Home Alone with Nothing to DO? Listen to your inner voice...

I had a very strange thing happen to me yesterday. Something that hasn't happened in recent memory. Maybe not even since I was single, all those years ago.

My husband was away at an all day seminar. My mom came and got the kids for a sleepover.

I was alone. In my house. For a whole afternoon.

No, really. I even made the dog go outside.

I understand that this kind of solitude isn't for every woman. In fact, a neighbor of mine recently admitted that she doesn't like being away from her family at all. But in my book, that's just crazy talk. I love my family hugely and fiercely, but even Mama needs a break once in awhile.

Which brings me back to an unsettling discovery I made once all the doors had closed and the house was all mine yesterday: I had NOTHING to do!

Yes, I could have cleaned out my closet or scrubbed down that mystery spot in my son's room or reorganized a sock drawer. But I wasn't so inclined. I could have worked (my usual free-time fallback) but my computer was busy projecting powerpoint presentations at my husband's seminar. I could have read (my other fallback) but I had finished my book the night before.

So with no way to work, and no desire to clean, and nothing to read, I was stuck. What to do?

One friend suggested I treat myself to a homemade spa day. But it was a nice day out — for once free of snow, sunny and not bitingly cold. My dog suggested that I take her for a walk. My conscience said that was a good idea and that I should also tack on some yoga afterward. My house said that I should make a list of all the nagging little projects that needed to be done and maybe even tackle a few of them. (I told the house to f@#k off.)

What to do? What to do?

Thankfully, I listened carefully to my inner voice (okay, voices) and the loudest and clearest message came straight from the SLUTS within. "Call up a friend and go antiquing." So I did. We browsed, we laughed, we dreamed.

Then, we just happened to upon a free wine tasting.

Guess that inner voice was right on.

The Modern "Busy" Signal

Remember when we were kids, and the local radio station would offer free tickets to the hottest concert to caller number (fill in the blank)? We'd frantically grab the phone, and pray for the perfect combination of speed and accuracy to get through. Time after time, our reward was only the busy signal. Even when the latest new technology brought us the "redial" button, still we were thwarted.

Today, I'm back in that place, only it's not a rockin' concert ticket I'm after. It's a slot in summer camp. Yep, it's barely February, there's a foot of snow on the ground, school's out for the day, and instead of doing the work that keeps food on the table, I'm mindlessly hitting the "reload" button in my browser, praying that I'll get the content I seek and not that freaking "service unvailable" message.

Isn't technology fabulous? Not only can I repeat the exact same behavior of my early teens, but I can do it many more times over using just two little muscles in my index finger. Doesn't change that sense of helplessness and growing anxiety though. This time it's not just a night of partying on the line — it's up to three weeks of parental sanity when school's not in session. The technology is faster, but the stakes are much higher.

There is one good aspect to it all, I suppose. Technology also gives me the ability to flaunt my frustration to anyone and everyone who happens to browse across this blog. And because I'm certain I'm not the only parent who in the coming months will be repeatedly poking that "refresh" button  while simultaneously banging my head against the table, I don't feel quite as alone as I did back in the 70s, listening to that ominous, "beep...beep...beep."

Having your camaraderie during this time is ....  Oh, look! I just got through! Gotta go!

Vasectomy Ninjas

Last night, several of my women friends —terribly stressed, all — gathered at my house for wine, food and LOTS of conversation. As often is the case with gatherings of this sort, the talk quickly turned to sex.

Not who's having it, or who's not, or how or even why. No, we discussed the single most important question among women nearing, immersed in, or just past their 4th decade: vasectomies. Specifically, whose husbands have had them and whose have not. This is our most critical issue when it comes to marital relations, because as much as we all love and treasure our children, we're DONE with that craziness.

To be fair, I know of no husband who gleefully and willingly takes that plunge. Several of the wives assembled had convinced their spouses to go under the knife by threatening to withhold sex. One threatened that she wanted many more babies. (Talk about a persuasive argument!)

But I'd guess about half of the husbands represented  have yet to take that important step. Too bad. There's nothing like the absence of extra hormones, the loss of latex and virturally no chance of pregnancy to foster wild sexual abandon. Guess some husbands miss that point.

