Tired of words today.

But this picture is worth a thousand of them.

Photo credit: me

What am I doing in the background

...of my daughter's ex-boyfriend's facebook profile pic?

I was looking over my daughter's shoulder as she visited her ex's facebook site and noticed his new profile pic. So as I drew in for a closer look, I noticed a familiar woman in the background of the pic and asked my daughter who it was. Yeah. I didn't recognize my own face. That alone deserves a separate post. . . well, maybe that and a conjecture on why we females are drawn to our exes, even when we are "through" with them. Perhaps it's because our exes are only a couple of letters away from being excess?

Do guys do that too?

Anyway, just wanted to say that seeing myself on facebook and yet not seeing myself was a strange feeling for me.

I Miss Italy . . .

. . . so much so that I'm planning another trip there. I know when a person gets another chance to go to Europe, she shouldn't go back to the same place, but I am completely enchanted by Italy.



My friend Lynn and I are trying to decide where to go if we are fortunate enough to take a trip overseas next fall. I was thinking Ireland or some other place where I know the language, which pretty much limits it to Spain, Italy, or some English-speaking place. Not that it helps me all that much to be able to speak the language here . . . Still, I think it would enhance the experience. But I just keep coming back to Italy. I love the language, the people, the atmosphere, the wine, the smells, the music . . . pretty much everything. Except for how the dollar fares against the Euro.

Photo credit: me

"Just look unhappy and act like you don't care if you're there."

That's my son's secret to being mistaken for a New Yorker. Hmm. That wasn't my experience of New Yorkers--I remember being amazed by how nice and friendly everyone was the last time I visited, and said as much to him. But then he clarified, "They aren't all unhappy, but if you want to be mistaken for one, that's the fast way to get there."

And apparently it worked for him. He was asked for directions and advice on the subway every time he rode it. Not just advice for which line to take, either. There was one guy who was waiting for the train who saw a porn magazine on the tracks, and he asked my son if he thought he had time to jump down and get it. My son answered, "Well, there's a train coming."

But the guy jumped down anyway, grabbed the magazine, jumped back on the platform, and stuffed the rolled-up magazine into his back pocket and said, "That's eight dollars I just saved!"

I'm not sure what was more shocking: that he would risk his life for eight dollars or that a porn magazine costs that much.

The Apartment Song

I used to live in a two-room apartment
Neighbors knockin' on my wall
Times are hard; I don't wanna knock it
I don't miss it much at all . . .
--Tom Petty

I came home from work today to find a notice from the landlord, saying my playing music at night is disturbing the neighbors. Lovely.

Before you assume that I've been rockin' and rollin' into the wee hours of the night, it might be helpful for you to know that I'm the kind of person who tiptoes lightly across the ceramic tile in my kitchen so I don't disturb the neighbors below with my steps--I take off my high heels as soon as I come home to avoid making that penetrating clack-clack noise. I gingerly pick up the dining room chairs to pull them out so they don't scrape across the floor. I'm the one who whispers going up the stairs outside. The one who has lived without her piano for two years because she knows it would be too loud for her neighbors. Do you see something wrong with this picture?

Ah well. I should have known this was coming. We have a new tenant in the building, and don't ask me how I knew this, but I figured her for someone who, like me, had never lived in an apartment before. You see, when I first moved in, the noise level was overwhelming. I knew what TV programs people were watching; I could tell when the couple next door was fighting (and when they made up). I just figured that was part of apartment life. When I mentioned my noise-adjustment issue to my coworker who lives with her young son in an apartment, she said that apartment noise was comforting to her. That it felt good to know there were people around her in case she needed something. Ever since then, I've been okay with intrusive sounds. Isn't it great when a new perspective can make a difference in your attitude?

Anyway, I'm sitting here without music, humming along in my head with an imaginary Tom Petty. I've loved "The Apartment Song" from the first moment I heard it, but never so much as now. I can't wait till I don't miss living here.

Don't you just hate it when you have a whiny neighbor? Oh. Wait. I guess that's what I am. Oopsie.

Oh yeah, I'm alright
I just feel a little lonely tonight
I'm okay, most of the time
I just feel a little lonely tonight . . .

Ch-ch-ch-changes

My son, pictured here, was in Times Square last night/this morning. Okay, so he's 20 and not a toddler anymore, but like any decent worrywart mom, I'm sure this is how I pictured him as I thought about his being at the mercy of an opportunistic terrorist or stampeded by the million people who were gathered to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the dropping of the ball. After reading about the confetti falling down with messages from well-wishers around the world and the new million-dollar Waterford crystal ball, I was able to chill out and focus on his chance-of-a-lifetime experience. (Okay, perhaps it was hearing about the heightened security measures that allowed me such "focus.") But even after I got my fears under control, I was amazed by the confetti of silly mother thoughts floating through my head: "I hope he's not wearing those new shoes he bought especially for this trip--they will be trampled, at best, and 'soiled,' at worst." "Should I text him and make sure he is dressed warmly enough for that 14-hour wait?" "Did he bring enough money?" "(Did he bring too much?)" "What if someone steps on his new shoes and he gets mad and starts a fight?" (He doesn't even have anger issues. And what is up with my preoccupation with his shoes? gah. Make it stop!) . . .

I finally just laughed at myself and realized that he's young and having fun as only a young person can in that situation (i.e., it will be years before he realizes he probably doesn't want to experience that again).

Obviously, he's changed. That was gonna happen with or without my consent. What is remarkable is the way my view of him, or rather, my role, has changed. I mean, there are times when mothers have to adapt their views in order to maintain sanity, but this time the change comes intentionally, with my consent. He's a month away from being 21, and he's thinking of moving to NYC. I knew he would want to someday, and I thought I was years away from being okay with that. But I'm actually ready to embrace his decision; I don't want to rain my silly mom confetti on his parade.

I love this feeling. So very liberating. :-)

**Edit** Life has a tendency to mock me (yes, me more than anyone else). I had to laugh aloud when I found out today that my son had forgotten to pack the very shoes I obsessed on in the paragraphs above. Some things never change...

Photo credit: me