Fast forward to the third coat of paint. I always seem to get the wrong paint finish for the project, which winds up making the project harder than it should be. About halfway through the first coat I began to wonder why I’d started this little project.  Why didn’t I pay someone to do it?  Is it too late for that?  I hate this.  Any chance an asteroid will hit the Earth today?  This is always how painting projects go for me.  Whichever room I decide to paint seems to grow exponentially as I’m painting it. The “side project” becomes a full-time, energy-draining albatross.  This is not how it goes on HGTV.  They speed through the boring stuff like waiting for paint to dry, or the second and third coats. I’ve never seen Candice Olsen covered in paint the way I am. And they never show that evil blue tape tearing off the paint you just put on.

The real issue here is that I’m not a closer, I’m a starter. When it comes to manual labor, I’m more designer than laborer. I start off really well, very enthusiastic, very energetic. But as soon as the novelty of a project wears off, I grow weary of it and hope someone will finish it off–read: husband. It’s really only a matter of time until he figures out a way to put parental controls on the HGTV channel. It would be justified, I guess, but I’d find ideas elsewhere. I like to think innovation is as important as the actual work. It’s a big lie, but I like to think it.

By mid-life, so many things tell you that you’re old…creaking body parts, gray hair, low tolerance for idiots.  The other day I had a sleep wrinkle in my face that was still there in the late afternoon, a visual reminder to me that the last of my collagen had left the building.  But the real slap in the face comes when you realize that no one is taking care of you anymore.  You’re taking care of others–not just your kids, but your parents, too.

It’s so surreal. As the eldest sibling, suddenly I’m called on to make life-and-death decisions. Really? They want me to sign consent forms to put a stent in dad’s artery? I have a hard time deciding what shoes to wear.  I’m helping fill out dad’s Living Will? I read the Life section of USA Today before the News section!  Poor dad.  Not that it takes a 180 IQ to be someone’s go-to person for plug pulling, but it might help if it were someone more emotionally detached.  In the past few years, my father and I have grown very close. We talk almost every day.  Although he worries about me incessantly, I like that.  As a teenager, I used to give him the eye roll and tell him to chill out.  It’s only as an adult that you realize how wonderful it is when someone is concerned for your well being. Every day I feel fortunate that my parents are here and that they still worry about me.

When you see your parent lying helpless in a hospital bed, a strange new role is created for you.  The tasks are surprisingly easy because you know you owe them big time. Easy enough to make the decisions while they’re still here. In a twisted, firstborn way, I enjoy being the responsible one.  But the thought of being an adult without them takes you right back to being a kid again, unsettled and a little frightened.  I thought I was an adult when I turned 18. Ha! Anyone who has an 18-year-old knows that true adulthood doesn’t start then. It begins when you’re taking care of other people—your kids, your parents, your spouse–and making decisions for them, when people are relying on you for their very existence. In the end, you have to just go with your gut and hope you don’t end up riddled with guilt.

Not my first funeral, but they are, if we’re lucky, few and far between. But then that’s what makes it difficult to behave correctly. I noticed right off that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know what to say or how to behave. Others seemed as perplexed as I was. Are you supposed to be cheerful or somber? What do you say to the people who’ve lost their loved one besides something trite, like I’m sorry for your loss?  As a writer, you’d think I could deliver up something profound, but with such delicate subject matter, I’d have to revise and revise and there just wasn’t time for that. Much easier to panic and blurt out something clichéd or inappropriate.

So as I made my way through the line, I did at least consider what I might like someone to tell me if I were experiencing such a tragic loss. I’d want to know that they cared about my son and that I’d done a good job in raising him. So that’s what I blubbered.  Good job?  Cripes, that’s what you say to a coworker, or a toddler who pees in the potty. But in my defense, in the role of mom, what matters most to you is what kind of person you raised–not what he achieved, but what his essence was. Brian was a kind person, the kind who would never hurt anyone.  He had a dry sense of humor. He was a patient, caring father and husband.  He was analytical and you could often see his wheels turning as he thought about things. And he loved TV, just like me. Selfishly, I’m sad that he won’t be here to explain the final season of “Lost” to me. He was probably the only person who could.

