Uncategorized

He could be blonde. Maybe a redhead. In any case, he’d be smart to capitalize on a goofy smile. Even better, have one arm in a sling.

Whoever he is, I am on the lookout for him. And I will find him. Because the best way to find the Craigslist Killer is to post 67 items at a time on Craigslist, sit back, and wait patiently for him to show up.

How this all started

When my kids left for college, I decided to put my house up for sale.  I had a lot of stuff I had to get rid of. I figured I would just give it all to Goodwill. Then my friend said, “Why don’t you sell your things on Craigslist? I’ve had a lot of luck using Craigslist.”

“No way,” I replied. “I don’t want to deal with strangers who might kill me. Not to mention, I can’t stand it when people try to haggle. And anyway, who would want my old stuff? It’s just not worth the trouble. Especially the getting killed part.”

He laughed and said, “Literally, I have sold ROCKS on Craigslist. For a dollar apiece. ROCKS. I have made hundreds and hundreds of dollars. You should try Craigslist.” (Note: he has also managed to sell a boatload of broken mirrors.)

Anyway, he was right. I highly encourage you to sell practically everything you own, on Craigslist, right this very minute.

Not on Facebook Marketplace where all your Facebook Friends will judge you because they all saw that you are trying to sell a half-completed crossword puzzle book for $3. On Craigslist, where you can anonymously post all sorts of strange things, and no one will know it’s you.

As I wait for the killer to arrive, I’d like to share some insight with you.

Five Steps for Selling Your Crap on Craigslist

1. Carefully evaluate every single thing in your home. Picture the thing in your left hand, and the money you could get for the thing in your right hand.
2. Fantasizing about all that cold hard cash, decide it can all go. If you end up needing any of the stuff later, you’ll just buy duplicates.
3. Take photos of each item from its most flattering perspective. To ensure a fast sale, when taking the photo, put a puppy next to the item.
4. To determine a competitive price, Google the name of the thing plus “Craigslist” to see what it’s selling for elsewhere, e.g., “1950s Scary Clown Doll With Missing Eye Craigslist.” Then price the thing higher than what it’s worth, so buyers think they are getting a deal.
5. If you’re a girl, when you get a Craigslist inquiry, PRETEND YOU ARE A GUY. Even if the person inquiring indicates that they are female.

#5 is super important so I’d like to give you girls an example of how to pretend you are a guy.

Inquiry Text from Possible Craigslist Killer:

“Is the woman’s mountain bike that was only used once still available? I’m interested in buying it for my wife.”

My Text Reply:

“Yes. The bike was my wife’s, but she died. Not while she was riding the bike. The day after. Anyway, so I’m a guy, like I said, and if you want to see the bike, I just have to check with my boyfriend to see when he can come over so you don’t kill me when you come to pretend to buy the bike when you are really just coming over to kill me let me know a good time and I’ll get back to you.”

So, months into this project, I have sold nearly 100 items. I’m still waiting for my Killer. But sorting through the garage tonight, I found an axe.

I just posted it on Craigslist. And I’m feeling lucky.

I am sprawled on a riverbank in the pouring rain, face down in the dirt. Hundreds of buzzing black flies swarm me. They burrow into my hair, bite my hands, crawl up my shirt. This has been going on for hours. I have resigned myself to waiting patiently for the end to come.

No, I am not the victim of a serial killer. Although given the circumstances, death has become a more attractive alternative.

Let’s rewind.

The Beginning

When we met, he told me that he “loved the outdoors.” I replied enthusiastically, “So do I!” We smiled. We’d made a connection.

In retrospect, I could have been more clear about what I meant by “loving the outdoors.”

Yes, I loved the outdoors—under very specific conditions.

It had to be sunny. Temperature between 64 and 72 degrees. Wind under 10 miles an hour. And below 50% humidity.

In my hometown of Rochester, New York, this criteria narrowed my time outdoors to about 4 days of the year.

Those days when I was able to tolerate it outside, I preferred to assume a prone position. Such as on a chaise lounge by the pool, enjoying a cocktail. Or on a chaise lounge on the patio, enjoying a book. Or on a chaise lounge in the yard, enjoying a nap.

So I suspected he might be a little more outdoorsy than I was. But I thought about how I always sort of wanted to be that granola girl in her Subaru who’d pass me on the Thruway with the wind in her hair, her brightly colored kayak on the roof rack, and an ADK sticker on the back.

