Well, hey there Internet! Yes, it's really me! I thought I'd peek into this world wide web here and make sure all is right in your world since I've been gone for like a million years or two months or whatever.

My world? Well, it's all been uphill since I found out I do not have cancer. Just a clean horizontal slice of a scar on my boob, a reminder that life is this fragile, ever-shifting, dazzling thing. 

And even though I should have known this all along, there's a newfound delight in that realization. And it fills me up every morning, when through my haze of waking, I think, yay! I have today and tomorrow and tomorrow and all of these ever afters to drink coffee and pet dogs' wiggly bodies and listen to my girl's stories and kiss my husband and judge people harshly while driving and just live like it's champagne and strawberries, 24/7. 

Although, that might not be the best example. Too much champagne makes me bloated and headachy and if I eat too many strawberries, I get mouth ulcers. 

But you get the point. Hopefully.

Anyway, I wish for all of you this very same kind of delight. And also lots of fancy new shoes.

So, in honor of the wonderful days I have been given, I thought I'd tell you about an encounter I had recently. It has taken me a while to talk about it because, well, it was just so . . .  

Bad. 

Like, really, really bad. I'm talking crazy-ass bad. 

And yes, I know I tend to be dramatic. At life. And in general. 

And I know when I say something's really bad, most everyone will be rolling their eyes and saying, "Okay, like the time your coffeemaker stopped working because it needed to be descaled and you didn't know how to do that and your husband, the descaler, was out of town for 2 weeks and so, for 2 weeks you had to go to the gas station to get your coffee because going to Starbucks means you would have to make a u-turn on a busy highway and that's too much pressure to take before coffee, so you had to settle for gas station coffee for two weeks—that kind of bad?"**

**This is actually a true story. And yes, it was bad. But not anywhere near the caliber of bad I'm about to rain down on you.  

So here goes, as I wince and tell the story from between my fingers.

A few months ago, my daughter, the only one left at home—who is now lucky enough to be the sole recipient of my machine-gun-barrage of questions as soon she comes home from school since the only social contact I have on most days is the UPS man and the three dogs—that long-suffering girl asked me to take her to the store because she wanted to bake a cake. 

I had just worked out, so I told her I'd drive her up there but I was going to stay in the car because I was gross-out sweaty. (Okay, so maybe I wasn't dripping in sweat. Maybe I laid on the floor and did a light Pilates workout while watching Breaking Bad and when I mean light, I mean I didn't even bother with a workout bra. But I needed some kind of story to justify watching Breaking Bad all day. Besides, I really didn't feel like going into the store since that would require putting on a bra, which—hello—way too much effort.)

So off we went to the store. I dropped her at the entrance and parked. 

I sat in my car, reading some Jonathan Franzen or maybe I was scrolling through my Instagram, (I can't really remember), when a pickup truck parked next to me. 

My car is low to the ground, so the pickup occupant had a good view of the inside of my car. 

And view he did. 

I immediately sensed someone staring and I looked up to see a man leering at me from the truck.

Now when I say man, I mean the poster child of Perv. Everything that would make the hair on the back of your neck stick up because a serial killer was parked next to you, sizing you up to see if you would make a good skin suit, was this guy. Big unfashionable creeper glasses, baseball hat scrunched down low on his head and a gross, gross, grosser than an old man in bicycle pants, pornstache—walrus-like and furry. 

I shot him a dirty look because I am adept at the F**ck You look when it comes to leering creepers. (I guess I have a type.) And then I moved my seat back in an effort to block his view and went back to my big Franzen novel. Or Instagram. 

He sat in his truck for what seemed like forever just full-on staring at me. (I could still see part of his serial killer leering face after I moved my seat.) So I tried to ignore him, but it was hard to concentrate on the prose, Filtered photos, as his eyes bore into me. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he apparently grew tired of trying to bore his way into my poser workout clothes with his overly magnified eyeballs. He got out of his truck and made his way into the store.

I was relieved. Surely, my daughter would be out soon. She was only going in to buy cake ingredients, but then again, she did have my debit card which she thinks is a magic card that allows her to get all the free makeup her teenage heart desires.

Unfortunately, Perv Man was back before I could check the sexual predator database on my phone. 

He had no shopping bags probably because they were out of Jeffrey Dahmer eyewear. I pretended not to notice him, keeping my head down as he got in his truck. But as the minutes ticked by, he didn't leave and I could feel his heavy stare upon me, like hot breath against my neck. 

Infuriated, I gave him a quick sideways sneer and that's when I realized he wasn't sitting in his truck the right way. 

