When did "Because I Said So" become obsolete?

Like every other mother out there, I promised I would never use “Because I said so!” as an answer or justification for anything. Ever. I would instead reason with my children, giving them concrete explanations for why they were required to do whatever it was I deemed requireable.

Requireables throughout the formative years included, but were not limited to, knocking the dirt off cleats before they were put in the gym bag, completing homework before watching TV, going to bed before midnight, keeping the Little Tykes Cozy Coupe out of the living room, turning off The Lion King after three consecutive viewings, obeying the no-driving-after-11 pm-as-a 17-year-old law, even though no other parent in the history of New Jersey ever enforced it, turning lights, air conditioners and running water off when leaving the house, and throwing coats, shoes, bags and scarves on one’s own bedroom floor rather than overflowing the overcrowded and overstuffed first-floor family hall closet. 

But, of course, like every other mother out there, I eventually tired of lengthy discussions on life’s most basic requireables and reneged on my vow. Over the long and arduous course of childrearing, I have indeed bellowed, “Because I said so!” half a million times. 

Miraculously, though they may have fussed and fumed, my kids generally did what was required of them. Simply because I said so. 

I had power. I had presence. I held rank.  

Then they grew up and everything went to pot. 

All of my kids flew the coop for college, going both near and far. Added together and divided by three, their scholastic distance average was 1,100 miles. Unlike many mothers, I had no problem with them being a plane ride or an eight-hour road trip away. That not only meant no unexpected weekend visits with bags (plural) of laundry, but gave me fair warning to clean the cobwebs off the vacant beds. 

The California kid came back after he graduated, worked in Atlanta for a few months, moved home again and has now settled in Los Angeles. I think. The youngest, who finished school last May, is not only living at home, but working from home. And the daughter not only went south for college, but went even deeper south after she got her degree. When I dropped her in Chapel Hill eight years ago, I never dreamed she was gone for good.

But, gone for good never holds true for children.

They always come back. 

The daughter, anticipating a tumultuous homecoming, planned her return for the day after I left for Vermont to work on the food truck for six weeks. By the time I got back in mid-August, she had re-staked her claim, removing the ping pong table, installing a new air conditioner and sprucing up her former roost in the attic with scented candles and decorative pillows from Target. 

The daughter is actually a joy to have around. She’s smart. She’s interesting. She’s fun. And best of all, she leaves the house every morning by 6:30 and doesn’t return until after 7 pm. She retreats to her haven with a book by 9 and demands very little of me. Including conversation. 

But. 

The stuff. 

Living in a 90-year-old house, I have been deprived of a master bathroom, the most basic of human needs. When we moved in 13 years ago, we envisioned the kids slipping in the back door from sporting events and late-night parties for a sight unseen shower in the full bath in the refurbished basement. But, that never happened. Instead, my ever-loving spouse took that space over for himself, lessening the load, and the wait, in the upstairs bathroom. 

Before I left for Vermont, I cleared a shelf in the bathroom for the daughter. I bought two plastic bins from The Container Store, sufficient enough, or so I believed, to hold all her items. Any overflow primping necessities could be brought down from her bedroom via plastic bucket, like the one I bought her freshman year. I’d even spring for a new one in the color of her choice.

The first time I entered the bathroom, I thought it was a joke. 

She has 937 beauty products. On every square inch of available space. Leaving me a cup with a single toothbrush on a shelf high above the chaos. 

“Can you at least contain your stuff?” I begged, ordering more plastic bins from The Container Store. 

“What difference does it make?” she asked. “It’s a bathroom. No one comes up here but us.”

“I just can’t stand living with this much junk,” I said. 

“Get over yourself,” she responded.

I retreated. After all, she’s right. We have a downstairs powder room. If anyone over 30 ever actually wants to spend the night, I’ll just blame the mess on the daughter. Or pay for their room at the Marriott. 

On the plus side, at least her beauty products are working. She’s fairly attractive. 

Then, this happened. 

With the onset of plummeting temperatures, came the onslaught of outerwear. 

