Every once in a while, I’ll say something, and my kids look at me like I’m an alien.

OH ALRIGHT.  More like once a day.  But every once in a while they look at me like I”m an alien because they have learned something about me that makes them have an “Woman, I don’t even KNOW who you ARE” moment.  The other night at dinner, I started a sentence with, “When I lived in San Francisco…” and my daughter almost fell off her chair.  “San Francisco???!!! You never lived in California!”  Like I was lying.

Pull up a chair, kiddies, it’s time you learned some of what makes your Mama your Mama:

She went away to sleepover camp starting when she was eight and every summer after that until she was 14. Uncle Booger hated camp.  The only time she remembers actually being nice to him during their entire childhood was the summer their parents made Uncle Booger go to camp and he was miserable the whole time.

She speaks French pretty well.

She used to play ice hockey.  Poorly, but enthusiastically.

She used to manage an art gallery, not a cool, hip art gallery, but a touristy commercial art gallery on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco (Did too live in California, so there).

She can waterski.  Well.

She used to smoke.  And not just a little bit or occasionally.  Sorry to say.

When she was 26, she won her age group in a 5K.  She was the only entrant in her age group, but that’s a detail she sometimes leaves out of the story.

Until she had children who learned to swim in waters populated by fish, she was phobic about fish.  Not just scared of fish, mind you, but phobic.  She’d started to force herself to get over it a few years before, but she didn’t want you to be afraid so she never let on that she hated swimming in water when there were fish around when she was with you.  She’s not really that afraid anymore.

Snakes, on the other hand, are a totally different story.  And she doesn’t care if you know it.

Your dad was the first guy she ever felt romantic love for.  And the first guy she ever said “I love you” to.  It was a long time ago.   She didn’t know what love really was back then.  But she does now.   Different kind of love, but the same guy!

She didn’t learn to drive until she was almost 18.  And then didn’t drive much until she was about 20.  She is, nevertheless, an excellent driver and an even better parallel parker.  Despite what your father might say.

After high school she lived for a summer in Newport, Rhode Island with her three best friends.  According to your grandfather, the Geez, it was the “most expensive summer he never had.”

She almost went to law school.

She can’t watch anyone brush their teeth.  Including you.  Including herself.  Instant gagfest.

She has driven across the country by herself three times.

She loathes musical theater and parades.

By the time she was 8, she’d been to Denmark, Norway, Sweden, England, Germany, France, Belgium, Scotland, Africa, Greece, Wales, and the Caribbean.  She figures she’d better get on the ball and, at minimum, get your passports ready.

She used to travel to see the Grateful Dead.  Not exactly a Dead Head, but there was tie dye involved.

Sometimes when you aren’t home, she watches Phineas and Ferb anyway.

Catchy title, huh?

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.  And clever with titles.

Brendan Fraser would love to be my neighbor.  I just typed “neighbro” by accident, which sort of works, because I can imagine having a sibling-kind of relationship with him.   I cannot explain WHY he would want to be my neighbor other than that.  I think we’d get along.  He’d like my family.  He’d hang out on the back porch.  He and my husband would help each other trim tree branches and paint stuff.  He would like my cooking and frequently filch cookies from the counter before they’ve cooled.

Heather Graham would also love to be my neighbor.  My husband thinks this is an excellent idea, by the way, but I suspect his reasons are different from my own.  As my friend JennRuss would say, AHEM.  Heather would constantly be barging in the back door at all hours of the day and night.  At three a.m. she’d show up and ask, “Did I wake you?  OH MY GOD!  I’m so sorry!!!”  And it would be impossible to be annoyed with her because she’s freaking adorable and fun and so Heather Graham-y.  Plus she’s be holding a bottle of Vicodin and asking, “I think my dog ate a bunch of these.  Is that bad?”  Or she’d show up at nine on a Sunday in a sequined mini dress from the night before, asking if she could just sleep for a few hours because she’s locked out again.  But could she first borrow some bandaids or maybe some gauze because she tried to break in but cut her thumb.  Then we’d end up in the Emergency Room.  Heather would often need to borrow a plunger.  She’d be a regular last minute Thanksgiving dinner guest.

Joe Scarborough would LOOOOOOVVVEEE to be my neighbor.  I, on the other hand, would hate it.  He would love it because he would get a huge charge out of coming to my house every damn day and trying to convince me that he’s smarter than I am and that he’s right and I’m wrong.  Every once in a while we’d agree on something and I’d think I’d be safe for a while, but he’d only be encouraged and come back with some ridiculous statement about immigration or Rahm Emmanuel and we’d be yelling again and I’d be waving my arms and rolling my eyes so far back in my head that I’d get a migraine and TWGH would just sigh and go in the house (smarter than both of us by miles).    Scarborough’s wife would call him on his iphone, “Get the hell home for dinner, Joe. Leave the Dunnings ALONE.”    Eventually, he’d just be like Mr. Roper.  Always around and making noise, but a familiar presence.