How hard could it be to learn to be outdoorsy, right?

Ha ha ha ha.

Summer

As our relationship progressed and the warm weather neared, we decided to go on a vacation together. He said, “There are so many great places to go. There’s the wilderness of Maine, the wilderness of the Adirondacks, the wilderness of Central Canada, or the wilderness of British Columbia.”

I said, “How about L.A., Chicago, or New York City?”

So when we arrived in the most remote part of British Columbia, first thing on the agenda, of course, was going for a hike. As we disembarked from our vehicle, I was alarmed to come upon a big sign with warnings about bears. Not just black bears. Grizzly bears. This sent me into a reeling panic. I’d seen the documentary Grizzly Man and it had really stuck with me, especially all the screaming at the end.

He said reassuringly, “Don’t worry. We just have to make a lot of noise to keep them away. And we have to avoid berry bushes, where they feed. I have bear repellent, too.”

Bear repellent? I didn’t know there was such a thing. The guy in the Grizzly Man documentary sure could have used some. Maybe he didn’t know about it. Anyway, WE had some bear repellent, and that was quite a relief.

Midway through the hike, he handed me the bear repellent. It looked like a small, white fire extinguisher.

I said, “So, I just spray this all over myself, like bug spray, right?”

He laughed. “No, goofy. Read the instructions.”

They read:

WAIT UNTIL BEAR IS WITHIN TEN FEET. SPRAY REPELLENT DIRECTLY AT THE BEAR. BEAR WILL APPROACH VERY QUICKLY. DO NOT RUN AWAY. THE BEAR WILL CHASE YOU.

Ha ha ha ha.

Fall

He said, “How about we get away for a while?” I said, “Sure!”

He said, “How about the mountains?”

I said, “How about Boston?”

So when we got to the cabin in the woods, I settled in to read a book and look at the pond, but was soon plopped into a boat. We ended up spending the entire time hiking and fishing. The days seemed to last forever.

But then one day, he said, “Let’s go to the ‘Lodge.’” I couldn’t believe it. He was actually going to take me to civilization! A restaurant, and probably a gift shop! I was psyched. I dressed up.

As we disembarked from the vehicle, I was surprised to see that we were at the foot of a mountain. We hiked up the trail to what I thought would be the gift shop. The trail went on an awfully long time and got steeper and steeper. I didn’t get to see much of nature’s beauty, as I was unable to look up from watching my feet. It was a challenge to remain upright amongst all the precarious tree roots and rocks. I was sweating through my dress clothes.

A couple hours later, just when I didn’t think I could walk any further, we reached the top of the mountain. We were standing in the middle of a beautiful meadow.

I asked, “Where’s the Gift Shop?”

He responded, “What Gift Shop?”

I frowned. “You said we were going to the Lodge. I thought that was a gift shop. That’s why I am dressed like this, with a nice blouse and jewelry on and my hair done.”

He laughed and said, “No, this mountain trail is called ‘The Loj.’ L-O-J, pronounced ‘Lodge’. This is just a mountain.”

Ha ha ha ha.

Winter

I thought I might be safe from the outdoors during the winter. Who goes outdoors on purpose in the winter in upstate New York?

One day, he said, “How about we go on a winter hike?”

I said, “How about we go to the movies?”

So we drove south for quite a ways, then pulled into a trailhead parking lot. As we disembarked from the vehicle, I was taken aback to see a steep hill looming above us.

He looked up and observed, “That’s the trail, but looks like it’s a sheet of ice today.” He paused.

I waited for him to say, “So, we’ll have to get in the car and go back home.”

But he continued cheerily, “So, instead, we’ll have to walk alongside the trail in the snow. Watch out, the snow’s pretty deep!”

Ha ha ha ha.

Spring

We decided to go for a long weekend getaway.

I said, “Where should we go?”

He said, “How about fishing?”

I said, “How about the historic city of Savannah, Georgia?”

So when we got to the river, we disembarked from the vehicle, and it began to pour. Black flies immediately attacked us, aggressively trying to bite us and even our vehicle. We put rain jackets and headnets on, and headed off to wade in the river to look for trout.

We made our way down the long, steep hill to the river, losing our balance a few times. We finally reached the riverbank. It had rained a lot, and the water rushed by. The river bottom was covered with big, slippery rocks. I knew there was no way I could keep my balance and try to cast a line. I told him to go ahead and fish as long as he wanted, and I would wait for him. Soon, he was out of sight.