The daughter has nine coats, jackets and sweaters hanging on the door hooks of the first-floor family hall closet. She has 14.5 pairs of shoes strewn on the floor of the first-floor family hall closet. She has multiple scarves, hats, umbrellas and tote bags tossed on top of the shoes in the first-floor family hall closet. 

“Mom,” says the daughter. “It’s a closet.” 

“Yeah, but…” 

“It’s a closet.”

“Can’t you take maybe half of your things up to your room?” 

“Why, Mom? It’s a closet.”

"Because I said so?" 

Once again, I retreat. She is, of course, right. So, I drape my North Face jacket on the back of my desk chair and instead, push and prod and pull parts of clothing from the door jamb to shut the hall closet, on a daily basis. 

I still have my requireables. Pay your bills on time. Go to the dentist twice a year. Take Ubers to the bar. And to the airport. Don’t call in sick. Don’t throw away day-old chicken. Wipe up your toothpaste spit. Replace toilet paper – correctly. Over, not under. Fill the Brita water pitcher. 

Some days they concede. Some days they don’t. 

I can’t help but wonder just when the tide began to turn. 

And then, I catch a glimpse into my not-so-distant future. 

I’m living in my creaky old house because my spouse refuses to move into the cruise-ship-on-land assisted living facility. I am old and stooped and in constant pain because I refused to ever get my knees replaced. 

“Come on, Mom,” the daughter begs. “Eat your lima beans.”

“No.”

“Mom. You can’t live on Diet Coke and pretzels..” 

 “For the first time in my life, I’m thin. I’m not eating that crap.”

I purse my lips tight.

“Mom. YOU HAVE TO EAT.”

“I’ve survived for 103 years. Why I should change my diet now?”

“BECAUSE I SAID SO.”

And, I succumb. Completing the circle of life.

Why Everyone Needs a Girls' Weekend

“Ugh. I am such a dog!” I barked when I saw the fireplace photo that Peggy snapped using the trusty timer on her camera, jumping into the picture as the red light blinked, just as she does every year.

“Oh, Betsy,” Leslie said.  “You are NOT a dog. You are beautiful. We are all beautiful.”

“At least our stomachs are hidden by the girls in front," Jeanne added.

Woof,” Ann said, never one to buy into self-deprecation.

On this Annual All Girls’ Weekend, five of us found ourselves in Bethany Beach, Delaware – half-way between the two physically farthest friends; Ann in Nags Head and me in North Jersey.  We marveled at how far we’ve come, settling for nothing less than a five-bedroom, five-bath bayfront house with brand-new appliances and multi-faceted showerheads. We laughed as we remembered college nights sleeping toe-to-toe, fully clothed, on beer-stenched sofas in roach-infested houses, not wanting to leave the party for fear of missing out.

Now, the only thing we are afraid we’ll miss out on is sleep.

We went to the movies on Sunday afternoon to see Beautiful Boy, a story we found heartbreakingly lovely for close-to-the-vest reasons. We proudly accepted our senior citizen discount and were delighted that we were considered elder-worthy at such a young and tender age. We snuck snacks into the theater, took up two seats a piece and giggled about how daring we have become.

And, then we remembered the Ziploc baggies we snuck into the Little Feat concert at Memorial Auditorium and how at least one of us capped off the night drinking beer with the band around a swimming pool. Perhaps a feat not daring for that time and age. But it certainly beats pretzels in a movie theater.

“We should Uber to dinner,” I suggested.

“Yeah. We don’t want to break down in the dark,” Jeanne agreed, referring to the Check Engine and two other warning lights that had inexplicably appeared on the minivan dashboard that afternoon.

“Oh, it has nothing to do with that,” I clarified. “I just hate driving at night because ever since I had cataract surgery and got the multifocal lenses, I  see all these little rings in the car lights coming at me.”

Yes. Cataract surgery.

And, then Ann and I retold the story of our late-night drive through the Blue Ridge Mountains as we traveled to a weekend folk festival. On the dark and windy Skyline Drive, we had not one, but two tires blow out.  And since we only had one spare, we relied on the kindness of strangers – a passing trucker – to transport us to and from the closest service station.

“Definitely Uber,” Peggy said.