My imaginary mentor Stephen King said in an article recently that, “We’re all in this little boat of life together, and none of us are getting out of it alive. ” If you look at it that way, then death isn’t as terrifying.  Humans are meant to die.  It’s more the uncertainty of when and how that causes bother for control freaks like me. In reality, however, that’s the nugget that comes out of a depressing situation like this. You don’t know when or how.  It’s your reminder to be nice to people around you, to appreciate them every day and stop taking them for granted.  Maybe that’s the new use for the yellow bracelet — to remind us of that.

1) Why get divorced now? You’re old.

2) Surely someone must be interested in someone else. Why else would you separate after all that time? I mean, you’re old.

I suppose it depends on how pragmatic your outlook is.  To me, it does seem kind of silly after spending all of that time together building a life to go your own ways. But it also begs the question, if you’re not happy, should you stick around until you die…unhappy? Or maybe it’s just my own pessimism at work. I mean, when I see the deterioration that’s happening to my body at my age, I try to think about dating at their age and, well, it’s not a pretty thought. Of course maybe that’s not even a consideration.  Some people are content to live on their own–no battles over the TV remote, no thermostat wars.

Newsweek calls this a “silver divorce,” and claims they are not rare, especially for baby boomers, however, it’s also true that the longer you’re married the less likely you are to divorce. Their split made me think of a line from a recent 30 Rock episode, in which Liz is trying to mentally sort out a similar issue. Her take:

“Why would a lady get divorced at 50?  Stick it out.  Men die first.  Then you have two wonderful years.  Then you die.” Now that’s practical thinking!

I still think a reason will materialize. Maybe Al met someone at a global warming summit or Tipper fell for a rapper who toned down his lyrics.  More pessimism on my part.  But if they’re optimistic, and figure they’ll live at least a couple more decades, well, that’s plenty of time to create a new life for themselves.  Bonne chance, Gores.

It’s a slow awakening, this path to oblivion. First you find yourself angry about loud music – that coming from cars, inside stores, even bars.  I can’t go into an Abercrombie and Fitch, because I literally can’t think.  Music that loud makes my brain shut down. I self-soothe by telling myself I don’t like Michael Buble, so that must count for something. Not much, I fear. I remember when my elders liked the music of Jim Nabors or Tom Jones. Ridiculously uncool.  Is John Mayer the new Tom Jones? See, I don’t know, and there’s the rub.  The other day I asked my son if it was a new song he was listening to. He told me no, it was old–from back in my prime. Back in my prime….when was that, I wondered? The 80s? The 70s?? Sometimes kids can knife you in the back and not even realize it.  The boy often goes on about how someone is REALLY old and when I finally see them they’re in their 40s or 50s.  Ouch.

The old and uncool also become seriously judgmental about skanky looking clothes. I find myself saying, “She’s too old to be wearing that,” a lot more now. I also constantly wonder if what I’m wearing is too young for me.  No sooner have I thought I would NEVER wear that, than I think, COULD I wear that? Fortysomethings get a lot of mixed messages from the media in this department. My car choices certainly aren’t cool, as I’m oft reminded.  Sorry, but a tiny sports car isn’t going to haul around mom’s things–like my parents, for example.

I can hypothesize that cool is not defined by clothes or cars or music choices. After all, lots of cool people are marching to their own beats and that makes them cool. But it’s not just the superficial cool things.  I sense that I’m losing the attitude one would need to be cool, too. The more that kid looks at me after I speak with a perplexed look, the more I know I’m jettisoning toward another planet. On my new planet, Volvos are cool.  Gardening is cool.  Going to bed before 11 is awesome.  And people who watch Dancing with the Stars are the people to respect. We’re the Fonzies.  My kid would have no idea what that means. Bring on the slushie facial.

