A Funny Thing Happened On tHe Way To NaBloPoMo

Technology is not my forte. I love words. I love to write. I also like to drive. Cars and computers---wonderful inventions, but if nothing happens when I turn the key, or push the button, I have to get out my bicycle, or search for that bottle of ink I know is around here somewhere. I know nothing about the inner workings of Blogger. I write, I tweak, then I push the magic button. Period.

So when I signed up for NaBloPoMo this year, I was surprised at how easy it was. So easy it I made me uneasy, and I wondered if I'd actually succeeded. The next day I went to the site to see if I was on the blogroll. I started scrolling through the lists: crafts, humour, parenting, psychotic ranting[!!], politics, religion, etc.

To my surprise, there was a category for "s*x." Only two people listed there. Which was no surprise.....You'd have to be nuts! One of the two was "Molly." Hmmm. So, I'm not the only Molly in Blogland. Fancy categorizing your blog thusly! She must be some hot mama! I continued scrolling and came to "general." And found "Molly," and clicked, and sure enough, it was me. So, it really was that simple. Idiot proof.

But curiosity made me go back to investigate that other Molly. Imagine my horror when I clicked and up popped my blog!! I was aghast! How in holy hell did that happen?

In a panic, I shot off an e-mail to the NaBloPoMo person, Eden, explaining my problem and begging her to get me out of there! And then I e-mailed Rise, because I knew she'd get a kick out of something like that..... As long as it was happening to me and not her! But Rise has her nose to the grindstone, plotting 29 more posts, so I got no reply. After all, she is up to her eyes in psychotic dogs, helpless offspring and needy in-laws. And, as icing on life's cake, she now has to come up with twenty nine more things to blog about, none of which are likely to be about s*x! That'll larn her! She probably thought "If Molly wants to specialize, that's her affair. I've got problems of my own."

I'm not getting my knickers in a twist about twenty nine more posts. I'm hearing Rose, my applique teacher, reminding us that the only thing we have to worry about is the very next stitch! So, I'm only going to worry about the very next post. There may be a lot of gibberish, but even gibberish counts, right? As long as I push that "publish" button before midnight.

Meanwhile, I was very anxious to be removed from that "s*x" category! Sure it would increase the number of visitors to my blog, but they would not be the kind I'd welcome! Besides, imagine clicking, and anticipating, then the let down when you find it's only a daft, white haired Irishwoman, waxing poetical about quilting and cats and flowers! They'd probably complain to the authorities about false advertising.....So, this daft, white haired Irish woman doesn't need them.

What if Eden shrugged her shoulders and couldn't change it? After all, there are thousands of bloggers signed up this year. It could be very un-funny. What if there really is an after-life? If The Mag and all the holy nuns are pulling the clouds aside, jostling each other to have a look? Whispering to each other "Oh my! You never can tell! We thought she was such an upstanding character! But, if you remember, there was that unpleasantness with the Penny Dreadful....That might have been an omem!"

Fingers crossed, I waited a while, then checked the blogroll again. Whew! God bless that Eden. No more sign of a Molly in the s*x category. As Rise would say---Amen! Loudly and with feeling!

The Caged Bird Will Sing Later...

I was in the mood to blog last night. Not quite ready to loosen my grip on the Real Women theme, I rambled on and wrote a long, meandering post. Went back and tweaked the wording here, the grammar there. Hit the publish button and off she went, flying like a bird, out into the blogosphere, in search of readers.

Went to bed happy. "To sleep, perchance to dream." And dream I did! That the Mag, headmistress from my schooldays,[more respectfully known as Sr. Margaret], was looking over my shoulder at what I'd written, shaking her head sorrowfully, and saying to me in her quiet, whispery voice "Not the most suitable subject for Good Friday, eh, Molly dear?" It was a talent she had. An ability to induce shame and guilt in the most innocent child....

"Oh crap! She's right!"

Suddenly I was wide awake and fumbling for my glasses. Stumbling to the computer to clip my birdie's wings. A sigh of relief--- no comments yet---one never knows what hour of the day or night our friends down under are up and stirring....no-one need ever know what a Philistine I was...Opened the window and in she flew. I grabbed her out of the air and stuffed her back in the draft box so fast, and in such a flurry of feathers, she never knew what hit her. I'll keep her there 'til next week when she'll get anoither chance to fly.



