Socal Mom by Donna Schwartz Mills

The DMV Is NOT the Portal to Hell. Not Today.

They don't allow you to take photos inside the DMV, so I have no illustration for this post. That's not a big deal, as everyone already knows what this place is about.

A few years ago, I laughed at Kevin Smith's TV series "Reaper," about a kid whose parents sold his soul to the devil. He had to report to a minion of Satan, who worked at the DMV. The joke, of course, was that this place was the portal to hell.

It's actually not that bad -- if you have an appointment. We made ours a couple of weeks ago, over the Internet. So the queue we waited in wasn't long. Also, there was stuff to look at on HDTV monitors placed strategically around the building. It's mostly PSAs about driving hazards, insurance requirements and the joy of buying personalized plates - but there are also ads for local businesses, as well as the number you can call to place your ad here. I suppose it's effective, captive audience and all.

Did you know that the DMV has a smartphone app? I guess I should forgive myself for being unaware, since there are few cool apps for my Blackberry. But if you have an iPhone or Android smartphone, you can use it to make appointments, check out wait times, and even take sample driving tests - which I think is pretty cool. And I learned about it while standing in that line today.

My 16-year-old daughter is taking her driving test. I'm kind of a nervous wreck. I have faith in her. But I think I'm projecting a little. I remember how afraid I was when I took my test. And I know she's feeling a little bit nervous, too, so I'm feeling that as well.

The procedures have changed since I was a teenager. The most obvious ones are the restrictions on young drivers now. But I was surprised to learn that they no longer require you to take the written test first. Apparently, it's now considered redundant to take it again so soon after passing it to get your permit.

Did I mention that Megan is in my car RIGHT NOW with the DMV guy who will decide if she's a good enough driver for the state of California? I'm glad I'm not in the car with her. I'm also sad. She is on her own - as she will be increasingly as she marches to adulthood.

UPDATE: She passed her exam. And after driving home, she announced that she would run to the store for me -- alone. She just returned.

"That was weird," she said. And then she retreated back to her room to tackle her homework.

Yes. It is.

After 9-11: A Different World

I've seen a lot of chatter in my online moms groups around this date, all asking the same question: How do you talk to your kids about 9/11?

I have no advice to offer anyone on that topic. My daughter started kindergarten right after Labor Day in 2001. We were both getting used to her new routine that awful Tuesday morning. The alarm went off -- as it still does -- at 5:00 a.m. with the calm voices of NPR's Morning Edition reading the news of the day. My husband likes to get in to work early, so he was going about his routine, while I listened, half-asleep.

And then came the news that jolted me awake. The first plane had hit the first tower, and it was being reported almost as an accident. No one yet knew what was to come, and even if the news readers were thinking "terrorism," it was too early to utter the word.

And then the second plane hit and the world changed.

I was fully awake now. My husband's morning routine was stopped in its tracks. We turned on the television in the room and watched, and forgot about time passing and that I needed to get my daughter ready for school... until she got up on her own and wandered in to our room to see what we were watching. 

I am a news junkie. It isn't so much because I love the news, as I feel it is important to know what is going on in our world. I grew up reading the newspaper every day, and used to be annoyed with people who did not make the effort to be informed. I wanted to instill those habits in my child. 

So right or wrong, I did not turn off the television. I allowed her to see and hear the news as it unfolded. As we got ready for school, I learned that the Pentagon was also under attack... and then Flight 93's crash in rural Pennsylvania. 

At that time, no one knew if the terrorist attack was over. And in the middle of my anguish for those poor people who went to work that sunny day with no idea of what was to come, I wondered: Would there be more planes crashing into more buildings? Were more cities being targeted? Would Los Angeles be next? 

I was in second grade in 1963 when President Kennedy was assassinated. My mother immediately took me out of school. I finally understood why on the morning of 9/11. All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed and hold her until the nightmare was over -- because this could not really be happening.

But the world had irrevocably changed that morning, and there was no escape. The only way I know how to cope with tragedy is to focus on activities I think of as "normal." I drove her to school, with NPR on the radio (because that was what I always listened to in the morning). Was that a mistake? Maybe. She was going to learn what happened that day eventually. I saw no reason to try to hide it. 

