemotherapy treatment. Mom was too young to be seriously sick. I was too young to face the rest of my life without my nurturing and supportive mom. 51 wasn't old. 28 wasn't old. We had so much more to experience together. I couldn't imagine facing motherhood and all the upcoming challenges in my life without having my mom to share them with. For the first time I realized that Mom may need me, and that maybe I couldn't lean on her, and I was afraid.


Not long after, the same feeling hit me. I was shocked to hear that a friend of mine almost died from heart failure while at work. His colleague administered CPR until the ambulance came and saved his life. I called him to express my concern. In my eyes, he was too young to have experienced this; he was still just a babe. His experience was unthinkable to me, a long and fruitful life was still ahead of us. His perspective was different. He said, "You know, Colleen, we're getting old!", "We're not the kids we once were." I understood where he was coming from but I couldn't buy into his opinion. 30 wasn't old, or was it? Imagining that this life I was just learning to live could be nearing an end made me afraid.

In one of those rare quiet moments I laid with my young son. He quietly studied my face with his eyes, the corners of his lips upturned in a tiny smile. For what seemed an eternity we stared into each others eyes, his tiny hand would reach up and brush my cheek or touch my hair. He was 3 months old. I was taken aback by his curiosity, his interest in me, and the unwavering trust he had in me. Waves of emotion hit me as I began to understand the important role I would play in my son's life. I was afraid.

I'm not a world class athlete, but my knees are strong. I'll never play rugby again but I'm still active and I run, just not too far or too fast. Mom recovered and has been cancer-free for seven years. We talk most days and she loves her grandchildren. I've lost touch with my friend but he is married with children, and undoubtedly has adapted his life to suit his health concerns. While being a mother still makes me afraid at times, I've come to terms with the level of responsibility this role requires. I fought it for a long time but looking back I realize these key events helped to propel me into adulthood. They helped me to recognize my limitations, my blessings, my mortality and my responsibilities. Although I would love to get a taste of the freedom and recklessness I experienced in youth, I would never give up the experiences I've had since then.

Last week, fully in jest, I was a victim of agism. One of the twenty-something girls I play volleyball with called me 'old'. Her exact words were, "Oh, it's OK if she doesn't come out with us later, she has an excuse, she's OLD." I couldn't believe she called me OLD! I wasn't old, OLD was 70 or 80!

But then again, maybe I am old, and maybe that's a good thing. While I'm not happy half my life is behind me, I fully intend to leverage my learning from the first half to make the most of the second!

Which brings me back to the goal:

Live, Love, Laugh and Have Fun

All the more reasons why I need to keep my focus!

Descendents of Royalty

I had such good intentions. I've been meaning to post something about love, something inspirational and heart-warming. I couldn't find the energy -- each time I searched, I couldn't find the warm and fuzzy feeling I needed.

Back to the goal:

I don't even remember exactly how it goes, I think it was, to live without guilt, to focus on love laughter and fun.

I've 'fallen off the wagon'. I've turned into the wicked witch of the west, unable to see good in anything. I take full responsibility for my morose. I am the master of my ship.

I do need to relate a contributing factor, though. My plight wouldn't be understood to the same degree if I didn't.

I feel like Atlas, holding the world up, unable to rest, unable to relinquish my duty. Everywhere I look things need to be done, I'm behind, am facing deadlines and don't have the time to dedicate to it. If only I could find a way to have less 'dead time'. Yes, I said, dead time; that's the time I spend doing things that are immediately undone. Mostly 'dead time' encompasses housecleaning, but meal-preparation also rates.

I remember the days when I would invest a couple hours into cleaning my small apartment, and then relax with my cup of coffee, relishing the fresh scent and sterile feel of total cleanliness. I would immediately rinse out my cup when I was done and place it back into it's rightful spot in the cupboard when I was done. I would smooth down my bed in the morning, and wipe down the bathroom sink after I used it. In this manner, everything stayed sparkling fresh for three or four days. Imagine, not even a swiffer or a dishwasher!

As a mom I've begun to resent the many hours I spend cleaning up after everyone. My family continues to negate my work in record time. An orange juice spill on the freshly washed hardwood is followed by a 2-year-old's, "oh-oh". A sassy, "so what!", comes from a 7-year-old, following mom's angry chastisement for his wet shoes and a puddle of water in the entrance.

All this leads me to the realization that, for a mom, housework time is 'dead time' -- not leading to any fruitful result or outcome.

In search of answers, my mind races. I ask, "How did this become my reality?" "Why am I the chosen one?". The only clear answers I can determine are that my dear husband and children must possess a 'royalty' gene, that I don't have. There were rumors that his family descended from Romanian Royalty, princes and princesses of the 13th century bear the same prestigious surname. Hmmm... That explains hubby's taste for the finest of red wine, his love of high-tech electronics and why he needs ten of the best watches money can buy!

On the other hand, I am a descendent of hard-working Italian farmers -- farmers that reaped sparse mountainous soil to eke out a meagre existence in a cold and harsh land. Grandparents that save preserves from 1969, and parents that lived without an indoor toilet until their children were born. Clarity, at last. My destiny is, has always been; to serve the needs of my royal family!

How dare I imagine I can achieve greater things? How dare I think my daily contribution should be meaningful?

My strategic, logical mind is searching for a solution. There must be an answer, a balance. A way to decrease 'dead time' and to leverage the energy of those around me. I am becoming excited just thinking about the outcome! Imagine kids that pick up after themselves, take care not to smudge dirty fingers on the walls, and a husband that cleans his bathroom! What an accomplishment THAT would be! Imagine two young men who will wash the floor, or scrub the bathtub for their wives. I know what I want, now... how do I get there?

A promising sight -- My two year old helped me to clear the table. He picked up the dishes and carried them to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard under the sink and cleaned off the plate into the garbage. What a sight! Later I discovered a plate and a fork in the garbage. One step at a time, I guess.

Until next time!