Open Mouth, Insert Thom McAn

You know the feeling. The words are moving way too fast from your brain to your voice box. You realize the second they've passed your uvula it's too late. We've all said things we regret. Some of those things are forgotten by the time your flop sweat dries, but some are stuck with you for life.

When I was in third grade I had the coolest teacher ever. Her name was Mrs. Morgan and she looked like she was Charlie's fourth Angel. If Kelly, Jill and Sabrina were to be so lucky or so tan. She was a bronzered goddess -- a makeup product that I'm intimidated by to this day. She had Marcia Brady's hair, but in chocolatey brown and eyelashes that could scratch her eyebrows should an itch arise. But as much as I loved her Maybelline'd features, it was her platform wedge sandals that I coveted -- you know, the ones with cutouts in the heel. (It wasn't until 6th grade that my mom finally took me to Montgomery Ward and got me a pair of knee-high rust-colored boots with those same cut out wedge heels.)

Mrs. Morgan was my idol, my role model. She was nearly perfect. But somehow I managed to insult her anyway. And here's how one of my most regretful moments went down.

Scene: Elementary school lunchtime recess
Players: Mrs. Morgan, my friend Lori, me

Lori: You are the most far out teacher at our school.
Mrs. Morgan: Thank you, Lori. I think you girls are totally groovy too.
Me: What were you like as a kid?
Mrs. Morgan: I was friendly and liked to play outside.
Me: I bet your nose was smaller.
Mrs. Morgan: What???
Me: Oh, uh, uh... you know because you were a kid and ...um...everything about you would be smaller.
Mrs. Morgan looking perplexed, crushed, disgusted.
Me: Ok. Bye.

Exit to bathroom...or seesaw...or the moon. I just needed to keep on truckin' the hell out of there. I wanted to die, disappear and mostly shove those words back inside. How could something like that just slip out? Especially to and about someone my 3rd grade self worshiped? I had insulted the best, coolest, nicest person I'd met in the 9 years I'd been roaming the planet. I regretted saying it when it happened, but over the years, I mostly regret not apologizing. That's what haunts me.

I don't know if she ever thought about it again. Was she insulted or did she chalk it up to the adorable musings of a kids-say-the-darndest-things third grader? A few years ago, I heard she was retiring -- from my elementary school where worked all those years. I sent her an email telling how influential and trendsetting I always thought she was. I considered apologizing then, much like when an alcoholic comes to "that step", but ultimately decided if she wrote me back, I would address it in my reply.

Alas, my email went unanswered. I don't know if she got it or if she, perhaps, chose to ignore it. I regret not reaching out to her years earlier. Not so much to discuss the "debacle of '76", but to just see how things went for her. The grown-up me realizes it's unlikely she'd harbored a grudge for 35+ years, but as we all learned from the insightful movie "Hall Pass" -- words hurt. We also learned about fake chow, but that's a completely different post.

Well, I feel better. Do you have something you'd like to get off your chest?

It's my birthday; I can blog if I want to.

So today is my birthday. Once a year, like clockwork, whether I need one or not. Or as my mother reminded me  -- it sure beats the alternative.

I hadn't planned on writing anything today, but my awesome group of girlfriends (who must love me because not one of them mentioned that I was by far the oldest at the table) took me for a delicious breakfast celebration. All our chit chat got me thinking.

Maybe I'm missing an order of operations in my styling process. 

• It's kind of common knowledge around my circle, but I still think it's totally cool that my brother and I have the same birthday. Plus, not that I follow these things, but our sign is Gemini -- the twins. He's so awesome. Like the sister I never had. 
• The best thing about birthdays at this stage of life is how excited my kids get. They've been plotting and scheming all week with each other and their dad. Nothing pulls three feuding sisters together like conspiring on a plan. I remember a couple of years ago when the littlest one asked "What theme party are you going to have?" Turns out finding Botox-themed pinata is harder than you might think.
• I think the whole Facebook birthday thing is a curious phenomenon. Fun, but curious. Don't get me wrong: receiving birthday wishes from someone I knew when I worked for one high school summer in the Sears hardware department is pretty amazing. I'm just not sure if we ran into each other in person that she'd know I'm me let alone a Flag Day baby. That sounds mean, but admit it -- if Facebook didn't remind you it was someone's birthday, you would've carried on your day minding your own beeswax playing Candy Crush Saga or debating if you enrolled your kids in enough camps this summer (first day of summer vacation panic anyone?).
• Revelation: Donald Trump and I share more than just challenging hair. He's also born on June 14. So is Yasmine Bleeth. And I'm secretly hoping she's looking as muffiny these days in that one piece red lifeguard suit as I have for 15. 
• For years, I've ascribed to the theory of making myself several years older than I actually am. For example, if for some reason I needed to reveal my age:

Them: Do  you remember that episode of Gilligan's Island where Maryann ate the radioactive carrots and could see for miles?

Me:  Of course I do.

Them:  Oh, I wasn't sure how old you are.

This year, the answer to that dumbass scenario is 49. I can trace this practice back to my 29th birthday. That year I moved to California and told all my new coworkers I was 30. I'm not sure why 29 was a difficult number me, but when the real 30th came around the next year I felt like I got a birthday mulligan. It was exciting, refreshing and yes, I do realize probably worthy of 30 hours of therapy-couch time. The theory is --  I might not look particularly great for my real age, but for 49, I might get the occasional "damn girl, what's your secret?"