But then, I realized there IS a way to help those reluctant men overcome their fears, or hang ups or whatever and get past the question and into the promised land. The answer: vasectomy ninjas.

Here's how it would work: Wife convinces husband to throw a party at their home. Wife helps ensure that husband imbibes copious amounts of alcohol or similar substances. Wife conspires secretly with highly trained and skilled medical doctor - the vasectomy ninja - to show up at the party and quickly perform the procedure. (After all guests have left, of course. We're not barbarians. ) Husband wakes up in the morning with a bag of frozen peas on his crotch, a mild hangover and no trauma. Problem solved.

Of course, REALLY crafty wives will say to their newly-awakened husbands, "Baby, you were incredible last night. Let me know when you're ready to do that again."

It's kind of like that urban myth where the college student goes to a party, gets bombed, and wakes up in a bathtub full of ice to find he has a kidney missing.

Could it ever really happen? Of course not. But I wonder after reading this, how many non-vasectemized husbands will shy away from throwing parties.

My Kind of Brownie Troop

Those of you who know me will no doubt come close to developing seizures from laughing when I admit that I've allowed myself to be coerced into being a co-leader of sorts for my daughter's brownie troop.

But before you completely pass out, I should say that I've only agreed to handle the money. While I'm confident in my abilities to keep a modest checking account in balance, I'm not sure I'm what Girl Scouts of America has in mind for the perfect troop leader.

See, the Girl Scouts and I have a long history. It started when I was a brownie myself. I was in a perky little troop that wore full uniform regalia to meetings and did mind-numbing activities like learning to crochet. I was a proud tomboy and always wore my shorts under my brownie dress, which my troop leader overlooked. But I also wanted to do what my older brother was doing in boy scouts — camping, canoeing, generally running amuck.

So, on the day we were supposed to be making lovely photo frames from Bell jar tops, I chose not to bring in my picture. My troop leader called me a "lazy daisy." I told her in no uncertain terms what I thought of the project she'd planned, and her annoyingly condescending vocabulary.

She told my mother in no uncertain terms that I needn't bother to come back.

Times have changed a great deal, and no self-respecting eight-year-old would sit through a brownie meeting circa 1972. Instead, the Girl Scouts have developed a curriculum focused on self-esteem and positive emotional and social development. That's all good, but I'm thinking I might give the girls in my daughter's troop an even better head-start on life skills.

Martini-mixing merit badge? You bet. But of course, I'll be the only official taster.

There's also the clean-my-grown-up-kitchen merit badge, sort-the-recycling-so-my-husband-the-eco-nazi-won't complain merit badge, the what-can-we-weave-from-all-this-dog-hair-on-the-floor merit badge and (my favorite) the babysit-the-three-year-old-boy-but-don't-let-him-destroy-anything-while-I-go-shopping merit badge.

Think of everything those girls would know! Who wants to sign up for my troop?

Americana Weekend

This past weekend, I sliced deeply into some American pie. I dredged up some of my Deep South roots from so far down, I should have worn some protective caving gear — or at least a helmet, because I was at the roller skating rink.

My friend Teesha, supermom that she is, hosted a skating party for her daughter's birthday. And since there's no mini-van alive that will fit nine excited girls, I volunteered my services as chauffeur and chaperone. (I should point out that 3 of the 9 girls were Teesha's, and that's not even all of 'em. Hence, her automatic "supermom" status. Something must be incredibly satisfying at her house. That's all I'm saying.)

Turns out, Teesha, me and our friend Cate were just about the only chaperones there in a rink full of teenagers. And boy, did it bring back some memories. Although we all hail from different parts of the South, we realized that early teen roller skating was something we all shared.

And then we wondered, is this a universal truth in the American adolescent psyche? Is roller skating as much a part of Americana as Friday night football and apple pie? When you move up north, do you just replace your wheels with blades and keep on sliding around the rink?

For us, it was a valuable opportunity for cultural reflection. For our daughters, it was a different kind of learning experience. At one point, my 8-year-old and her friend came up to me with very serious looks on their faces and said, "These teenagers move way too fast, and teenage boys like to show off a LOT."

There's a life lesson, no matter what culture you're from! Hopefully it will sink in.

And I'm not above a few more turns around the rink if anyone wants to go.