Tweaking My Wine-to-Coffee Ratio

I’ve been feeling a little off my game lately. Still feeling a little blue from the holidays, unorganized, overwhelmed, a little scattered… just “off.” I was certain I would snap out of it at any moment, but then yesterday I had trouble parallel parking.


Parallel parking is my super-hero power. Seriously. I’m so good that passers-by have, on occasion, stopped on the street to watch this power in action, and on at least one occasion applauded when I exited my perfectly parked vehicle. But yesterday, the space was plenty big, I wasn’t rushed, my visibility was fine, I just couldn’t maneuver my car into the space. What was going on here?

Are the planets out of alignment? Is Mercury in retrograde (I hear that can cause all sorts of trouble). Is there a disturbance in The Force? Is my wine-to-coffee ratio out of whack?

Fortunately, it was Tuesday and that means Play Group with my Boozy Mommies. Anyone who knows me knows the the term “play group” is used very loosely here. But if you’re a new reader, I should probably let you know that in this context “play group” means moms sitting around drinking wine while our children run amok largely unsupervised.

So I shared a bottle of wine with my girls. I felt the planets realign.  They helped me remember that The Force is strong in me.  And (perhaps most importantly)... I tweaked my wine-to-coffee ratio. (As a friend recently pointed out, it’s a delicate balance. If it was easy to maintain, anyone could do it.)

The next morning I parallel parked like the super-hero I am.

Thanks, Boozy Mommies - those I see once a week, those with whom I share the occasional mimosa-phone-date, and those I’ve never even met. What would I do without you?

Part Of My Charm

Something interesting happened over the last few weeks. For the first time since I’ve been blogging, I dated someone I didn’t already know – someone I met on the street (so to speak). As you might imagine, this presented some fairly unique issues (as if dating didn't already present enough challenges for a  struggling, self-esteem-challenged, boozy, single mom raising two smallish kids, one with autism).


After our first date, he sent me a friend request on Facebook. And there I was. Faced with not only the question of giving this person the keys to my Facebook kingdom and all the revealing personal tidbits located therein, but also the fact that this would lead to my blog and what amounts to the keys to my very soul. There’s not much about me that can’t be found here in the annals of Perfectly Floppy Bacon. Fears, shortcomings, embarrassments, loss, shame. It’s all here, right alongside my accomplishments, loves, joy and pride.

Not to mention the fact that this person would no doubt, after reading the blog, forever have in the back of his mind that he could very well be the next Fake Accent, Ambiguously Gay Troy or (heaven forbid) Too Cocky Rob. No pressure.

I sat on the Facebook friend request for a day contemplating my next move, but ultimately decided there was no use trying to keep this part of me from him. Because truthfully, keeping from him this part of me would amount to keeping from him all of me. And what would be the point anyway? It’s all stuff that would come out eventually. I’ve always been a very open person, but this was a whole new level of exposed. I felt quite literally naked, but I let him read it anyway.

After reading, he said he liked me even more than he originally thought he did. He found me to be talented and funny and said he had a great deal of respect for me. He saw my naked soul and didn’t flee the scene – at least not for a couple of weeks. I suspect he thought running for the hills the minute he'd read the blog was a tad obvious, so he continued to pursue me for a few more weeks before sitting me down and enumerating his concerns for the future of our relationship. I’m not sure how many bullet points he had prepared, but I cut him off at four. If, after three weeks of dating, your concerns for the future of the relationship require a PowerPoint presentation, it’s time to cut your losses.

Will I do it differently next time? Probably not. In the immortal words of Popeye the Sailor Man, "I am who I am."  And that’s not likely to change. Anyone brave enough to date me should know he's getting the whole damned package – a potty-mouthed, borderline lush with questionable parenting skills and multiple neuroses who over-shares on a regular basis in a very public forum. That’s me.

I contend (and correct me if I'm wrong) it’s all part of my charm.

The Boozy Mommies

I’d like to say it started as a true playgroup. Clapping our hands along with our kids to a Baby Einstein CD, planning age-appropriate crafts and games, serving snacks made of cottage cheese, carrots, pretzel sticks and raisins made to look like silly snowmen and guaranteed to make kids smile and gobble them up. But that’s not how it started. Appropriately enough, it started with a glass of wine.

Gretchen and I met at a party when The Bens were two and five-weeks old respectively. We quickly discovered we lived within walking distance from each other and arranged a time to get together for lunch at my house. I made a salad that Gretchen hated (but didn’t tell me until years later), my dog snatched off the counter and consumed an entire wheel of Swiss cheese I planned to serve, The Bens lay on their backs on a blanket on the floor squirming around side by side while we pretty much ignored them unless they cried and Gretchen and I had lunch. And we drank our first glass of wine together. Who could have known that we would share a glass of wine (or two) nearly every week for the next eight years or so. (Don’t even bother trying to do the math – it makes my head spin just to think about it.)