And I needed to know what was happening. I needed to feel connected. I was connected. An attack on any American citizen on American soil is an attack on all of us.

On our way to school, we learned that the second tower had collapsed and my daughter saw me cry.

I walked her to her classroom in a state of shock and hugged her tightly before saying goodbye. The other kindergarten moms were doing the same. And then, after we left our children with their teacher, we hugged each other, even though we were still strangers.

My daughter does not remember a lot about her early childhood, but she remembers the day the planes crashed into the buildings. She has no memory of the world before; the one where we had confidence and hope and the sure knowledge that the future was bright. 

And I'm so sorry.

School Funding, Rachel Maddow, and Letting Myself Go

Thursday I visited the orthopedist who treated the big toe I broke back in June. This was to be my final appointment there; he just needed to see one last X-ray to confirm that the fracture had indeed healed. 

My appointment was at 9:00, so my morning was pretty rushed: school drop-off, followed by 45 minutes of work at home and then a mad dash to Holy Cross medical center, about 10 minutes from here.

As I walked into the waiting room, I was greeted by another patient: "Oh, I love Rachel Maddow," she said. 

Oops. I forgot I was wearing one of my Rachel Maddow t-shirts. I gave her my measured, most non-political reply: 

"I like her too. She's so smart."

The truth it, I don't just like her. I'm an unabashed fan. But I don't always feel like talking about it. You never how you are going to be received.

I have about a dozen Rachel Maddow t-shirts, thanks to a program that enlists bloggers and others to hold "house parties" for various products. I signed up last year to host a party promoting my favorite MSNBC news show -- but the date ended up conflicting with another obligation. I tried to cancel, but got no response. What I did receive was a carton filled with Rachel Maddow merchandise: 12 yellow highlighter pens, paper napkins and plates, plastic glasses, a tiny TRMS logoed cocktail shaker and a dozen t-shirts.

The Economy of Swag

It's been rough living through the economic downturn that began four years ago. I'm a slow writer. I don't make much money from blogging, even with the articles I write for other sites. When you factor in the time I take gathering information and actually writing the posts, I'm probably earning just a couple of dollars an hour. 

One of the ways I've been cutting down on expenses is to actually USE the swag I receive from all the companies that approach me. I no longer care about the logos; the less money I spend on myself, the more I have for things my family needs. Ten years ago, I might splurge once in a while on a bag from the Coach outlet. Two years ago, I decided I was better off spending $20 on a bag from Target, even if it wore out in a matter of months (because three $20 Target bags in a year is still less than the cost of one from Dooney and Bourke).

This month, I flew to New York carrying a Toyota logoed messenger bag and a laptop bag I got for free from Sears. They're functional -- and more important, the money I did not spend on them could go toward the things no one is sending me gratis -- like the business casual clothes I absolutely needed to work at the BlogHer conference -- not to mention a much needed haircut and color.

Yes, I "Let Myself Go." I Had No Choice.

I had a revelation when we shifted from a two-income family to one that relied on just my husband's salary. I realized that the stereotype of the married woman who has "let herself go" is not something she does out of being lazy or not caring. Putting your best face forward requires two commodities that are in short supply for many families living on one income: money and time. If I have a choice between regular mani-pedis, waxing, hair coloring, and fashionable clothes -- or dressing my child -- well, you know what my priority is going to be.

People who did not know me before marriage, mortgage and motherhood would likely be shocked that I once spent most of my paycheck on nice clothes... pretty shoes... jewelry, makeup, and other items that feel like luxuries today. 

But you know something? As I got older, I realized that I didn't really NEED all that stuff. I will never look 30 again, and no amount of cosmetic rehab will give me back my smooth, dewy skin. My weight may go up and down (alas, mostly up), but my days of wearing mini-skirts would be over anyway, because there are few things as horrifying as the sight of a woman in her 60's dressed like she did in the 1960's.*

*(For the record: I'm not 60. Yet.)