He was sitting in his truck sideways. 

Facing me. 

With the door open just enough that if I craned my head forward, I knew I was sure to see something that would haunt every corner of my very small brain for the rest of my days.

He just sat there in that flasher position, his body angled toward me, his truck door open just enough for me to see whatever he had going on there in Perv world. 

I was panicked. Scared. Sick. I felt like I had been draped in a blanket of Ick. 

I was on the verge of tears, with my hand on the gear shift ready to back squealing, out of my spot and race far, far away from this vile, twisted creature. (I'm not very good at backing up, but I figured my fight or flight response would kick in and make me drive like that racecar girl who does the Go Daddy commercials.) 

And then suddenly it hit me. That was exactly what he wanted me to do. Flashers get off on terrified reactions. 

Don't they? 

Actually, I have no idea what flashers get off on nor do I ever want to know, but what I did know was I refused to allow this sicko and his twisted act turn me into a blubbering mess of fear and panic.

So, even though my heart was racing, I decided to stand my ground. 

Eff him. I was going to be strong. 

I was going to stare him full in the face, give him an indignant smirk as if to say, "Really? You shouldn't even bother showing off that pitiful thing." And then pull away slowly, making a big show of snapping a picture of his license plate. Then, I would park safely away from this asshat and immediately report him to my grocery store and the police. 

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar—Perverts of grocery store parking lots. 

But before I could put my empowering plan into action, the perv did something that froze my heart and froze me, like, seriously. I could not move, because . . . 

He started moving. 

As in sitting in place, his head down as his body rocked in a back and forth action. 

A jerking action.

As in, something was getting wanked. 

For my viewing horror. 

I wanted to scream. I thought I was having a heart attack. I was breathing, hyperventilating really, in squeaky little gasps. I couldn't believe this was happening to me in the middle of the day in my very nice suburban grocery store parking lot. I couldn't lean forward and look. It was bad enough that I was the victim of a wanking predator, I didn't want to carry the image of that horror around for the rest of my scarred life. 

And then it hit me. 

My daughter. 

Who would be coming out of the store at any moment. 

Who just wanted to bake a cake. 

Who was 15 years old and didn't deserve this sort of wretchedness. 

And my panic did a 360 as the mother bear inside me roared to life. 

Forget, I Am Woman. 

I Am Mama, you punk-ass bitch and you WILL hear me roar. 

I picked up my phone and with shaky hands, hit the button that rolled down the passenger side window.

I held up the phone, trembling so badly, the phone threatened to slip out of my tenuous grasp and yelled fiercely, 

"GET READY TO GO TO JAIL, YOU MOTHERF*****R! I'VE GOT YOUR PICTURE AND YOUR LICENSE PLATE AND I'M CALLING 911.* YOU MESSED WITH THE WRONG GIRL, YOU F***ING PERV!"

*I did not have his license plate, but I figured I'd snap a quick pic as I squealed out of there while calling 911. Multi-tasking, my friends. It's the key to getting things done. 

Now here's the thing. . . 

I figured Mr. Jack Off would panic, zip up his fly, hopefully catching his perv parts in the process and haul ass out of there. 

But instead he stopped wanking, looked up at me, his googly eyes blinking through his thick lenses and just stared at me as if I had three heads. 

I know, right? Some nerve. 

And then?

He looked to the right and to the left and then behind him, as if, as if he were trying to figure out who the hell this crazy lady was yelling at. 

And it was then, this one thought, like a nuclear bomb, went off in my brain. 

It occurred to me that perhaps I should lean forward and check out that, in fact, he was actually wanking off instead of assuming he was wanking off. 

Since we all know what happens when you assume.  

So, I promptly leaned forward, certain I was guaranteeing myself years of therapy from what horrors I was about to view. 

But instead?

I saw Lotto scratch-off tickets. 

Three of them. Neatly spread out across his thighs. 

He'd been scratching off. 

Not jerking off. 

And because I am never quite content to be just a regular moron, I doubled up on my moron-ness and decided in my panic to pretend I was talking to someone else. 

Yes. Yes I did. 

I pointed emphatically at some vague spot behind this poor man and said, "That's right. I'm talking to you."

And pretended to take a picture of some other Wanking Pervert behind him. 

I then tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, threw my car into reverse and high-tailed it out of there, away to the other side of the parking lot before he could get my license plate. I found a parking spot behind a big construction dumpster and texted my daughter, telling her to call me when she was through and to meet me at the farthest exit of the store. 

I was still shaking when she came out of the store. 

She got in the car and took one look at me and said, "Mom, what's wrong?" 