The bad news is that as it has grown, my amaryllis has taken on a phallic shape that makes me embarrassed to be in the same room with it and mixed company. I have begun silently begging it to bloom so that it looks like a flower and not something that makes me blush when I look at it.  I don’t think my mind is in the gutter here, because my son and his friends have noticed the little soldier as well. When they ask what it is, I just tell them it’s a flower and I’m sure it’s going to bloom any day now. I think this plant would make even Georgia O’Keeffe blush.

See what you think…

The recession soon began affecting everything–health care costs, insurance–you name it. I remember when our health insurance covered almost everything. I thought nothing of going to the doctor or dentist. Preventive care is a thing of the past. Grocery prices have also gotten ridiculous.  The other day I saw package of toilet paper at the grocery store for $11.  You wonder how those with low-paying or minimum wage jobs are making it. If you start to pay attention, you’ll see that everything is still shrinking–paychecks, consumer products, cars, the job market. Our family has taken to nicknaming everything that has changed by prefacing it with the word “recession.” For example, if a dish at a restaurant has only a few shrimp when it used to have many, we call that “recession pad thai.”

Not only have things gotten smaller, but also more skimpy. If you’ve opened a CD lately, you might notice that those cheap-to-begin-with jewel cases are even more chintzy now.  Soon as you pop them open, they break. And yes Charmin, I’ve noticed how thin the ply on your tissue is now.

I admit I had no idea what societal changes would come with a recession. Crime gets worse.  People struggle. Stores and restaurants close. Even the suburbs have been affected by foreclosures. These things are much more obvious than the shrinking ice cream cartons I failed to notice.

Now, more than a year later, I see the recession in a more positive light. It’s a learning tool. It has given me skills I never had. I now pay attention to what things cost and am able to comparison shop. I classify things as wants or needs.  Admittedly, this gets a little gray when I want something badly. And because I’m shopping more carefully, I waste less. I also have a greater appreciation for the things I have and for the things I’m able to purchase.

The following are just a few of the things I’ve learned to do. They’re easy changes to make.

–Go to Half Price Books or the library instead of Barnes & Noble.

–Get groceries where you earn fuel points toward the cost of gas.

–Plan menus more carefully and don’t eat out as frequently.

–Print photos on the home printer.

–Read the newspaper online (sorry print media).

–Plan car trips more carefully to conserve gas.

–Pay bills online to save postage.

–Say “no” to kid more often.

–Realize that being frugal is not a shameful thing, but a good way to live in general.

Strangely, these difficult times have also made me feel closer to my grandparents, who lived through the Great Depression. They build an understanding of why Grandma reused everything, including the foam backing on ground beef packs.  Today, I look back at my extravagant spending with a bit of guilt and shame.  But I never had access to this knowledge before.

Am I still worried? A little. A job loss or a health crisis in this economy could be devastating. On the up side, I’m better poised to handle those things than I would have been two years ago.

The bitter cold and January blahs have forced me to consider employment.  As I began checking online job boards, I came across this little gem: “Must be profient and have great english skills. Can check other writers spelling and grammer.”  The need for an editor is clearly urgent, but how can the person who wrote this ad possibly appreciate me? This is the quandary many editors face. If I respond to that ad with the corrected version, will it prove my worthiness or make me seem like an ass? I’m guessing the latter. Or are they perhaps testing me to see if I catch all of the errors in the ad? Doubtful.

Lately, I’ve been seeing more and more grammatical and spelling errors in every medium. Is editing going the way of the dodo? A friend and I have taken to mailing each other appalling mistakes in mainstream advertisements. In the case of editing, it’s more than a bad economy that makes editors seem dispensable. We don’t directly affect the bottom line–at least not visibly.  Editors are often seen as nonessential employees until an embarrassing error gets through. It’s always been my experience that those who don’t think they need an editor, in fact, do, and those who invite editing into their writing are usually the careful, intelligent people who barely do. Everyone needs an editor.