My one concession to vanity is visiting my hair stylist. A good haircut is essential to hide the alarming receding hairline I've developed over the last 20 years (bangs are my version of the Donald Trump combover). And when I experimented with allowing myself to grow gray, I decided I simply didn't like it. So I color. And I feel super guilty about the cost.

I also get my brows and lip waxed -- and increasingly, my chin. It's a good thing I have an esthetician friend who does it for free or I might be walking around with a full moustache and beard.

About Those T-Shirts

These days, it is rare to see me wearing anything but jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt. And odds are pretty high that the t-shirt is emblazoned with Rachel Maddow's name, simply because I've got so many of them. I'm half asleep when I get dressed in the morning anyway, so I just grab whatever t-shirt is at the top of the "clean" pile.

My family isn't crazy about seeing me in the Rachel Maddow shirts day after day after day. Lately, I've tried to vary them a little with the shirt that came with my review DVD of Bridesmaids, an old one advertising the TV series Saving Grace, and a relic from a Silicon Valley Moms Blog party at BlogHer '08, emblazoned with the phrase, "Mom Bloggers Rock." And if we are going anywhere in public, I'll often switch to something nicer, with no advertising slogans -- but those tend to need dry cleaning, and so they're not worn as often.

Because That's What Twitter and Facebook are For

My husband has other concerns about the Rachel shirts, because he doesn't like me announcing my political views to the world. I can see his point of view. One time when we were walking the dog in our local park, another pet owner asked me if I actually like her, in a tone that indicated he thought her ideas were akin to the devil's.

On the other hand, there are certain neighborhoods where the Rachel shirt serves as a nice little ice breaker. Total strangers ask me if I work on her show and tell me how much they love her. And a Starbucks barista once gave me a free drink, just because we had a mutual distaste for Michele Bachmann. I like being reminded that I'm not alone; that I am not the radical commie feminist my husband accuses me of being.

Still, I try to change out of the Rachel shirt if I have to interact with people on a professional basis. So I may wear it at home or when I'm shopping for groceries -- but I'll pick something else for my doctor's appointment (because why antagonize someone if you don't have to? That's what Facebook and Twitter are for.)

I blew it Thursday morning. Oh well. If anyone disapproved, they kept it to themselves. 

But Perhaps the Shirt Has Mysterious Powers

A few minutes after my arrival, I got called in to get my toe X-rayed. When I was last there in July, the technician had just returned from a vacation. She was feeling frazzled because it was her kids' first day of school. 

I could relate. You would think after eleven years, I would be used to the abrupt change of pace we bear when school starts back up, but no -- it always comes as a shock to my system. And I guess I'm not alone.

The X-Ray tech comiserated with me on the awful state of the public schools. Her husband was a product of some of the same Valley schools I attended, and she graduated from the Catholic high school across the street from the hospital. 

Now, I realize that Catholics are no more a monolithic voting bloc than Jewish people are -- but I think that people of my generation who went to parochial schools were probably raised by conservative parents. I also know that Republican candidates almost always win in Santa Clarita. I was suddenly feeling very self-conscious about my Rachel Maddow t-shirt.

Usually, when making small talk with someone I suspect is religious and conservative, I keep my views to myself.

That didn't happen on Thursday. 

I couldn't shut up.

I blame the shirt.

I opined about how rough it's been on kids in cash-strapped public schools here in California. Year after year, the school district has been forced to cut and cut and cut until they're now at the point where there is no fat left to cut out of their budget and all they can do is make hard choices.

Last year I had to deal with the reality of how inefficient the school's attendance office is without enough people to staff it. On a day to day basis, my poor daughter has to deal with scarce bathroom facilities, as most of the lavatories on campus are locked. This is not due so much to a lack of janitorial staff, but inadequate school security -- there are simply not enough officers to patrol the several-acre campus. 