And as lightly as possible, since 15-year-olds should be spared the details of their mother's total jackass-ness, much less stories about bogus wanking, I told her that I kinda accused an innocent man of flashing me. 

She didn't even hesitate. She said, "Eew Mom. You are so gross."

Oh, my darling daughter, gross doesn't even begin to cover what I am. 

Today's Definite Download:  So much beautiful music has been made since we've spoken last. I want to share it all, but for today, I'll give you just this one treat. 

A few years ago, the bands Mumford and Sons, Old Crow Medicine Show and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros decided to get together for a six city tour on a vintage train, starting from California and ending in New Orleans. 

They made a documentary of this fantastic event, The Big Easy Express, and it's on Showtime right now. If you're into music, you should watch this. It's such a celebration of music and the people who spend their lives making that music. 

It made me very happy. 

And one of the biggest reasons for my happiness was Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros. I know. You're probably saying, "Who?"

The Zeros are an indie group with a whole lot of people in their band. Their music is rollicking and quirky, sometimes joyous, sometimes sadly beautiful but always incredible. Their most commercial song is called, "Home." You might know it. Here's a link. 

Alex Ebert (Edward Sharpe) is the lead singer. You might have seen him on the Golden Globes, the really tall hot hipster with the man bun who won a Globe for best movie score and talked about meeting Diddy on a yacht in St. Bart's. Now, that's rock and roll talking right there. 

On the Big Easy Tour, the three bands would end each concert, joining together to sing the old gospel song, "This Train Is Bound For Glory." And when I say sing, I mean they Put. It. Down. 

If you want to be happy, watch this compilation of their finales. If you don't want to be happy, go right now to the theater and buy yourself a ticket for that Meryl Streep/Julia Roberts movie. 

Good Freaking Night, that thing was darker than a cave with hurricane shutters. You think you're going in to see a dark COMEDY, because the trailer is quite misleading and you leave there limping and muttering, "Nothing will ever be good again." Like, it was layer upon layer upon layer upon layer of bad. Like not even the Kennedy's have this much bad shit happen to them in one sitting. 

I advise this big, messy, rollicking performance instead. Alex Ebert is the tall one who's dancing around like an old time preacher at a revival show. Enjoy. I'll see you soon. 

"Are you an idiot, or an idiot?" Gargarin hissed.  "The first one. I really resent being called the second." ~Melina Marchetta, Froi of the Exiles
My life in a nutshell.  If I lived in a village instead of The Small Town of Bad Franchise Restaurants, I would win the crown of Village Idiot in a landslide victory.  Take for instance, the other day when I was shuttling the kids to school and I heard a mysterious car noise. I kept muttering to the girls, "Do you hear that? It's like a gurgling noise."  I've never heard a car gurgle, but that means nothing since I am car illiterate. I know how to put the gas in the gas hole and that's about it. I realize this is very unenlightened of me in this day and age of girl power, but whatever. I dutifully pay my AAA dues every year and I have a husband who knows a lot about man things, so I don't feel the need to get my girl power on by greasing up my hands or God forbid, my cute outfit.  Suck it, Girl Power.  The gurgling sounds were intermittent, popping up at stoplights and the like. I tried to roll down the windows to get a good listen, but 14-year-old girls tend to shriek at eardrum-decimating levels when their hair gets whipped back and forth. So I let the car gurgle, figuring the husband could check it out if and when I made it home.  After I'd dropped off the girls, the gurgling intensified, so I did the smartest thing I could think of, I cranked up the radio to mask the sound of what was most likely my car drowning in some sort of car fluid.  By the time I got home, I'd convinced myself I'd hit a cat and it was hanging onto the tailpipe, half-alive, gurgling in its own blood.  I stopped in the driveway and peered under the idling car, with half-closed eyes, afraid of what I knew I'd see. Thankfully there was no mangled Fluffy with its furry paws wrapped about my undercarriage.  I parked in the garage, grabbed my purse and got out of the car.  And that's when the gurgling got even louder like it was coming from my purse.  My purse that held my phone.  The phone with the Sleepmaker app that has a litany of soothing sounds. We prefer Gentle Drops Down Gutter. I keep my phone on a sound system docking station that sits on my nightstand. It's how we fall asleep every night. Even the dogs settle down as soon as they hear the rain gently dropping down the gutter.  My normal day is made up of hundreds of blonde moments just like this.  This weekend, though, I outdid myself. The most mortifying, ridiculous, Lucille Ball of a doozy moment I've ever, ever had. It pains me to think about it, like no matter what I'm doing when that awful scene flashes through my mind, unbidden, I have to bend over and take a few deep breaths because it's just that bad.  Let me start this story by backing up a few years.  My Tori Girl was a beautiful baby. Huge blue eyes, a cap of strawberry blonde hair, a captivating smile, the biggest butterball baby you've ever seen. She was deliciously plump, just like a baby should be, but lugging her around all day created havoc on my overworked shoulders and back. I developed a myofascial trigger point which is essentially a painful lump in my trapezius muscle that comes and goes through the years.  When it flares up, the best remedy I've found is to have my husband work his thumbs into the lump, hard. It hurts in a moaning-hurts-so-good kind of way, but it gets rid of that bad boy until the next flare up.  On Sunday, I woke with the tell-tale throbbing knot. Unfortunately, my husband with his helpful hands was not around.  The lump is in the middle of my back and since I am no rubber-band man, I can't reach it. But a long time ago, I learned a neat little trick to alleviate the pain myself. I would stand against a wall with a tennis ball positioned right at the lump and I would rock my body, back and forth and up and down and all around. It's effective and I get a crazy good squat workout at the same time.  Luckily, since I have three dogs that are obsessed with tennis balls, my house is a minefield of bouncy green balls, most of them, under the furniture.   So on hands and knees, I went searching for a tennis ball. My dogs know that Momma's about to get the party started when I'm crawling around the house, peeking under furniture and this causes them to lose their moronic minds.  Now, let me stop the story to add a fact that won't seem important . . . yet.  The most beloved Christmas present I got this year, were those things around my neck.