Angelina and Brad.  But only because kids love to play at my house and theirs would just roll on in and make themselves at home while Brangelina jet off to make movies somewhere.  Hello free babysitting.

Wanda Sykes practically IS my neighbor.  And is my goal to get her to Wednesday Spaghetti.  Hello Wanda??!!  We’ve got a big one coming up!  Call me!  Wanda and I would be best buddies.  She would drop in all the time just to say hi and to drop off her kids when she needed some “me” time.  I would do the same with my kids.  Soon, my kids would call her “Aunt Wanda,” and tell outrageous stories about the nutty stuff “Aunt Wanda” does.  They wouldn’t even know that she’s a big star, because she’s grounded and real and shops at the Acme just like we do.  Wanda would come over and just hang out, and before we knew it, it would be midnight and we’d have killed a few bottles of red wine and our stomachs would hurt from laughing so much.   I know I could count on Wanda to pick my kids up if I’m running late, and she knows that if she’s out of town on business, and her pipes burst, I’ll make sure the plumber comes and everything is fixed up by the time she gets home. Because that’s what neighbors do.

This is only Part the First of my list, because I can’t finish it now.  I left my wallet at Target and have to go retrieve it.  I’m blaming adult onset ADD.  Or dementia.  Or the fact that I’m back at work after the best summer ever and am so depressed about it that I’m contemplating taking the dog’s sedatives to get through the day.

In which The Well Read Hostess gets uncharacteristically personal.

Feel free to change the channel.

I’m looking at you family members, neighbors, former and future students (who shouldn’t be here in the first place, buzz off and anyway, trust me, you are going to be so sorry if you stick around.  Don’t say you weren’t warned.)

I just discovered that I need those reading magnifier glasses.  I’m pretty OK with that.  I’ve always liked the idea of wearing them on a funky chain and perching them on the end of my nose and looking at people over them.

I have white hair.  Not that you’d know that if I didn’t tell you.  But I do.  Not gray.  White.  Opposite of black?  Yeah.  Like that.  I knew it was coming;  my mom’s hair was white when she was in her late 20’s.  On her it was and is gorgeous. On me, less so.  But I’m keeping one small stripe of it in the front – sort of easing into the concept of white haired lady.  Plus I like how the stripe looks.  The root upkeep is the stuff of nightmares, but since I don’t do a whole lot else in the way of preening and primping, what the hell.

Since I turned 40 every carbohydrate within a ten mile radius seeks out my ass like an ICBM.  And my metabolism has slowed to a pre-global warming glacial movement pace.

This summer I had a dime sized hunk of cancerous flesh carved out of my chest.  I looked good during those years of anointing myself with Johnson’s Baby Oil and laying out from 10-2 like it was my paid job, but everything has a price.  I have been assured that this was the first of many such carvings to come.

Last summer I had a procedure called a uterine ablation.  I’ll spare you the gory details and summarize thusly:

Had babies, periods become horrible, ow ow and really messy, nice doctor gave me IV drugs and burned out the lining of my uterus, ta da.

Different people have different results with this procedure, and often women have some sort of periods on a regular basis – nothing is different hormonally, after all.  I, however, have had a total of about five minutes of discernible menstruation in the last 14 months.  Once a month I get a big zit or two, my boobs get sore, I get a little bitchy, irrational, possessed by demon hellmonsters tense, and then…nothing.

In the last week I’ve been blindsided by emotibombs four or five times.  La la la, minding my own business, making a sandwich, walking the dog, taking out the trash, whatever….bawling.  Ugly, snotty sobbing over absolutely anything – a nice email from a friend, it’s not raining, I like my kid’s first grade teacher, the dog looks cute.

Do you see where this is heading?

I’m not really sure if I get a period or not.

I keep asking my husband if it’s “really hot in here.”  (Answer:  No.)

After I adjusted the air conditioning for the third time today, my husband very delicately suggested that possibly maybe could it be that honey do you suppose it might be?

They’ll never find his body.

I thought I was going to come unglued when I turned 40. I even prepared for said ungluing by leaving town and psychologically bubblewrapping myself ahead of time.  I did fine, though, and have, indeed, loved being 40, 41, and 42.  And since I’ve decided to stop at 42, I expect I’ll keep on loving 42 until I die!

But holy shit people.  The M word?  I don’t know if I’m up for this.

p.s.  My mother is either going to call, email, or comment within ten minutes of reading this to remind me that my grandmother started menopause at age 32.  Save your dime, woman.  I know.  She also rode around in a horseless carriage, relied heavily upon Bisquick and jello in the kitchen, and wore a D cup;  we have a lot in common but not everything!