Thanks to the latest round of budget cuts, my daughter lost her counselor and her new one is handling a roster of 850 kids. "Everyone had problems with their schedules this year," she sighed. She expected to have a "0" period beginning at 7:00 a.m., which is the only way she can accommodate all the courses she's supposed to be taking AND be on the school tennis team. But the schedule she was assigned was missing a Spanish class. As of Thursday morning, she still had not been able to make an appointment with the counselor to fix this.

The X-Ray technician agreed that was awful, which emboldened me to mention the two November ballot propositions that would create new funds for California public schools.

 She listened to what I had to say, but then it was her turn: "I won't vote for anything that raises my taxes. No way.  Brown is just terrible. He's such an old man..."

"He was a young man the first time I voted for him," I said.

"They just squander that money and it will never get to the schools."

That should have been enough. She was sympathetic about our schools, but did not want to hear that the people of California need to cough up more to fix the problem. And I understand her pain: she told me what her property tax bill and it's more than double mine.

I should have let it go, but instead, I doubled down:

"That's not fair. I bet you bought at the height of the market? Why should you pay so much in taxes while people like me who bought years ago pay so much less? We really need to revisit Proposition 13. It's not working and it's not fair and we need a more equitable way of funding our state..."

My X-Rays were done and she moved me to the exam room. I think she was happy to be rid of me. And in a way, I was relieved. 

And then the doctor entered the room, and I started all over again.

I blame Rachel. And the powerful tee. 

 

Mysterious Ways

By the end of last week, I decided - broken bones be damned - to make the trip to Detroit for Ford's annual trend conference. After all, some of my favorite people were going to be there, and since money has been extra tight this year, it might be my only opportunity to see friends I usually catch at blogging conferences.

Everything was set: I had my flight arrangement. Husband was to take me to LAX this morning. The teenager has spent most of the summer sleeping past noon, and the rest of the time in her room, reading and Facebooking - so she would barely notice me gone for three days. This was going to happen.

And then - over the weekend - she informed me that she had to go to tennis tryouts this week: Monday through Thursday, from 9:00 a.m. to noon.

She goes to a magnet school, which means that the students come from all over the city. There is just one other girl on the team who lives sort of near us, and she is on vacation this week. There will be another week of tryouts next month, but it will be occurring when Megan is attending the California State Summer School of the Arts and residing on the CalArts campus.

And so once again - as I've done so many times before - I had to put her needs above my wants. I let Ford know I would not be attending, after all. I also had to apologize to my editor at AskPatty, which hurt, because this is not the first time I have had to cancel an assignment that involved travel - at the very last minute - because my family needed me.

To add insult to injury (no pun intended), my broken toe has rendered me unable to drive. So Megan (who won't be eligible to get her license until July 4) has to drive herself to school for the tryouts - with me beside her. So I am spending these mornings in my car, in the school parking lot in Reseda...

...which is where I am right now.

As school is out, it's strangely peaceful here. The only sounds I hear are the birds chirping and occasional random cars driving by.

I have not had this much undistracted quiet time since the kid quit gymnastics. And once she gets that license, I may not have it again, as she will no longer need me for the one thing I do for her now.

Yesterday, I realized that I've been at this job (as Megan's mom) for longer than anything else I've ever done: longer than my time as a writer and producer of radio shows, longer than the years I spent as a PA on the Tonight Show, longer than any of my secretarial gigs, or the years I spent managing conferences for the country's largest state trade association. It is a job I have loved, and I think I've been good at it (although my daughter is the type of kid who has made it easy to succeed).

And now, this job is ending. Not in the sense that I won't be a presence in my daughter's life - but I'll be tangential to it, at best.

I now understand why people have that last-minute baby 10 or 15 years later. If I had not become a mother so late in life, I'm pretty sure I would have had another one when I got the first glimpse of the adult my daughter will soon become. I never planned on being a full-time, stay-at-home mother. I also never planned on what I would do when the best job I ever had came to an end.

This week, the Atlantic published a couple of articles that at first glance, seemed like yet another attempt to fire up the "mommy wars," pitting feminist working women against stay-at-home mothers. The first one, by Elizabeth Wurtzel, accused educated professional women who choose to become SAHMs of abandoning feminist principles so they can spend their days getting pedicures instead of holding real jobs.