My Dr Dre Beats.  I L-O-V-E these headphones. The sound is phenomenal and not only that, it blocks out the outside world. My daughters can be shrieking, tearing each other's hair out over "borrowed" clothing and whomping on each other like they're the stars of the WWE and I remain blissfully unaware as I pump up the jam. My Beats are like a Valium for my ears.  On Sunday as I hunted for a tennis ball, I had on my Beats.  I grabbed a ball from under the couch which drove my dogs over the edge of madness. There was barking, howling, and utter pandemonium, the likes of which have only been seen at a One Direction concert.  I shoved the berserk dogs off of me and picked one of the few bare walls in my house for my tennis ball massage. And that wall just happened to be in the hallway leading to my kitchen.  I shoved the ball into place and proceeded to gyrate, up and down and back and forth, trying to hit that knot as my insane posse of dogs lost their pitiful minds, barking around me like a pack of wild beasts. I ignored them, easy to do with my Beats pounding out the phenomenal Clash's "The Magnificent 7."   But the ball just wasn't doing the trick, no matter how much I rocked my bountiful hips. It only took me a few rocks to realize my sweatshirt was too thick to feel anything.  Now . . .  We are a household of women with one brave man who stands alone on his island in the middle of a sea of estrogen.   And my household is not a modest one, to my husband's utmost chagrin.  My girls don't even close the door when they're in the bathroom because that would give them less opportunity to Always. Be. Talking. To anyone who walks by.   And they are Always. Talking.  Always.  I can be fast asleep in the middle of the night and I'll be jolted from my dreams by chatter. I'll open my eyes, still half-asleep and one of these lovely creatures I brought into the world will be standing there at the side of my bed saying something like, "And that's when I realized I will never fulfill any of my dreams because of that time you made me clean my room instead of going to the skate party." Anyway, my point is we don't think twice about shucking clothes in our house.  It was 7:30 in the morning, the only ones awake were the three yapping dogs and me, so I yanked off my sweatshirt.  I'd slept in my I Yell Because I Care sweatshirt and my plaid flannel pajama pants.  (I know what you're thinking—man, her husband is a lucky guy. And you, Internet, would be right)  And of course, because this was my pajama ensemble, I was not wearing a bra.  So . . .   There I was, topless, clothed only in plaid pants, my Beats on my ears with my three dogs leaping and barking around me like rabid wolves.  I swatted away the lunging dogs and started rocking my hips, again. Up and Down. Back and forth. A little swivel to the right. A little swivel to the left. Again and again and again.  The tennis ball hit the spot and I let out a long, moaning groan.  Up and down and back and forth I went, moaning and groaning and rocking my hips as the ball massaged out the knot.  Since my Beats were now in full-on White Stripes mode, I didn't notice when my dogs' barking grew more frantic.  I also didn't notice that the barking was no longer directed at me.  I was moaning in painful ecstasy, rocking my hips, sliding up and down the wall, my sad ta-tas flopping away in all their pasty, sagging glory when suddenly I realized the dogs were no longer at my feet.  And that's when I looked up and noticed my pack of wild dogs all crowded around my front side door.  The front side door that sits at the end of the hallway where I was getting my groove on with my tennis ball and my sad, flopping-in-the-breeze, ta-tas.  The front side door that has a large window.  A very large window.  And on the other side of that window was a scene that makes me want to throw up in my mouth as I type out the words.  You see, we have this group of Hispanic men—a family of brothers, a few cousins and one son—who do yard work for us. They're a hardworking bunch who don't speak English. The 15-year boy-child comes with them to do the translating.  It's a casual agreement where they show up when they show up.  I hadn't expected them to show up when they showed up, on that day, at that moment.  And I certainly didn't expect to see five of them.  Five. Of. Them.  