Meanwhile, the house is full of the aroma of apple cake for The Bean's [youngest son's] birthday tomorrow. Landmark occasion, he's turning twenty. No more teenagers. Happy Birthday to my "baby", all six foot four of him, and Happy Easter everyone!

When the Mooooon is in the Seventh House...

Great deal on clearance rack at favourite store last week. Liz Claibourne pjs in pretty pastels --- stripey bottoms, pale blue top, lace trim. One pair only. L. Grab. [Go away to mull it over, come back, it'll be gone, so yes, decidedly, grab.] Even though L is pushing it. Fine for the top. Like 'em roomy. But dodgy on the bottoms. They need to stay UP. Rationalised ---need L for length, else they'd flap around the knees.

Smiling smugly, paid and left. Tossed in the wash.

Ready for bed, swanning around the kitchen in elegant new attire. Bend over [gracefully] to start dishwasher. Bottoms slide to floor. Leaving bottom....bare. Inner Princess averts eyes. Inner Nazi snorts. Obviously, some stitches are called for. Note to Inner Bargain Hunter --- first, make sure it fits. Note to Inner Alzheimers patient [memory issues]---write that down.

A Tale of Two Ts

The grownups always told us to savor our youth. "The best years of your life," they said, getting all misty-eyed at the too-sudden demise of their own. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but I had a normal childhood, untraumatic, and reasonably happy. The sixties were fun, whether because they really were fun, or because we were on the threshold, waiting impatiently for our real lives to begin. Elvis was on the radio, crooning "wiiiise men saaaaay, only fools rush iiiin ...". Four lads from Liverpool were driving us all crazy. Cliff Richard was warbling "when the giiiirl in your arms is the giiiiirl in your heart..." No wonder we were all half daft and dreaming of romance. You know what they say about life. It's what happens while you're busy making other plans.

There was what Stomper Girl calls an Inner Princess inside me. She was a free spirit, wise, witty, and willowy. To know her was to love her. She was not, however, visible to the naked eye. You had to be a noble prince, or my Dad, in order to see her. And T. O'Conner certainly was not a noble prince. He was a long drink of water, with spectacles perched on his bony nose, to whom an aura of coolness inexplicably clung. Probably because he hung out with the in-crowd at school, one of whom had what most boys their age, at that time in Ireland, could only dream of having: a van, known as the Passion Wagon.

What the naked eye did see was a tall, coltish girl-child, with wavy hair and freckles. The nuns saw a quiet child, conscientious, responsible, a good student, a possible convent recruit, all the things that, socially, marked you as a total loser.

Boys and girls all went to school together to the nuns until about age six. The boys sat on one side of the room, girls on the other. T. O'Conner and his ilk made a career out of flicking spitballs across the room. It was a relief to the feminine gender when they were finally herded off to be whipped, literally, into shape by the Jesuits or the Brothers. But we hadn't seen the last of them.

The Jesuits occasionally held dances in the auditorium of their School for Young Savages, I mean , Gentlemen . Girls from all the girls' schools around town were invited. These dances were big events on our social calendar. Occasions of much twittering, and speculation as to who might get to dance with whom. Hair had to be fixed, and, since we spent most of our days encased in our school uniforms, great thought had to be applied to the question of what to wear.

What to wear indeed. Did I mention that I was a good girl? a tall girl? a girl whose mother dressed her? My mum, who was an excellent seamstress, made most of my clothes. But for one dance she splurged and arrived home from town with a new outfit for me from Todds'. I guess it never occurred to her that I might be picky; that I might want a say in what I wore. She just assumed I would love whatever she picked out for me. And be grateful. And I was. Grateful. For the thoughtfulness. Somewhat less so for the outfit.

In her vicarious excitement about the dance, Mum insisted on "setting"my hair, and then expertly applying, to my unwilling lips, a little of her own ruby red lipstick. But, most inglorious of all, on my twinkling toes I had to wear my sensible brown leather shoes, [my feet were too big for any of her shoes]. I would have traded my soul to the devil for one pair of "bad for your arches" slipons. My mother was a great believer in sensible shoes . For children. She herself got honorable mention in the Imelda Marcos sweepstakes.


I went off to the dance that night feeling like Tweedledum, resplendant in my new, brown, box-pleated skirt. Which ballooned out ridiculously from my waist, only to crimp back in around my knees. My new pink jumper clung embarrassingly close to my ribs and collar bones, announcing to all the world that Marilynn Monroe had nothing to fear.

