My great-aunt passed away on New Year's Eve. Besides being unexpected (sort of—she was 93, but she was still chopping firewood and painting wall murals at the nursing home where she lived) it left our family in a quandary: who would be the next matriarch to lead our family? Because no matter how you slice it, and with apologies to my father, ever since I was born I've been aware that it's the women running the show in our clan.
My grandmother and her two sisters used to sit in grandma's kitchen, playing cards and plotting the future of our family. Over this innocuous bridge game, important decisions like who would host Easter in the upcoming year and when was cousin John going to meet a nice Greek girl and settle down were decided. (Aunt Demi and 1987, as it turned out.) There was no doubt in our minds as kids that any decision we were eventhinking about making had better have the blessing of these three women before we moved forward. This may be the only reason why I didn't have multi-colored Cyndi Lauper hair as a teen. My grandmother assured me that she would roll over and drop dead immediately, and my  great-aunts would both die of mortification, if I dyed my hair like a rainbowed skunk. I certainly wouldn't have been able to live with that kind of guilt, and looking back, it really wasn't the best fashion look after all. Thanks, Grandma.
As I got older, first it was Aunt Georgia, and then Grandma Annie who passed away. But the matriarchy still stood firm. Auntie Demi was around to keep us all in line, and by golly, we all made sure to go visit her, send her cards and photos, and call her when she required it. We all got married and moved around a little bit and got new jobs, but my mother, my aunt, my cousin Lori, my sister and I all stayed part of our little clan. (We had two male cousins in there, but they have opted to fall by the wayside. Too much estrogen, perhaps.) 
The first question that came up after Auntie Demi passed away was that of who would assume the role of matriarch next. Cousin Joanne? Aunt Georgia's stepdaughters?
My mother called me to let me know that while it was my decision, it would be nice if my sister and I came to visit her over the weekend and go through some of my great-aunt's things. No pressure, but really, I should be there. And maybe I could bring a platter of some of those sugar cookies that everyone enjoyed so much at Christmastime. You know, if I wanted to.
I think our little matriarchy is going to be just fine.

Mother Nature has been stretching her limbs this week.

On Tuesday, we had an earthquake.  At least, that’s what I was told, because Lord knows, I didn’t feel a thing.  What I did experience was mild to moderate irritation that the news pre-empted General Hospitalto tell me that a handful of people had felt the ground move for approximately six seconds across the state.  Here is what I know:  you don’t promise me that Alan Quartermaine is going to make his big return to GH this week and then pre-empt the show to tell me about a few seismic waves in the Earth’s crust.  Honestly, these news anchors need to get their priorities straight.

I made it through Tuesday only to find that on Wednesday, all anyone could talk about was Hurricane Irene.  Lively debates were carried on about whether it would be a category two or category three storm when it hit New England.  I participated in none of these debates, because quite frankly, I didn’t care.

When it comes to natural disasters, Jason and I have very different approaches.  He is a “prepare for the worst and hope for the worst” kind of guy and I’m a “prepare for nothing and hope it passes us by” kind of gal.  We have been driving each other crazy all week.  He’s been visiting stores all across the state in search of ‘D’ batteries.  I stopped by Stop-N-Shop on the way home one day to pick up what I thought we might need to weather the storm – Doritos.  In an effort to be a team player, I did buy two bags – one cheese, one cool ranch.  I figured if the power goes out for a few days, we won’t starve.  (Two bags. See?)

Our conversations have gotten more ridiculous as the week had progressed.

Jason (nailing plywood across the picture window): “Do you think your mother has any ‘D’ batteries?

Me (painting my toenails in OPI’s ‘You’re a Pisa Work’): “Yup.”

Jason (really struggling to hold the plywood up): “Do you think she’d lend us some for the big flashlight?”

Me (admiring my pretty pink toes): “Not before a hurricane.”

I did wind up calling my mother, who of course had batteries, and of course would lend them to me. “Jason wants them before the big storm hits,” I said, sighing.  Mom was sympathetic.  She herself had run out for supplies earlier in the week - Smartfood and Twizzlers.

At least I know where I get it from!

I have a friend who is dealing with an unruly teenage daughter right now.  I am the wrong person to turn to for advice about this, because I remember being a teenage girl.  I didn’t enjoy it, and as a residual effect, I don’t much like being around anyone from the ages of 13-23.  Let me give you a glimpse into my teenage years.

Things were going along smoothly until I hit age fifteen. Up until then, my biggest crises had been getting boobs in the fifth grade and the fact that while a boy named Adam R. was hopelessly in love with me, I was the victim of an unrequited crush on Jeff O., who in fact had a thing for Roxanne R., the prettiest girl in class.  (Isn’t that the way it always is?)  Jeff had broken my heart by roller skating all night with Roxanne on a class outing; I listened to the '45 of “We Belong” by Pat Benatar incessantly for months.  But really, my teenage attitude didn’t come in to full bloom until the summer when my mother refused to let me go see the Grateful Dead in concert.

She was being totally unreasonable, of course. What’s the worst that could happen to a fifteen-year-old girl alone at a Dead concert?  My mother, the smart aleck, was quick with an answer: What if I was fed a tab of LSD without my knowledge, got raped, then had my throat slashed, and Mom would be woken up in the middle of the night by the cops to go down to the morgue to identify my body?…it was all about her.  I didn’t speak to her for a month.

Mom was always telling me I couldn’t do things. Going to parties where there would be no parents but plenty of alcohol was out of the question.  Going away for the weekend with my friend Lisa and her friends Rob, Guy, and Steve was definitely forbidden. She wouldn’t even let me go shopping downtown at the store where all the hippies went without her there to embarrass me by asking if the neat-looking glass tubes they had there were some sort of fancy lamps. (But really, I was a good kid, for the most part – I didn’t know they were bongs either.  I kind of thought Mom was right on target with her lamp theory.)