Picking weeds around my side door entrance at 7:30 in the morning. My side door entrance is small. And it has a stone border around the door. There isn't any grass to speak of so there might have been four weeds sprouting up from between the stones. I'll be generous and say five. Five weeds. One for each of them to pick.  To their credit, they all acted as if they were really concentrating on their sole weed as the crazy lady with crackhead hair bumped and grinded against her wall in some sort of icky, past-her-prime stripper dance. There was only one guy I assumed was the Grandpa of the bunch, who didn't even try to pretend he was picking his weed. He stood there, mesmerized, his arms folded across his chest with a fascinated and maybe a little horrified expression on his face.  And to make matters worse? The 15-year-old was part of the bunch.  Not only did I humiliate myself in front of my lawn guys, I think I might have committed a felony, a lewd and grossly saggy act against a minor. That poor kid, I've probably traumatized him for life when it comes to women.  But wait, it gets better.  I froze in mid-grind when I noticed the guys all furtively sneaking peeks as they plucked at their sole weed and I have no idea why, but I decided the best thing to do was to act casual, like it was no big thang.  In a slow stretch, I casually draped one arm across my ta-ta's. Or rather, I scooped them up from their resting place on my navel and then ever so casually draped my arm across them like I was unsuspecting Kate Middleton sunning on a balcony if Kate Middleton had nursed three children and had tube sock breasts instead of her perky future queen boobs.  I slowly eased away from the wall, dropping the tennis ball to the floor. And then just as I was about to make my dignified exit, still moving casually as if I gyrated topless every day in front of lawn guys, my dogs came charging when they saw the ball thud to the floor.  And in that awful second of the universe, my Delilah lunged at the ball just as I was stepping away, all Kate Middleton-like. That big furry dog twisted up between my feet and BOOM.  Down I went.  Sprawled on the floor, topless and floppy in plaid pants. I immediately looked up to see all five men no longer examining their sole weed. All of them, stood stock-still staring in at me, even more startled than they were during the sad bump and grind.  Any attempts at dignity flew out my brain and I got up on my hands and knees and scurried away, out of sight.  Like a giant, saggy titmouse.  And still, there's more.  My husband, of course, could not breathe through his hysteria as I told him the story.  The next day he handed me an envelope with a snarky grin on his face, before he went to work and said, "The payment for the lawn guys. They'll be here today to pick it up." I refused, telling him I'd tape it to the front door.  He reminded me that taping cash to a front door is probably never a good idea and that if I didn't hand them the money, their children wouldn't eat that night.  Which is probably not true, but my husband knows how to work me.  So I pretended to talk on the phone when the 15-year-old knocked, opening the door just a crack and silently giving him a head bob as I handed him the envelope. He nodded animatedly as if he just wanted to get away from the lady pedophile and ran back to the car.  I watched them from the window. They spoke in Spanish and then all cracked up, slapping the poor, poor 15-year-old on the back.  I think I might add some extra cash next time with a little note in Spanish that says "For therapy for the boy. Please don't call the policía." This is me, screaming.  Thanks for listening, Internet. I just needed to tell someone.  Love,  The Village Idiot Today's Definite Download: Today's download is a special one. A dedication. I'm sorry. I'm not one of those cryptic folks who write mysterious things and never explain them, but today I'm just going to say this song is dedicated to my darling friend. This, right here, Jason Mraz's 93 Million Miles is for you.  Just know, that wherever you go, you're never alone, you can always get back home.  And you, my friend, are never alone. You have me, the wine, my back porch, late-night talks and all my support and love. Your home is here whenever and wherever you need it. With every step and with every day, it will get better. And never forget, I've got your back.  And for the rest of you crazy kids on the Internet, I'm still working and writing and hoping. Keep your fingers crossed.  I'll see you soon. 