The sensible thing to do would have been to go hide out in a tree until it was all over. I should have trusted my gut, that told me loud and clear I looked like a clown. But Mum said I looked lovely. And in her eyes I probably did. After all, I was wearing her choice of clothing, her choice of shoes, her choice of lipstick, and my hair was fixed the way she liked it. But --- there was always an outside chance that gorgeous George or some other handsome fellow would see right through the clown costume to the princess within.

Things were about to change. We were coming to the times that I would love. Times when they didn't throw you in prison if you went out without "setting" your hair. Times when fashions became more natural, more Molly-friendly. Twiggy, and bare feet, and flowers in your hair were just around the corner.

Bravely I stepped out on the dance floor for the first dance of the evening, a Paul Jones. When the music stopped I found myself eyeball to eyeball with......drumroll please....... T. O'Conner. Who, do I need to remind you? was no great beauty himself. He took one look at me and took to his heels. Almost forty years later, I have still not forgiven him.

When The OC and I turned fifty, and it started to look like certain of our offspring might soon be saying "I do", I should have issued a warning. But I missed my cue, certain memories from childhood having faded almost into oblivion. And so it came to pass that we became grandparents to a little boy named....drumroll please.....T! Today is his fourth birthday. Gradually the gorgeous T has supplanted the lanky geeky one in the Instant Images Department at the Funny Farm. Happy birthday T! I love you.

On the Subject of Knickers

My darling daughters should be gratified to hear that their mother no longer wears granny panties---those awful, elderly looking undergarments that come all the way up to what is anatomically known as the "waist". After holding out for many years, fashion and availability made me cave. Now said undergarment ends a few modest inches below my bellybutton.[Can't resist---what does an older woman have between her boobs that a younger woman doesn't? I usually forget jokes as soon as I'm done laughing at them, but this one has stayed with me, to the tune of much eye rolling from les hommes. The answer, of course, is a bellybutton, but I digress.] I realise an inch or two is a small concession to fashion, but it keeps me in my comfort zone, no panties peek above the slightly dropped waist of my jeans, and my bottom is covered, which, unless I'm greatly mistaken, is the purpose of panties.

I am morbidly fascinated, when shopping for underthings, by the phenomenon known as a thong. For this few inches of skimpy fabric they want how much? So that I could spend every waking hour twitching and wriggling as though there were ants in my pants? Because there would be fabric, all day, in a place where fabric was never meant to be. Better, if I can make so bold a suggestion, to wear nothing at all.

When I was growing up, as soon as summer departed, my mother bought winter knickers for us. She was a practical woman who loved me, I'm sure, and wanted me to be warm, but she was disturbingly unconcerned about permanent damage to my delicate psyche. Darling daughters [and concerned passersby], granny panties are haute couture compared to those abominations. Not only did they cover the bellybutton, they had legs that plunged almost all the way to the knee. Even in that far distant time they were very uncool. Todds' department store provided them in two luscious colours---Pepto Bismol pink and Mawkish Blue. I don't think my younger sister, the cooler one, ever wore them. No,no, darlings....your auntie wasn't that cool [or wanton]. She merely shoved the offending garments under her mattress, pilferred her summer knickers from the back of the hot press and went about her business. But me? I was a martyr for the cause. If Mum said I had to wear them ,I was unaware of options that didn't involve me freezing my young butt off. My sister has a lovely name, but in Irish [and the nuns always used the Irish versions of our names] it is Siobhan --- yes, exactly like the bald one. She suffered years of torment from her peers,
who would snicker "shove on your knickers, your mother's coming...."

I loved to ride my bike to the other side of town to visit my Auntie Ita. She was not really my aunt, but an elderly friend, who had introduced my parents to one another. She fed me banana and jam sandwiches, and treated me like a grownup and was great fun and I loved her. In Auntie Ita's neighbourhood there were lots of children who went to posher schools than I. I was delighted to be accepted into their group and happily followed them around. One day we ended up in a field where there were lovely, climbable trees. Imagine my surprise when they encouraged me to go first.......what an honour.......until I attained some height, and chortling and guffaws broke out below. Two late I remembered what I was wearing under my billowing skirt.........I squirm still at the humiliation I felt that day. To think that I trusted them and thought well of them. Amazingly, it didn't scar me for life as I undoubtedly thought it would at the time. I still trust people, for the most part, and believe the best of them, unless they give me reason to do otherwise. But , as a precaution, whenever someone invites me to climb a tree with them I always insist that they go first.........and I never, ever wear granny panties any more.......