As I got older, it was time to look at colleges.  Mom arranged a trip for us to take a train cross-country to combine a vacation with looking at schools.  We got to see the Grand Canyon and the coast of Malibu. She and I drove to UCLA, where I refused to get out of the car because the guy who handed us the ticket to park in the south lot had a real “attitude problem”.

My mother, who had just carted me 2,894 miles to the college I had been talking about going to since I was eleven, implied that it was not the guy in the ticket booth who had the attitude problem.  She was at the end of her rope, she said.  After all, it was not she who had wanted to take the side trip to see the house where Sharon Tate was murdered, but she’d acquiesced without an attitude, hadn’t she?  I needed to get my skinny butt and my gigantic attitude out of the car RIGHT NOW or she would show me an attitude problem.  It was the first time I’d ever seen flames literally shoot out of her eyes.  I took the UCLA campus tour.

In all fairness, I never came home pregnant nor on drugs, and my parents never got a call from the cops saying I’d been arrested.  However, as I said, I do remember being a teenager, and I can tell you this: it was not fun for any of us involved.

PS - Mom, thanks for taking me to see UCLA and for the drive-by of the Manson Murder House.  Very cool.

Author's Note: Many thanks to Linda Orlomoski, who, when I said "Boy, I've got nothing to blog about this week," kindly pointed out "It's Mother's Day, stupid!"

Every time I check my teeth in the mirror of the public bathroom to make sure I don’t have anything caught there, I like to say two words to the image blinking back at me: Hello, Mother.

It’s true.  The very habit I used to mock my mother for manifests itself every time I am out in public and see a mirror.  The urge to flash my teeth to check for stray spinach in my incisors is impossible to resist, despite the fact that I hate spinach and haven't eaten it in decades.

It turns out that Mom had a few good ideas that I initially brushed off as ridiculous.  Now that I’m older, I’m starting to see the soundness of some of Mom’s advice.  Take a look at the following list sage advice learned from my mother, all proven to be true:

• Not all drugs are bad.  Caffeine, for instance, is a very, verygood drug.
• Sure, make fun of me now.  Someday you'll welcome the comfort of elastic-waist pants.
• Exercising is hazardous to your health.  Aerobics have been proven to cause spider veins, jogging can cause heart attacks, and even ironing can cause severe wrist injuries.  If you mustexercise, the safest way to do so is by watching Richard Simmons on YouTube while baking cookies.
• It’s nice to be able to work at a job you love.  It’s also nice to have a roof over your head.  Suck it up and get to work!
• It’s not my fault we automatically gain ten pounds walking by a bakery.  Blame your grandmother.
• Nobody’s reputation was ever ruined hanging out at a Mensa meeting.  Go ask them if you can cater their events.
• Honor thy father and mother.  Especially thy mother.
  
  My mother, over the years, has dispensed invaluable wisdom on such topics as big purses, comfortable shoes, and the marketability of education for career advancement.  She cheered me on when my first short story was published (an article, ironically, about fishing with Dad) and still has a copy of every single humor column that I wrote over a period of more than six years.  She applauded my decision to get divorced and clapped through my first dance at my second wedding.  She listens to me complain about laundry and cautions me when I want to venture in to dangerous activities, like ironing.  When I told Mom that Jason and I were going ice skating back in January, she had three words of advice to pass on to me, patting (or socking, whichever) my arm softly:  
  
              “Are you nuts?”
  
  Three months on crutches and one surgery later, I’ve accepted this one truth to be self-evident: No matter what the situation, Mom is always right.
  
  Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

It's inevitable that we all will turn in to our parents someday. As I get older, I see my mother in my reflection more and more often. Luckily, I can call her up and yell at her about this.
I have my mother's face (which is always a bit startling when I go to the hairdresser and she slicks my hair back, and it's Mom squinting in the mirror back at me) and my mother's shape. This is not all bad - my mother's family was not a small-chested lot, and my curves have served me well over the years. That's right, I'm not above using a low-cut top to get a free sample from the stock boy at the grocery store. And the women in Mom's family all have great legs. Honestly, my mother is in her sixties and could still get hired as a Rockette with her gams. (Her lack of tap-dancing abilities would, however, immediately get her fired. I inherited that, too.)  
Not to say that Dad didn't have his genetic input. I'm thankful for his blond hair (which, if I follow his lead, will stay blond until my 44th birthday, on which date I should expect to wake up to a full head of white.) But Dad's side isn't all curly blond goodness. It was the Longo side that most likely gave my my heart condition that required surgery, and my sensitive skin - to the point where I can't use certain toilet papers because I get a rash - is all courtesy of Dad. But I'm not here to beat up on Dad. I'm focusing on Mom.
My folly, you see, was to grumble as my transformation into my mother was happening. I should have welcomed the varicose veins and bunions. Because the other day, as I was pulling on a pair of pantyhose and they got stuck in the crease of my hip, I saw them: my grandmother's saddle bags had emerged on my butt. Honestly, I could ride a horse on these things.
Sure, my Grandma Annie is gone, and for the briefest of moments it was nice to see something that reminded me of her, but I wasn't expecting that little bit of nostalgia to pop up on my thighs.
I called my mother to tell her the news. "Well, dear, I guess I should warn you now," she sighed. "Grandma sprouted a moustache at 50."
Hey, fate is fate, and you can't fight your family tree.  I'm asking Jason for a moustache trimmer for Christmas.

*Check back tomorrow for Halloween photos - Jason and I are dressing up as JFK and Marilyn Monroe!