Well, it's official, I win the world's worst mother of the year award.  Step aside, Dina Lohan and Kris Kardashian.  They've successfully raised train wrecks.  I have now successfully ensured years worth of therapy for my daughter. I can see it now, her curled in a fetal ball on the shrink couch during every session, whispering, "It all started with my mother." Tanning Mom tans her daughter. I emotionally scar my girl.  Honey Boo Boo's mom feeds her redneck pint-sized beauty queen, Go-Go juice in the hopes that  Honey Boo Boo's crack-fueled performances will make her hollah for a dollar.  I fuel my daughter on neglect, my dismal failure as a mother and the hope that what doesn't kill her, will make her effing stronger.  My Julia is this glorious creature with a crown of Renaissance curls.  Sweet and gentle, the sassiness that ensnares 14-year-old girl's souls, has bypassed her heart and for that I am grateful every single day.  Having survived the treacherous journey of raising two teenage girls before her, I was bracing for the squall that would eventually hit our household for the third go-round. Her sisters were these angelic bundles of spun-sugar sweetness, all golden haired pig-tails, pink tutus and cartwheels on the lawn. They loved their sisters, their mommy and daddy and their Barbies, not necessarily in that order.  And then came the day when everything changed.  I will never forget it. I asked my eldest, who was about 12 at the time, to put the gallon of orange juice, back in the fridge. And in a flash of a second, a voice that did not belong to my delicate flower of a girl came out of her, a voice that was more suited to a green-vomit-spewing entity.  My little blonde entity had a stream of consciousness to her satanic verses that went like this:
"NoIamNOTputtingitbackbecausemysisterwasdrinkingittooandmyshoulderhurtsandthe orangejuiceistooheavyformetoliftanditsallyourfaultandmysisterhaditlastsosheshouldputit backandthisissonotfairyouaresomeanyou'veruinedmylifeandIhaaaaateyou." And then she burst into tears.  Hormone-induced free-for-alls became the bone weary stuff of my days from that moment on and not too long after, her sister joined in, doubling the the hormonal pleasure and fun.  No one tells you about any of this when they place that little pink bundle in your arms. No one even hints about it until the first time that wall of estrogen hits you like a PMS tsunami.  Only then, do the other shell-shocked parents of teenage girls come clean, doling out sage bits of advice with dead eyes, like—When it gets really bad, I've got a hiding place in the closet behind the pants.  And—I've thought about duct tape, but her shrieks would more than likely melt the plastic.  And of course— Alcohol is the only way through to the other side. 
It's like surviving a Bieber concert, you don't truly understand the horror until you've experienced it for yourself.  It is why I am grateful every day for this third lovely girl of mine whose head does not spin and whose gentle spirit does not make me want to run screaming from my house.  Julia dove into high school, ready to try on everything.  She became a part of the Student Council. She signed up for Archery Club. She joined FFA—Formerly known as Future Farmers of America, FFA is not your Mama's FFA. It is now a worldwide organization, training the future chemists, global environmentalists, veterinarians and other fields of the future. Julia is planning on a career in the wine industry, winemaking to be exact. (I swear, I did NOT influence her except to teach her the finer points of wine from the moment she could swirl her apple juice in a wine glass.) And her school just happens to have one of the best FFA programs in the state.  Last week, she helped shear the sheep. She now wants a few sheep. As in pets. As in, sheep on our lawn. The only way I would give in to sheep is if I could be guaranteed the sheep would eat the ducks.   Suffice to say, she is a girl of diverse interests.  A few weeks into the school year, my Julia Girl announced she was trying out for soccer.  When she made the team, we were thrilled. Soccer in Florida is a highly competitive sport where Select, Club and Travel leagues abound. Played year round, people are SERIOUS about soccer in Florida.  Some, more than others.  And since I'm no Eminem and I don't need no contr-o-vers-y, I'll just say my position on soccer and other organized activities is a whole lotta lotta different than most parents. Everyone makes the best choices for their own child and in our house, we choose to spend the bulk of our free time as a family doing things together.   And because of that, we have chosen rec soccer as the best fit for our children. This means no highly specialized training with super-trainers, no trekking across the state and country every weekend for soccer tournaments, no devoting our every waking moment to soccer. Hell, I've got three kids. If I amped up the activity level with each one of them, I'd have no Me Time.  And Mama likes long, hot bubble baths, preferably with some wine on the side.    This choosing to stay at a rec level makes us an anomaly in the soccer community. I have been asked far too often by other soccer parents, "Don't you want to advance her skill level?" "Don't you want her to stay competitive with the other players?" I just smile and tell them we're fine playing recreational soccer as they dubiously raise their eyebrows, judging me with their silent eyebrow language as an unfit soccer mom  And that's okay. I might not have big enough shoulders to carry their derision, but my ample upper arms make up for it.  