Really? Really She's Not Blonde?

My daughter, my sweet twenty year old, took beginning motorcycle classes this week. Yep she wants to be a bike chick like her Mama!

I told her to leave early for the class to allow time for traffic, getting lost and making sure she was there a little early.

I get this phone call from MY HUSBAND, NOT Nikki, saying that the Land Rover had stopped in the middle of the street. She gave him the location, which was no where near where she should have been.

I freaked and called her to find out where she was, this was after we had gone over and over the directions, given her a map and explained to take the directions going EAST bound on the interstate and not WEST bound.

I get her on the phone, finally, and asked where she was. She began to babble, in Edith Bunker style, about everything that happened with the car. I had to scream at her to get her to calm down and answer my question.

"Where the hell are you?"

"In the middle of the street."

"Which freaking (substitute word) street?!"

She then gave me the supposed streets. Which were the wrong streets that were 100 blocks away from where she should have been. A policeman happened to show up and finally gave me her correct location.

I talked to her dad again and he strongly reminded me to remain calm. I'm not known for being patient when I don't get my questions, my direct questions answered (thanks dad).

I tried to talk to her again and again got a run down on what the car did, NOT the answer to my question. I wanted to know if she got out of the car and was safe. That little question took days to get answered. I mean, car breaks down in the middle of the street YOU GET OUT AND GET TO A SAFE LOCATION SO YOU DON'T GET KILLED!

I finally found her and asked how she got to where she was. She showed me the directions she used. The ones going WEST bound and not EAST bound, although she was going east on the interstate. She argued with me for a while until I asked her which way she was going on the road.

"I was going east, and I followed these directions." She was pointing to the wrong directions.

GRRRR! Then I was left standing in the rain, I DON'T do rain, for AAA and she made it to her class on time.

Now she's telling me she'll NEVER use mapquest again because they put their directions in the wrong place. The way she was going should have been listed first.


If she wasn't black I'd SWEAR she was blonde!

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Happy Valley Moms

Happy Valley moms aren’t really any different than the moms of any other affluent town. Many volunteer at the neighborhood school and make it a point to get to know the other Happy Valley Moms. Their white collar husbands work eighty hour weeks and the moms themselves stay home, keep the house immaculate, and run kids to dance, soccer and lacrosse.

For the most part their hair is blonde, some natural but most is “enhanced” and always perfect. They have well manicured nails, constant pedicures and see their massage therapists on a regular basis. No one is supposed to know, but everyone does, that they see their “counselors” monthly, sometimes more, to discuss the hardships of being a stay at home mom with their 2.5 kids.

The kids, by the way, also are generally blonde haired, blued eyed, perfectly dressed and stars in school. During the mornings you’ll find the moms in the neighborhood Starbucks dressed in new matching workout gear and pristine cross-training shoes. Their flaxen hair is pulled into ponytails and the requisite Dolce Gabana or Chanel sun glasses are propped snuggly on their heads. They’ll grab a bottle of filtered spring water along with their lattes before jumping into their leather upholstered cars to head for the gym.

BMW, Lexus, Land Rover and Mercedes are the cars of choice and they’re always perfectly spotless and gleaming. You’ll find them parked neatly in rows away from the “other” cars in the parking lots in the community. Many of the cars are also labeled with the stickers of the liberal politician of the day.'

The Happy Valley Moms are always outgoing and seemingly friendly. However, it’s mostly a façade. If you’re not a part of their bunco games or volunteer organizations (which are impossible to penetrate) they’ll politely rip you apart over margaritas and tapas at their weekly gatherings.

Yesterday after coffee and on the way to the gym I glanced into the rear-view mirror of my Mercedes and screamed “Holy freaking shit! I’m a Happy Valley Mom!” My highlighted blonde hair was pulled in a ponytail and was shimmering in the sunlight that streamed in from the open sun-roof. I had my Chanel sunglasses on and my designer bag was at my side.

There was a bottle of filtered spring water in the cup holder next to my latte. I could feel my heart race as I froze in that horrific moment of realization. I quickly ran through my lifestyle, searching for anything to separate me from that clique. OMG! There had to be something! I had to find it before I hyperventilated and wrecked my Mercedes.

It wasn’t looking good. I had just had a pedicure and my massage appointment was scheduled for the next day. I kept driving and saw my therapist’s office on the right hand side of the road. The sight of it jolted me. I grabbed the wheel of my car and jerked it back into my lane. My latte spilled all over the leather interior. I needed a xanex. I could feel a panic attack coming on.

“Breathe Teri, breathe” I kept repeating to myself. I reached to turn down the volume of the entertainment center. Wait! That’s something! I had to turn down the volume of my new Nickleback CD. No other Happy Valley Mom would be caught dead with a Nickleback CD in their car. Ok, good. That’s a start. “Keep going Teri. You can do it”.

The pressure was on. I ripped the Chanel glasses off of my head, pulled the hair tie out of my hair and let my chemically treated tresses fall around my shoulders. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” My 2.5 blonde haired, blue eyed kids totaled eight at last count and they were far from the stereotypical Happy Valley kid. My kids are black, white and conservative.

My husband, while the owner of a company, is blue collar and my house is anything but immaculate. Ok, now I’m getting somewhere. Hey, what about the Harley, and the tattoos? My breathing slowed and my heart began to return to a normal pace. The secrets I told my therapist weren’t ones of the trials of raising children they were much darker and much deeper.

I never volunteered at the schools, my kids were home schooled, another difference between us. Then my thoughts wandered to a subject that I hadn’t thought of. Yes on the outside I looked like the typical Happy Valley Mom, just like the other moms. How did I know what they tell their therapists? What if they had wanted more kids and couldn’t have them? What if their husband’s jobs were on the line? What if, what if, what if?

When I stopped at the red light I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, put on my Chanel sunglasses and turned up the volume on my Nickleback cd. I couldn’t judge them anymore than they could judge me. The light turned green and I drove on to the gym. I wasn’t a Happy Valley Mom on the inside and they might not be either. For all I know late at night after the 2.5 kids are tucked into their designer beds a glass of wine is poured and a joint is lit.

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