I am sprawled on a riverbank in the pouring rain, face down in the dirt. Hundreds of buzzing black flies swarm me. They burrow into my hair, bite my hands, crawl up my shirt. This has been going on for hours. I have resigned myself to waiting patiently for the end to come.

Ha ha ha ha.

Watch “Bad Mom”

I was five years old. My mother and I were watching TV. Suddenly, she turned to me and made a dramatic announcement:

“Jane, my wish for you is that you never have kids. It was the biggest mistake of my life.”

Mom drew on her Winston Light, gazing into the middle distance, with what seemed like longing. Perhaps envisioning the joy a childless life might bring.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke into my face, she said flatly, “You know, before I had kids, I was a singer on the radio.”

Mom sighed, took a sip of her Schlitz and turned her attention back to the TV.

I’d noted that my Mom liked to dispense a lot of advice. For instance, when I’d given her my Brownies’ permission slip to sign, she’d looked at it dismissively and declared, “Being a Brownie…is being a conformist. Don’t be a ‘joiner’.”

I was devastated at the time. Looking back now, I realize her motivation might not have been so much about preventing me from becoming a joiner, but more about avoiding having to drive me to a Brownies Meeting. The timing of which just happened to conflict with Happy Hour.

My Mom was what you might call a “Bad Mom.”

I’d observed that “Good Moms” loved to cook, and clean, and drive their kids to sports practices, no complaints. A Good Mom kept quiet about who she was before kids. And a Good Mom certainly wouldn’t tell her kids how they’d stood in the way of realizing her hopes and dreams.

My Aunt Mary was one of those Good Moms. All her kids were in Scouts. She took them to church. She took them to Disneyworld every winter, and Nantucket every summer. Aunt Mary was always dressed to the nines, with full makeup. And she was in the PTA—of course.

And Aunt Mary had a lot of opinions, herself.

Mostly about the parenting going on down the street at our house.

Aunt Mary tried to make up for what she saw as Mom’s shortcomings. But I wanted no part of it. I didn’t like my hair combed. Or my meals made. And, I certainly had no interest in learning how to cook or knit. “Back off, Aunt Mary,” I ended up saying out loud one day, accidentally. (Mom got a real kick out of that.)

Yes, at five years old, I knew the difference between a Good Mom and a Bad Mom.

And I knew my mom was a Bad Mom.

For one thing, my Bad Mom hated to cook, and it showed. She reluctantly made the same five meals week after week. Burned hamburgers, soggy pancakes—yes, for dinner—dry pork chops, sticky spaghetti, and soupy Spanish Rice. Every week, rinse and repeat. I learned to put the food in my mouth, then, so I didn’t have to actually taste it, rinse it down quickly with a glass of milk.

And my Bad Mom wasn’t a big fan of straightening up the house. (Nor was anybody else in our family. So, I just never had friends over to visit.)

And my Bad Mom slept in every morning, so I had to get myself on the bus. I remember one day I went to kindergarten with my pajamas still on underneath my clothes. Another day, I decided to wear both a dress and pants at the same time. No one ever said anything. I thought maybe they could tell I had a Bad Mom just by looking at me.

But…

My “Bad” Mom also read to me for hours on end.

She took me on road trips.

She showed me the beauty in every sunset.

She showed me how to Pay. Attention.

Mom showed me a great deal of affection. She always let me crawl in bed with her to cuddle. And every week, she would wash my long blonde hair in the kitchen sink. Then wrap my head in a warm towel and hug me really tight. I hated having my hair washed (combing out all the tangles probably took twenty minutes)–but I always looked forward to it because of those loving hugs.

Mom showed me that love was all that mattered.

And I sure loved my Bad Mom more than anything.

Shortly after my mother died, I had an incredibly vivid dream. We were in the ICU again. She had woken up, all better, and we sat together on her hospital bed. I was very emotional.

She hugged me. Then said softly, “It’ll be OK. Pay attention to what I write.”

And I bolted awake.

The dream was very real. I’d never had a dream that real, and I was shaken by it. So much so, that I almost emailed my sister to tell her about the dream. But I didn’t want to make her even more sad about Mom, so I decided against it.

But I kept turning the events of the dream over and over in my mind. “Pay attention to what I write?” How could Mom write me from beyond the grave? It was impossible. So, I shook it off.