I’ve also been noticing the laziness (or absence) of headline writers. Not only are there misspellings in them, which is unforgivable due to font size, but they are increasingly weak. For example, last weekend, I couldn’t wait to see what the local paper, The Columbus Dispatch, did with the sports section headline. The Buckeyes won the Rose Bowl, after all. I was quickly deflated with some headline about a “rosy future.” Where’s the fun in that? The Bucks played the Ducks for God’s sake. The team names rhyme. That’s an editor’s dream! Sometimes the obvious choice is the correct one.

I don’t think it’s impossible to find a place where editing is valued.  Over the course of my career I’ve had several bosses who embraced quality and valued the editorial process. They wanted clients to see the company’s commitment to professional-looking products and the professionalism of the company itself.  Is that still a thing?  Apparently, due to a 2007 archaeological find, the dodo may be resurrected. It would require painstakingly extracting and decoding DNA, but it’s possible. Resurrecting the editor may not be as simple.

The 12 days of Christmas are gone now. After all that preparation, only scattered scraps of wrapping paper and cookie crumbs on the floor remain as reminders that Christmas came and went. Personally, I like the post-holiday part. I clean away all of the Christmas clutter and get a fresh start. Let’s face it, Christmas brings with it a lot of baggage. No matter how hard I try, it’s never perfect. The older I get, the more I can accept that. Just as with presents, you don’t always get what you want and some things just don’t work.

The best part of Christmas has been having the boy home. Although he’s on the go and we’re on the go, there are still moments of peaceful togetherness that negate all Christmas grousing. This year I found myself waxing nostalgic with him, reminding him of Christmases past, just like a grandparent might do. I can only imagine how boring that must have been for him, but it’s good to help kids remember things that they might not. Someday he can bore his child to death too.

Gathering with relatives brings both Christmas joy and Christmas pain. Visits are best at the beginning and worst near the end. I don’t think someone arrived at that three-day rule by chance. Much research must have gone into it. It’s no surprise that you can’t live with your family again.  We’re not meant to–at least not here. People in other countries may have perfected many generations living under one roof, but I’d have to witness it in action to believe there’s no bickering, no personal attacks, no guilt trips, etc. As I settle down for my post-visit nap, I’d like to think that any gaffes were stress induced.  Or perhaps I dreamed that I slammed my cell phone down and told my stepfather to stop complaining. Did I use an expletive when my brother asked us to tote my nephew’s giant basketball hoop to his house? It’s possible. And it’s hazy, but I think at one point I yelled at my son, “It’s Christmas. We all have to make sacrifices. God knows I do.”

But I also provided games to play and food and drink. I made sure there were toys for my nephew to play with. I scurried to finish a scarf for my mother by Christmas Eve. I made cookies that I am unable to eat myself.  It all evens out, I think. The perfect Christmas is a myth.  I know that for sure. Happy New Year.

While men in makeup are creepy, I’m in full support of men in glee club, specifically, those in the TV show Glee. I’ve been quietly taping it and watching it on DVR #2 for weeks. It’s now the show I can’t wait for each week. I was a show choir nerd back in the day and, while we were more inclined to show tunes than mash-ups of “Bust A Move,” Glee brings back fond memories. The music comprises covers from different genres sung by a bunch of enthusiastic and talented cast members. Some songs are available on iTunes and a CD comes out November 3 (not that I’m waiting). The show has a broad comedy, Ugly Betty-type vibe, and it’s a nice nod to those brave guys who weren’t afraid to cross over from sports to glee club. It’s already been picked up for another season, so don’t be afraid to get attached. Be a Gleek. Yes, that’s what they’re calling Glee addicts. Been called worse.