Although, what I've always wanted to say to those well-meaning parents and their arched eyebrows is, "I refused to drink the Kool-Aid. Besides, I'm more of a champagne fan, myself. You should try it, sometime. The bubbles are marvelously ticklish." If my lovely girl wanted to advance her skill level by eating, breathing and sleeping soccer, than by golly, this Mama would take a few less bubble baths and chug the Kool-aid.  But my Julia would chafe at that frenzied level. She needs time to play with her ducks and dogs, to shoot her bow and arrows,   To learn new tricks on her skateboard,  To fish and catch minnows in the shallow waters of the lake,  Boogie board at the beach, stalk One Direction on the Internet and in concert, Yes, my girl made the front page of the Tribune the day after the concert.  Hang out at the Un-Magical Kingdom And, of course, watch North Korean documentaries with me—you know the usual mother/daughter kind of bonding.  In short, Julia needs time to be Julia.  Going into tryouts, Julia knew the majority of other girls would be club girls with club level skills. But she and that intrepid heart of hers gave it her all and her fierce rec skills won her a place on the team.  On the way to her first game, I was taken aback when she turned snippy and started lashing out at all of us. She berated her sister for coming to the game, telling Tori she didn't want her there. She growled at her father over insignificant things and pretty much verbally assaulted me with the strength of an AK 47.  I was all, "Girlfriend, you better straighten up before that phone of yours goes out the window."  Because there's one thing I've learned in this business of raising girls, if you want to traumatize a teenage girl for life, TAKE AWAY HER PHONE.  She settled down, but she was still a mite growly and snappish all the way to the game, so unlike her.  And that's when it hit me.   With a heavy heart, I realized our days of sweetness and light just might be coming to a close. Hurricane Estrogen Princess was, once again, bearing down upon us.  I gave her the stink-eye and said, "What's with you, Crazy-Girl?"  At my question, she sniffled, all rawness and nerves, on the edge of tears and said in a wobbly voice,  "I'm not going to play. I'm a freshman and I'm not Club. I know I won't play. I don't want you guys there because I'm not going to play." I should have known.  This wasn't about sassiness and estrogen overload.  This was about playing her very first high school game. In a football stadium. With professional refs.  And stands full of fans cheering her on, not just parents but her own peers.  In her other soccer life, she played on busy Saturdays, with dozens of others teams stretched across one big community soccer field, the comforting anonymity of games being played all around her with teams on their own little allotted portion of grass. Parents and grandparents parked their lawn chairs right up against the soccer lines and the refs were all from the same lot of pimply-faced 15-year-olds. Everyone got a chance to play and if you messed up, it was okay. The fans on the sidelines, your teammates who were also your slumber party friends, and your coaches who were the parents of your teammates, would all still love you the same.  In short, the game had changed and she was scared to death.  I reassured her that we didn't care if she played, that we were there to support her and her team in this new world of big-time soccer.  As we dropped her off, she left the car still muttering about not playing.  Her team played like champs, having a sound lead by halftime. And just as Julia had predicted, she didn't play that whole first half.   And that was okay. Traditionally, freshmen don't get a lot of playing time. They have to earn it.  It was evident early in the second half, we were going to win the game.  I kept one eye on my sweet girl on the bench as I watched the game. There were no announcers and the girls looked like miniature dolls there on the stadium field, so I will admit, I had a slightly tough time keeping up with the game.  Oh, who am I kidding! I've always had a hard time keeping up with the game.  My girls have been playing soccer since they were little bits in oversized jerseys, which is a very long time.  And I still don't know the rules because that's how it goes with me and sports. It's all like one big foreign language to me. I just nod, pretend to understand and talk loudly in general terms.  I know I'm always safe to yell things, like, "GOOD KICK" "GREAT KICK!" "WAY TO KICK!" "LOVE YOUR CLEETS! THE COLOR JUST POPS!" Here's really all I know about soccer: *If your team kicks the ball into the goal, you get a point.  *The team with the most points wins, but no matter who wins, we parents make a bridge for both teams       where we cheer wildly for them as they run through our clasped skyward hands.  *Bridges are none too popular past the age of 12 and if you dare to try and make a bridge after the age of 12, you will mortify your soccer player for life. *And our concession stand fries are delicious, better than all the other soccer field fries combined. (It's in the spices.) I don't know much else, especially when it comes to that annoying Offsides rule. I've had it explained to me more than a few times, but it's like Geometry and pet ferrets, I just don't get it.   