A few hours later, I got an email from my sister. Subject Line: MOM. The email said, “I was cleaning out my closet and found the last letter Mom wrote me. I thought you might like to see it.”

My cursor lingered over the Attachment.

I opened it, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the “P.S.” at the bottom.

It said, “Always Feel My Arms Around You.”

I really miss my Bad Mom.

Happy Birthday to Lou Gramm, a man who many say has the best voice in rock and roll (I agree). And did you know the secrets behind his incredible songwriting? I found out the hard way.

When I found out it was Lou’s birthday, I’d coincidentally had my Lou Gramm playlist on Repeat for more than week. You know how a song can bring you right back to the time when you first heard it? Lou Gramm and Foreigner does that for me.

Foreigner 4 was the first album I bought for myself, in 1981. I was 13 and had scraped together some babysitting money. (Hey, that dollar an hour adds up.) There were classic songs on the album – Juke Box Hero, Waiting for A Girl Like You, Urgent—but my favorite song by far was Break It Up. It goes like this…wait for it…

I don’t want to break it up / Why do we have to break it up / Never ever want to break it up oh no / I only wanna make it up tonight

Deep lyrics, huh? I loved the song despite never having broken up with someone–probably because I’d never gone out with someone in the first place.

I then found out that Lou was from my hometown, Rochester, New York. This news floored me. Who the heck is from Rochester? I fantasized that someday Lou and I would cross paths. I just knew it.

I was right, but it was a bit odd how our meeting came to pass, and how I found out the secrets behind his songwriting, and songwriting in general.

Fast forward. When I was just out of college, I joined a local village band as their snare drummer. I didn’t know any of my bandmates’ names until the holiday concert, where our names were published in a program.

As I waited for the show to start, I set my drumsticks down and scanned down the list. In “Trumpets,” I saw a “Ben Grammatico.” Hmm. I knew that was Lou Gramm’s real name, shortened for show biz.

I leaned over the snare, pushed the music stands apart and asked, “Which one of you is Ben?”

Ben turned out to be the one who had been sitting directly in front of my snare all these months. He turned to me and smiled. I said, “Hey, Ben, I see in the program that your last name is Grammatico. Would you happen to be related to Lou?”

Ben replied, “Yes. He’s my son!”

My heart skipped a beat.

Ben continued, “Yeah, Lou comes to a lot of our concerts. He was supposed to be here today, but he had to go to New York to record with Foreigner.”

i was short of breath.

Ben replied, “You know, Lou was a drummer before he had to drop it to focus on lead vocals. When he came to see our band this summer, he commented to me that you were a good drummer.”

I was thrilled.

And desperate to know more about the real Lou.

At our next rehearsal, I pulled Ben aside. “Ben, I have a question. I love Lou’s solo albums. So in the song ‘Midnight Blue,”’ the lyrics are, ‘I remember what my father said / He said son, life is simple / It’s either cherry red / or Midnight Blue.’ Did you really say that?”

He looked at me quizzically. “Jane, I have no idea what you are talking about. I never said that to him.”

What? So people just make song lyrics up willy nilly? What the what? This was a revelation. My mind spun.

When he wrote “Hot Blooded,” did Lou really “have a fever of 103,” or was his forehead just slightly warm, the kind where you still have to go to school?

Did Lou really “…Want To Know What Love Is,” or did he just not give a crap?

In “Urgent,” was there really no emergency and Lou could have just gotten around to it whenever he felt like it?

I ended up meeting Lou at our next concert. As we shook hands and I blabbed on about how I was his BIGGEST FAN, SERIOUSLY, he likely suppressed his concern over my mental stability and generously covered my hand with his other hand affectionately as he said, “Jane, I’m so glad to meet you.” His hand lingered over mine. I’ll never forget it. It was very genuine.

Over the years I’ve run into him now and then. A sweet, sincere man. Whenever I see him, he at least pretends to remember me.

Happy Birthday to the best voice and heart in rock and roll, Lou Gramm! Now please excuse me while I go crank up “Feels Like The First Time” (it probably felt like the second time, but that’s OK).

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.

Don’t get too excited. This post is not about the CLASSIC 1981 movie Happy Birthday to Me starring Little House on the Prairie’s Melissa Sue Anderson. No, this is about how today is my actual birthday. 51.