As we barreled into the Bluecoast Seafood Grill, we immediately and loudly began battling over where to sit. One of us didn’t want a booth in the corner because it was too intimate. Another didn’t want a table in the middle of the dining room because it wasn't intimate enough. One wanted a high top. Another’s legs would dangle. Quickly sizing up the escalating situation, the greeter ushered us to a round table far from the maddening crowd.

“You want GUYS instead of sweet potatoes?”  Jeanne bellowed over the background din of clanging plates and scurrying waitstaff.  

“No, fries!” I laughed.

“Unless,” I said, turning to our server. “There are any spare guys available?”

She laughed politely and while her hearing was perfect, it was apparent that our exchange left her 25 year-old ears completely baffled.

“She has no idea how much fun we were,” I said as she sashayed away.

“How much fun we ARE,” corrected Ann, never one to buy into ageism.

Leslie was the one who started the yearly event. She threw a soiree at her mother’s house back in 1979 and on that day we clinked solo cups, vowing that we would have an annual All Girls' Weekend every year until the day we die. And though one of us  has indeed died, and another bowed out for reasons no longer completely clear to any of us, we have kept up the tradition for 39 years.

For the first 25 years or so we rotated houses, making any husbands, roommates, boyfriends or children leave the premises. We eventually aged out of that, agreeing that no one wanted to make up all those beds, cook all that food, clean all those rooms, even if it ended up being only once every six years. So, we switched gears, extended it to a three-day weekend and began renting random houses, often off-season in deserted beach towns.

Peggy has never, not once in all those years, missed a single gathering.

We spent some time over the weekend trying to reconstruct our history.

“The first year we started renting was the year Evie was born,” I declared, definitively.

“Who is Evie?” Peggy asked.

“My niece,” Ann said.

“Remember, we were at that penthouse in Ocean City, Maryland. We were texting Phillip all weekend to see if she was born yet?”

“No,” Leslie confessed. “But I do remember I was the one who had to sleep on the couch.”

“So what year was Evie born?”

“2008.”

“Oh,” I said, crestfallen. “I guess that wasn’t our first rental.”

“Was it Annapolis?” Jeanne chimed in.

“No!” three of us roared in unison. “That came way later.”

Or, did it?

“Where was that place that had the pool table in the basement?” Peggy asked.

“That was Dewey Beach. Or maybe Bethany,” I answered. “That was the townhouse where everything was broken. And the year we friended Paul Franze."

“I don’t remember a pool table,” Jeanne said. “That must have been the year I got my hip replaced.”

“You got your hip replaced in October. I know it was February because we celebrated Leslie’s birthday.”

“I was there?” Leslie asked.

“We are in big trouble,” I laughed. “What if we live another 35 years? Will we remember anything at all?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jeanne said. “We’ll just fake it.”

While over the years details have faded, stories have been rewritten and dates have blurred, we all hold on to one indisputable memory.

Forty-three years ago, on a September evening, I bounded like a Labrador Retriever, into Ann and Peggy’s dorm room in Harley Hall at Shippensburg State College. I had been stalking them for a week in Kriner Diner and knew I wanted them to join our pack.

“Will you guys be my friend?” I asked.

Those were really and truly the words that came out of my mouth.

The two blond-haired beauties looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and said, “Sure.”

Because of the dog that I was, and the dog that I am, I can't help but wonder if referring to oneself as a dog is necessarily a bad thing?   

After all, don't they say that a dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than she loves herself?

Woof.

Coveting the Purple Oven

While admittedly not the holiest soul, I pride myself on being somewhat of a good person. I tip well,  I let cars merge in front of me, I write thank you notes and have little trouble following the laws of the Lord.

But when I review the Ten Commandments, I begin to wonder.

Thou shalt have no other gods before me. 

Fine with me.

Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.

 Oh, God.

Remember to keep the Sabbath holy.

I try not to exercise or otherwise over-exert on Sundays.

Honor thy father and mother.

Check.  

Thou shalt not kill.

Unless the recently trapped-on-sticky-paper mouse in my kitchen counts, I’m good.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

No danger of that.

Thou shalt not steal.

I always, always ask the bartender's permission before pocketing glassware.

Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

I ain’t no liar.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.

Two wives is two too many.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods.

Gulp. 