I'm Laughing at You Not With You

Lapel pin: stylish and versatile.
Said no one ever.

Tonight, both of my middle school daughters received Presidential Awards for academic excellence which included a certificate and letter signed by President Obama as well as a lapel pin (do they even own a single item of clothing with said lapel?). While of course, I'm incredibly proud, I'm really not much of a braggart; to the contrary actually. I usually seize any opportunity to take a slight dig at my kids in the name of learning to laugh at yourself. It's my belief that a thick skin and a heaping helping of humility will get you far in life.

My oldest is gearing up for high school in the fall. I'm not sure since how this happened since I'm positive I was just pulling Polly Pocket shoes out of her nostril. Life's just moving along and then one day you find yourself explaining the HPV vaccine: You know what hurts worse than the series of three shots? Ovarian cancer, that's what.

Or, you secretly and perplexingly pray your kid takes the piercing route over tattoos. At least piercings are temporary. But wait. What if the piercings lead to those weird saucer earlobe stretcher things? Crap. Maybe tattoos are better. Lasers are improving year after year so removal might be a more viable option down the road. What the hell kind of internal dialogue is this?? And this doesn't even cover driving, boys, friends, drugs, drinking, studying, internet predators, sexting, skirt lengths, or drinking Coke and eating Pop Rocks.

For now, however, I'm lucky enough that my girls (ages 14, almost 12 and 8) are keeping it real and keeping it young. They might be growing up fast, but just this past weekend, each of the inquiries below was uttered by a different daughter. I won't reveal who said what because there's an outside chance they might read this someday and even though we all make fun of each other, we still need to live together.

• Are conjoined twins attached at the vagina?
• Do you just call the police and say, "Hello, can I be in the witness protection program?"
• Would an eyeball be considered meat?

I'm thrilled they still think of shit like this. I'm going to try to savor these moments in between my usual rantings about messy rooms (your wet towel on wool carpeting smells like a petting zoo in a rainstorm!) and running late (no, you can't flat iron your hair in the car). I love that they haven't figured it all out yet, because really, who has?

Bridge to Nowhere

Just sitting down to write this entry gets my palms sweaty and my heart rate up. It seems normal that as we get older we get more fearful, or at minimum intolerant. I used to love roller coasters -- the bigger the better -- but now I get queasy on a backyard swing. But there is one thing in my life that started as a minor annoyance and has now blossomed into a full on phobia: bridges. Are you rolling your eyes at me? Or perhaps you just yelled "Me too! Let's share a therapist!"

Much of the year this problem is not so problematic, but as we face summer head-on, that means trips to the beach. While most people are cutting carbs and spray tanning, I'm revisiting Lamaze breathing techniques from over a dozen years ago. Of course I know it's for labor, but hell, riding over a bridge and pushing out a newborn are both painful and sweaty situations.

If you regularly visit the Maryland/Delaware beaches, you've likely met my nemesis, formally called the William Preston Lane, Jr., Memorial Bridge, or as like to call it the Chesapeake Fucking Bay Bridge. Even Travel & Leisure magazine has it ranked as the 9th scariest bridge in the world.

This bridge is comprised of two separate structures -- one traveling east; one west. It is so terrifying there is even something referred to as "the suicide lane". Not infrequently, some bridge head honcho will turn ONE lane on the westbound structure into an eastbound lane so you are pretty much traveling into head-on traffic 186 feet in the air. I'm nauseous right now.

The Chesapeake Bay Bridge

My first memory of any type of bridge anxiety was in 1991. I remember specifically because my then boyfriend (now husband) and I were crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge on our way to NYC. While on the bridge his head and eyes were swiveling from the road to me, over and over. And while I may have been rather pleasant to look at in 1991, this doesn't explain why he was multitasking on a bridge. Shouldn't he be white-knuckled and laser-focused? It didn't help that Eddie he had previously and casually mentioned he wasn't the best driver, but had, in his mind, cleverly narrowed down his issues to three:

1. Driving too fast
2. Following too close to the car in front of him
3. Not paying attention

Wow, did I feel comforted. Not.

Over the years, I've become a master of avoidance and willingly take the backseat if it's an option. However, if I'm in the passenger seat, I'll dive into a dozen Words With Friends moves during the nearly 5-mile torture of the Bay Bridge -- keeping my eyes in my lap and continuing on with the deep breathing I started in my driveway. I try not to talk about it in front of my kids because I don't want them to develop this issue, but they all have pieced it together. 

For years we've been toying around with the idea of getting a place at the beach and for years I've been trying to figure out how I can get down there if my husband isn't able to go with us.

Turns out that for $25 my prayers have been answered! There is a private company called Kent Island Express (kentislandexpress.com) that will drive you in your car from one side to the other. They have helped out 5,800 people! Gephyrophobics unite!! They hire drivers who are upbeat and will talk about anything but the bridge. I don't know if I'm over the moon at finding them or pissed I didn't know about them sooner. In any case, consider them hired and on my Christmas card list. 

I'm sorry to run, but there must be some beach property that needs Googling.