Archives for April 2019

When I introduced this blog, I called it “Just Jane.” Because it seemed that was all that was left around here. Just Jane.

You see, for the past 20 years my identity was pretty much “Just Mom.” I bet many readers can relate.

“Hey Mom, when I was three, I thought your first name was ‘Mom.’” – Evan

Then my sons Kyle and Evan left home last Fall for college.

My first day without the boys, I cried for hours. I’d never cried so hard in my whole life. Then I said to myself—because I saw people do it in the movies, like Gone With The Wind, so I thought it would work—I said, “You have to go on, Jane. Tomorrow is another day. PULL IT TOGETHER!”

But I still couldn’t pull it together.

Every day for months I came home from work to an empty house. A house that used to be filled with all sorts of noise—from yelling, to laughing, to just the comforting sounds of being ignored while they watched Netflix. There was always a hum of something going on. Without them, the silence was deafening.

It was the infamous empty nest. A crappy empty nest where all the sticks weren’t even stuck together anymore, and I was too old to lay more eggs, and my birds were off doing stuff I didn’t want to know about–and they didn’t appear to appreciate my hourly texts, either.

I couldn’t stand being home. It didn’t even feel like a “home” anymore without them. They’d moved on with their lives—as they were supposed to. But without them, I felt like I had no purpose. I didn’t know who I was.

Enough with that person formerly known as “Just Mom.” Who was “Just Jane?” I had to figure that out.

I’d always wanted to be a writer. But I’d never seemed to be able to find the time or inclination to get that endeavor off the ground. I didn’t really have an excuse anymore, but I needed something to push me.

“Hey Mom, sure, you can follow your dreams—just not if they’re crazy.” – my son Kyle, 11

I came across a Facebook ad calling for auditions for a storyteller show about motherhood. I knew that would force me to write, so I auditioned for the show producers with a story called “Bad Mom.” I was selected. It was a great start. I had some hope. So I started this blog.

Then something interesting happened. A couple weeks later, the storytellers participated in a table read. It was the first time we would hear each other’s pieces. I walked into the room feeling super self-conscious and “less than,” ’cause that’s how I roll.

The table read experience was life changing for me. Each person had such entertaining, well-written, honest—and sometimes shocking—stories, about all sorts of things. I could relate to every story in some way.

Some of us were experienced media reporters and popular published authors, and most of us weren’t, but it didn’t matter. Each person was as much of a “storyteller” as the next. Everyone has a story, right? And these were some very cool stories. At the end of the read, I felt emotionally exhausted, but moreover, exhilarated.

And I hadn’t felt so “Jane” in a really long time.

I finally felt like I belonged. I’d found my place. The storytellers bonded and made plans to get together, not because we had to, but because we wanted to.

I felt part of something again.

And not Just Jane.

But I’d already named the blog Just Jane, so f— it, that’s the name.

The recent summer concert season announcements have me pretty psyched (hey, you had me at Hall and Oates). It reminds me of an incident I was involved in at a rock concert a few years ago, If you were at the show, you’ll remember it.

It went down like this.

A coworker and I managed to scam first row tickets to Heart at Darien Lake. Unbelievable! My favorite band, Heart, and favorite singer of all time, Ann Wilson? It wasn’t “Almost Paradise.” It WAS Paradise!

It all started innocently enough. The first part of the show was one of the highlights of my life. Ann was out on the catwalk most of the time, and I clung to that catwalk like I was duct taped to it, in absolute heaven. Especially because Ann and I ended up many times singing sort of “to” each other, as most of the other fans were waiting for the next act, Def Leppard, and there weren’t many Heart fans up front. It seemed she could clearly see I was the person most into it, and I knew all the words to every song, so we had a lot of amazing eye contact.

So far, it was the best day of my life. Like, better than having my kids. Sorry, kids.

As we sang along, I fantasized that Ann would leave the concert telling her bandmates, “I cannot believe that girl knew all the words to all my songs! I’ll never forget her!”

But as it turned out, Ann Wilson would likely go on to remember me, as would a lot of other people–but for an entirely different reason.

As Nancy Wilson launched into the guitar intro solo for “Crazy On You,” one of Heart’s signature songs, the crowd went wild. Ann was rocking it out, waiting for her cue to launch into song.

I then noticed that a huge beach ball ended up in our area of the crowd, bopping around. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw that my coworker was next to me and had caught the ball. He was suspiciously holding onto it during the song intro, looking at Ann patiently with a little smile on his face. Uh oh.

Everything began happening in slow motion. I shouted “NOOOOOOOOOO!”–as he gleefully launched the massive beach ball at Ann.

Now, there might be quite a few rock stars who would think it was awesome if the crowd hit a beach ball to them while they were performing.

But not Ann Wilson of Heart.

What made it the worst, is she didn’t see the ball coming. It hit her smack in the face. She batted it away, and glared at us. The show continued, but her eyes kept coming back to rest on us. If looks could kill.

We had embarrassed a rock icon in front of more than 20,000 people. I just wanted to die. After killing my coworker first, that is.

The kicker was–the next day at work, a guy came up to us who knew we’d gone to the Heart show.

He said, “Did you see that stupid jerk slam Ann Wilson in the face with the beach ball?”

My coworker beamed. “Hey! That stupid jerk was ME!”

I’M SORRY AND I LOVE YOU, ANN WILSON!

Today’s Facebook “Add a Friend” Suggestion really rattled me.

It was HER.

THAT GIRL.

THE ONE WHO RUINED SECOND GRADE.

Here’s how it went down. It was a sunny day in Mr. Martin’s class. We were quietly working at our desks after recess. Everything seemed to be going along fine. He was a cool teacher, one of the best.

Then Mr. Martin asked for our attention. “I see that someone has thrown the classroom scissors in the toilet.” He frowned and scanned the room, surveying our little faces. “Who was it?”

We all sat there silently. Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself, What kind of person would put our scissors in the toilet? I couldn’t imagine. That was so WRONG! It must not have been intentional. Did they fall out of a pocket? Was the individual experiencing difficulty separating a piece of toilet paper from the roll? Perhaps the student had realized they’d forgotten to cut the McCurdy’s tag off their romper, and the scissors slipped out of their little hands.

Mr. Martin glared and said sternly, “I will ask you One. Last. Time. Who put the scissors in the toilet?”

It was a tense situation. At first, my classmates and I looked at each other with that innocent “It wasn’t me. Was it you?” look on our faces. That was immediately followed by scowling at each other with the look “It wasn’t me, and you had better tell him it was you.” But nothing.

Mr. Martin: “Everyone’s heads down on their desks until I get a confession.”

All us seven-year-olds had our heads on our desks FOR HOURS that day. HOURS. Today, can you picture a seven-year-old keeping his head on his desk for more than five minutes? Or a teacher being allowed to force it in the first place? Listen, in 1975 you kept your head on your desk, no questions asked.

You’d think after a little bit, the person would feel bad for their fellow students, and confess. Nope. I considered submitting a false confession to get it over with, but I was a Good Girl (back then) and no one would have bought the story.

To his credit, Mr. Martin did not give in. When the end-of-school bell rang, we gleefully grabbed our bookbags and got out of there.

Once outside, I found out who the perpetrator was—and that she had done it on purpose. But no one was a tattletale back in those days, and Mr. Martin never did find out who it was.

You know, upon reflection, I think that Scissors day made me a stronger person. It was when I first learned to endure extended suffering, an invaluable skill. OK, sure, I’ll Friend her!

Once she confesses to Mr. Martin, that is.