Therein lies my biggest sin.

Covet is an actual word in my vocabulary.

“I covet your orange wallet,” I said when a wealthy horse-owner whipped out a hundred dollar bill for a two-dollar-and-fifty-cent bagel while I was working on the food truck this summer. And I did mean the wallet, not what was in it. She responded with a, “This old thing?” and a fifty-cent tip.

I coveted my friend Ann’s living room chair so much that she redecorated her house so she could give it to me as a replacement for my sad and saggy throne. 

I covet party invitations, new cars and clean houses. I covet Carrie’s wraparound porch and her father’s artwork. I covet central air conditioning, manicured lawns and long, straight hair. Preferably blond. I covet Margaret’s pool and her master bedroom wing. I covet refrigerators that don’t buzz, dogs that don’t bark and computers that don’t freeze. I covet Jean’s 90-inch television and Tom’s well-stocked bar. I covet large, empty closets, en-suite bathrooms and macadam-covered driveways.

I really, really covet my sister Nancy’s purple oven.

And, I don’t even particularly like purple.

I spent last weekend in Charleston visiting said sister and my niece Olivia. I could have stayed there forever. Despite their two dogs. Who shed. In three different colors.

Nancy’s house is beautiful. She has a decorator's eye, a designer's sense and the creative confidence to pull it all together. There’s a purple wicker chair on her front porch that foreshadows the oven within. There’s also a tad of purple in the upholstered dining room seat cushions, a purple rabbit perched on the bannister and a purple powder room. An over-the-top color so artfully used that you'd never even consider calling it a purple house. It’s just a perfect house.

I am, indeed, a sinner. 

So much so that when I returned to my red-countered kitchen, I sat down at my pock-marked table, listened to the ever-annoying hum of the new refrigerator and waited out the spinning circle on my laptop. I then googled purple ovens.

And, I don’t even particularly like purple.

Seeing the absurdity in my googling, I close up my laptop and look around. What I see is a creaky, old house with crackled walls and uneven floors. But, I also see Max's framed photographs hanging slightly askew on the kitchen wall next to the straw monkey from Leo's Amazon trip. Across the room is a dancing wooden drummer hand-carved “just for me,” that Patty and I haggled over in Nassau's Straw Market. 

I marvel at the many shapes and colors of Jeff Tritt paintings that fill my living room, the still-life Leo painted in fourth grade, Patty's depiction of the Schuylkill Expressway and the rustic red barn my mother-in-law painted in a late-in-life art class. I see the hand-blown glass bowl that Jill gave me for a wedding present, the origami paper boxes Betsy and her daughters made me one Christmas, the stained-glass table top from Ann and the photo of me with my sisters and parents at Skytop. My eyes land on the peace pillow from Claire, the Roman shades and polka dot valances sewn by Nancy, the little red-head knitted by Gail and the brass bicycle given to me by my spouse.

I read the many inspirations dotting my desk which include the Charlotte's Web sentiment handwritten from Madge: 

It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. 

Charlotte was both. 

I look at the New Orleans Let the Good Times Roll bride and groom skeletons from Molly, last year's smudge bowl from Holly and hear the wind chimes from Jean singing outside the back door. I laugh that I have Jamal's baby picture as well as his college graduation photo and that I've kept Julie's thank you note and Sophie's Aunt Bee etching. 

I see the 45 year-old softball from my father with the barely readable, "It proves what hard work can do," the red glass pitcher from Uncle Tony, the artsy blue plate from Virginia, the Cockadoodle deviled egg platter from Emily and the etegami Color of Sunshine from Susan propped up on a random shelf on the wall.

On the bookshelves beneath Aunt Mary's fish plates sits a Sarah Palin face mask, courtesy of Nancy Schaeffer, and on the kitchen wall, a tree of life made of black wire purchased with my spouse at a street fair in Asheville. And, epitomizing the whole shebang, hanging beneath a crazy chicken clock is my mother's hand-stitched sampler that reads, "A clean house is a sign of a misspent life.”

As I look around my drafty, old abode, it suddenly occurs to me that perhaps the sin is not in the coveting, after all. But, rather in the failing to remember all that there is to covet within our own hearts and homes.