My favorite present so far is a Snoop Dogg sweatshirt from Zumiez that I had been begging for. It was out of stock and my son Kyle hunted it down for me. I shall wear it every day. Around the house, not to work, although I am certain that they would love it at work ‘cause it’s too cool.

So about birthdays. Some of you may relate to this.

I walk around thinking, and acting, like I am 22. I guess that’s why I wanted that Snoop sweatshirt so bad.

However, it has become more and more apparent that others look at me like I am, well, definitely over 40. Maybe 45 on a good day.

Here’s some observations on being a woman of a certain age:

Keeping my hair long and blonde may trick people about my age, but only when they can’t see my face. I had the brilliant idea to grow it all one length like Cousin It to cover up my entire face, but was told that is not acceptable in the workplace.

When I wear my college alma mater sweatshirt (SUNY Oswego), people now ask, “Oh, does your kid go to Oswego?” Or sometimes, “Do you teach there?” I don’t know which is worse. [A bit of trivia: Happy Birthday To Me drawbridge scene was filmed in Mexico, NY]

When I go into Zumiez (LIKE TO GET A SNOOP DOGG SWEATSHIRT), the clerk asks, “Are you shopping for your kid?” (Kyle, 20: “MOM! YOUR GOING TO ZUMIEZ IS LIKE ME GOING TO TALBOTS!”)

When I go to the hair salon, my optimistic stylist cheerily says, “On the bright side, now that you are completely gray, you can go longer in between root touchups because gray sort of looks blonde.”

That all said. This is so trite, but am compelled to say it because it finally, finally hit home for me recently…

How many people even get to live to age 51?

How many of our friends have we lost already?

I can honestly say, and this has taken me a long time to make peace with – I do not care what I look like. There are only so many ways to try to fix 51. I can probably fix it down to about 48. That’s not a statistically significant difference.

I just want to live! I have been through a lot, as many of us have, and sometimes, I just didn’t think I could take One. More. Day.

But I am here to tell you that everything passes, and 51 rocks, actually, and there is always going to be some g*d-damn sh*t – so just put one foot in front of the other, as my mom used to say (Mom was always right).

And guess what, sorry, but I just took the last Snoop Dogg sweatshirt from Zumiez, so you’re just going to have to steal one from your kid.

Today would have been my mom’s 88^th birthday. She passed away almost 20 years ago now. It’s hard to believe. Not to be trite, but it’s true that not a day goes by where I don’t think of her.

So today is a good day to tell you about how I’ll be in the 2019 Listen To Your Mother Rochester show that was recently announced. Somehow, I’ve been selected to be featured in it, along with a dozen other people who will be reading their touching, funny, crazy or all-of-the-above 5-minute stories on the topic of motherhood. It’s a nationwide show, with more than 50 cities participating and the Rochester show in its 5th year. I’m honored to be in the cast. Saturday May 11 at the Hochstein. Tickets are available at ROC The Mic. Proceeds benefit the Society for the Protection and Care of Children.

The essay I’ll be reading happens to be about my mother: “Bad Mom.” What’s cool about being selected for the show isn’t so much that I passed the audition, but that I had the courage to audition at all.

A Facebook Memory came up today from back when my son Evan was 10, and I thought it particularly appropriate for today:

Today I visited Mom’s grave on her birthday. I kneeled at the stone for several minutes while the boys sat in the car. When we got home and I put the key in the door, Evan suddenly whispered, “I bet she’s proud of you.” I replied, “Who?” Evan put his hand on my shoulder, looked deep into my eyes and said, “Your Mom. I bet she’s proud of you.”

Happy Birthday, Mom.

One afternoon when I was in high school, I got off the bus only to find that my Mom wasn’t there to pick me up. Every day, she would kindly wait at the end of our long farm road to save me the twenty-minute uphill walk. Where was she? Boy, was I upset. It was raining so bad out.

I couldn’t believe she forgot!

I trudged up to the old farmhouse, muttering the whole way. She always picked me up, every single day.

I couldn’t believe she forgot!

I finally reached the house, a drenched rat. Mom met me at the door with a strange look on her face. She looked out at the driveway, then back to me.

“Jane, where’s the car?”

And that’s when it all came back to me. That morning, Mom had reluctantly let me drive her car to school for the first time. But by the end of the day, on autopilot, I had taken the bus home.

I couldn’t believe I forgot!