Anywhoo: I diligently followed my daughter's game as best as I could, keeping my eye on her little form sitting on the bench. And as the game wound down, I relaxed a bit, chatting with the other parents and my hubs and catching up on a few texts and emails.  My Tori had found a friend, as she is wont to do wherever we go and she'd fled the parents' section to go sit with the non-mortifying people in her life.  It was an easy win for our team and after the game, I counseled my daughter and hubs, telling them to  be very sensitive about our Julia's lack of playtime.  You would think this sort of thing would need no counsel, that parents and siblings would instinctively be sensitive to this.  But that would be normal people, not my family of primates.  On the way out, we hugged her, telling her what a great game it had been and how proud we were of her for being a part of that team. She was unusually quiet. So, of course, being the compassionate mother I am, I gently said to her, "Honey, don't be sad about not playing. This is the way things go in high school sports. Your time will come." And that's when my beautiful daughter saaaaid: "But I played! The last 20 minutes I was on the field." All three of us turned to her in disbelief and said in unison, "You were?" None of us. Not a one out of three, spotted her. For twenty minutes of her very first high school game.  Yes, I am an asshole mother.  I know during that precious 20 minutes, my Hubs was busy discussing the finer merits of the Big Green Egg with another father. And when you get that man started on pork butts in the Egg, the end of the world could come to pass with fire and brimstone and people getting raptured and he would still be sitting there rhapsodizing about the fall-off-the-bone succulence of those pork butts to no one but the smoking holes around him.  The man is an Egghead. Among other things.  Tori was busy with her friends.  As for me? Well, there's no excuse, but I was, in fact, texting my eldest daughter. The college girl who is smart. On paper. You remember: this girl. And this same girl.  She'd sent me a text saying: I think I need to bring my cold medicine back to the store. I just got it and it's already expired. It says Expiration: 10/13 and today's 10/19! Yes. She did.  I spent a good portion of that 20 minutes trying to explain to her that the 13 was the year, as in 2013.  At least, she's pretty.  By the time we got to the car, Julia was shrieking,   "Ican'tbelieveyouguysdidn'tseemeplayyouaresomeanandyou'veruinedmylifeiamtextingall myfriendstotellthemmyfamilyhatesme." I felt lower than pond scum. In other words, lower than Kate Gosselin.  I mean, there was a father at the game who had had listed all the player's names and numbers, laminated them and handed them out to all the parents. All the while, he had his tripod set up and was filming the entire game.  What were we doing? Talking about pork butts and texting.  For shame.  The good news is, Julia is my Julia. And along with her sweet spirit, she has a big, forgiving heart.  After a guilt stop at Dairy Queen and many apologies, she quickly brushed off the trauma. After all, as she so often reminds me, she is the third kid. She knows her place and her place is to make as little waves as possible. And she's cool with that. It's almost like her laid back spirit formed that way in the womb, knowing the chaotic estrogen-filled life she would enter.   Since then, she has played a few more games and I am proud to say, our eyes have not left the field.  I hope in the days to come, she will remember this trauma as the singular worst time I ruined her life.  And if that's the case, I'll be cool with that. I know in my daughters' eyes, my job is to ruin their lives.  My only  hope is they don't write a tell-all book: MOMMY DEAREST—THE LIFE RUINER.  Because that would be bad.  Today's Definite Download: Okay, True Confession time. As a music junkie, I love discovering new bands and artists that haven't quite made it yet. I treasure those finds and I keep them close to my chest because once they're discovered by the mainstream and their songs are all over the radio or even worse, the soundtrack for the Swiffer Jet and/or car commercials, they lose their luster for me.       A few years ago, I stumbled upon a band called Imagine Dragons. And like I often do, I turned my girls on to this fabulous indie group. My Julia loves them. I'm happy, (at least, for them), to say their music has recently popped up on the radio and in movie soundtracks. And even though they're in the danger zone of being overplayed, I still love their sound.  This is, "It's Time," a song you might have heard a time or two before. Although, this version, right here, is a stripped down, no-enhancements, acoustic version of their hit. I like it better.  Along with that, I have a truly undiscovered treasure to share. Dan Reynolds of Imagine Dragons is married to Aja Volkman the FIERCE lead singer of the indie band Nico Vega. The two of them formed a little experimental band called Egyptian. And I LOVE the sound of their two voices together.  This, song, right here is "Wait For You,"a song they wrote and sing together. Once this comes on my iPod I hit replay all the day long.  But "It's Time" is for my Julia—"I never want to let you down." And I promise, I'll try to never miss a moment of your life again.