That piece made me so angry that I almost didn't read the second, more thoughtful one: the cover story by Anne-Marie Slaughter with the conclusion that work-life balance in this country is impossible until we make our workplaces more family friendly - including aligning work hours with school hours. This is something I've been saying for years; I just haven't articulated it as well as she.

Even before the publication of these pieces, my quest to re-enter the job market has had me re-thinking my life choices. Should I have tried harder to find a way to hold on to my old job when I realized I couldn't do it well AND be a good mother? Would I have tried to re-enter sooner, had I known the economy would tank just as she was starting high school?

Would I have had any of the wonderful experiences I've enjoyed over the last nine years of writing this blog?

I don't like to waste a lot of time playing woulda-coulda-shoulda. (only a little.)
I prefer to keep moving forward.

Staying home this week, I've been privileged to spend some real quality time with my "little" girl while she's behind the wheel on our way to and from the school. We've gone out to lunch together, done some grocery shopping and are planning to get much-needed haircuts and finish her summer wardrobe before she leaves for CalArts in July.

It reminds me of how it used to be, before she got so big and teenager-y, when if she wanted to do anything, I had to take her. And we would spend hours in the car, talking. This week has been a little like that - only she's the one doing the driving. It's been something of a gift.

This week, I got another gift in the form of a job opportunity. It's just a contract thing, for just a few weeks. But it's a solid offer from a good company and directly related to the work I did before I became Megan's mom. It's a start.

And I could not have accepted it if I hadn't been stuck at home instead of on a plane to Detroit. Which brought to my mind the old saying:

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Farts and Flowers... I Mean, Happy Valentine's Day

My husband and I are not the mushy type. He has pet nicknames for me that most women would abhor: "Loopy," "Baggie," and "Barfy" are a sample. 

I think it's a British thing - like near the end of "Bridget Jones' Diary," when Bridget's mom (Gemma Jones) returns home after her fling with the orange-skinned TV shopping network huckster, and Bridget's dad (the wonderful Jim Broadbent) lovingly refers to her as a "daft cow."  It's a sweet moment because he says it so endearingly.

At least, that's how I take it, and how I know my husband means it. 

I, on the other hand, have no problem making jokes about my husband's lack of hair. In fact, the fact that he's so very bald is something that amuses our daughter to no end. The fact that he laughs right along with us is one of his better qualities. 

That is not to say that my husband has no vanity -- he just hasn't any hangups about losing his hair by the time he was 23.  You can make all the bald jokes you want, and he'll join right in. Just don't tell him he looks old. (For the record, he just turned 50, which makes him 5.5 years younger than I).

Anyway -- I don't expect much of anything on Valentine's Day. At our age, romance means being careful not to fart in each other's presence. (OK, we're not that bad -- not quite.)

Still: We don't do expensive gifts, having to manage my weight means I no longer get to enjoy champagne or chocolate, and my husband's veganism is incompatible with my low-carb diet, which means I'm not going to be cooking any romantic dinners for two. (Not to mention the fact that we have a teenager in the house.  There's a romance killer for you!)

On Saturday, I needed to run some errands that included a stop at Topanga Plaza mall at lunchtime -- and I invited the husband to meet me there. I didn't realize there would be a huge, pink, heart-studded lounge area below the food court, right next to the Sony Store. Stores had set up stations within the space to market everything from jewelry to perfume to manicures and massages. 

It looked like a party. They were even serving what looked like champagne. I tried to pretend I wasn't fascinated.

"Pretty clever of me to get your dad to a shopping center just before the 14th," I chuckled to my daughter. "I bet you he has no idea Tuesday is Valentine's Day."

He did not - which means we're a couple of days ahead of his usual habit of remembering on the 14th, and only because of the guys selling flowers on the freeway offramp.

Whatever.

In the end, the most romantic thing we do is be there for one another -- which we are, and have been for almost 23 years.

(Note to spouse: This does not mean you shouldn't buy me  the flowers, if you are so moved. Just avoid the overpriced roses.)