A lot of lattes and scones from our neighborhood coffee shop followed while The Bens wiggled away on their backs on the floor. A third member was added (whom we eventually lost somewhere along the way). And we pretty quickly abandoned the morning lattes and scones in favor of late afternoon hors d’oueuvres with a glass of wine. Or two. Suzanne and her family moved in next door to Gretchen when The Bens were about a year old and immediately joined or merry little band with her daughter, just a few months younger than The Bens.

The years passed and one of our original members quit coming. But Suzanne, Gretchen and I grew closer and closer and we all had more babies, adding to our little tribe. And we kept meeting every week for our boozy playgroup. For better or worse, we had become family.

Before Kindergarten, Ben was evaluated by a psychologist we had never met to determine his placement. After meeting with Ben the psychologist came to the lobby to speak with me. She wanted to know if Ben had a rich imaginary play life. I’m sure my face registered surprise because Ben has virtually no imaginary play, which I told her. She then said, “That’s weird, because when I asked him about his family, he rattled off an extensive list of names before he ever mentioned his sister, Lucy. Another Ben, Ruby, Bella, Jonah, Lola, Luca?” I smiled and told her that those were the names of his playgroup friends and that as far as Ben knew, they were family. I had never told him otherwise.

A year and a half ago, a dear friend who nannied for me for years beginning when Ben was six-months old and who has long been an honorary part of the group, had a baby of her own and officially joined The Boozy Mommies. At a recent boozy playgroup, baby Keaton sat at the table with the rest of the kids having dinner – just like one of the big kids. Suzanne nodded her head towards the scene and told Melissa, “Look. You’ve added to the tribe.” And she was right. The tribe numbers nine kids in all now - three of Gretchen’s, two of mine, three of Suzanne’s and now one of Melissa’s.

We don’t manage once a week very often anymore. Two of us have moved from Fremont where it all began, and the kids have become busier as they’ve gotten older. But even so, more weeks than not, there’s a boozy playgroup with at least some of the families. The kids run amok, largely unsupervised, while the grow-ups chat. As much as possible, we insist that the kids help each other. Need some water and can’t reach it? There’s another kid here who can. Can’t tie your shoes yet? There’s a kid who can help you with that too. Kids helping kids is a great way to empower them and encourage teamwork. It’s also a great way to ensure we get our time together to share what’s happened since we saw each other last, our triumphs and failures, joy and heartbreak, and of course, a glass of wine.

Or two.

Candy Wrapper Wisdom

Sometimes I wonder what it says about me that I have never once asked myself, “What would Jesus do,” but have, on more occasions than I’d care to admit, asked myself, “What would Pats and Edina do?”


If you’re not familiar with the British comedy, Absolutely Fabulous, Wikipedia’s description of the plot tells you pretty much everything you need to know: “Edina Monsoon and Patsy Stone are two immature, chain-smoking, alcoholic, prosperous but preposterous substance-abusing fashion and fad-obsessed Londoners who value fame and style over substance.” Hilarious, irreverant and altogether fantastic – my (farcical) idols.

Parenting is not for sissies and the world of a single mom is far from glamorous. Throw a dash of autism into the mix and life in the Heagler house often borders on the ridiculous. Fortunately I have a few things going for me: fabulous friends, a good sense of humor, a finely-honed ability to laugh at myself, the comfort of knowing I’ll never be as absurd as Patsy and Edina, Dove Chocolate Promises and wine. Lots and lots of wine.

The wrapper of each Dove Silky Smooth Chocolate Promise is printed on the inside with inspirational life advice. One such wrapper advised me to believe in and act on my dreams. And while it may seem silly to take life advice from a candy wrapper, I’m currently trying to do just that. If advice this compelling was written on wine corks, I’m certain I’d have taken over the world by now.

Another wrapper recommended I be a role model to someone. Admittedly, I question my merit as a role model to anyone, but who am I to challenge the wisdom of a Dove Silky Smooth Chocolate Promise wrapper? So, anyone seeking an example of a borderline lush who has somehow managed to raise pretty good kids (so far), is a (reasonably) functioning member of society and (mostly) doesn’t hurt anyone, look no further. For better or worse, I’m your girl. Me, Pats, Edina, and all the other Boozy Mommies out there. Getting the job done, day after day, against all odds, sometimes even admirably… with a glass of wine in our hand.

Here’s to us, ladies – cheers!

Going Southern

The kids and I regularly participate in a playgroup/wine club that has been going on for more than eight years. Some may question the compatibility of the two activities, but I stand by the combination and argue that the wine makes the children far more palatable.

During one such playgroup/wine club last summer, I caught the boys (the sweet angels pictured above) attempting to throw balls over the back wall of my yard into the semi-busy street above. Naturally, I marched outside and let loose a litany on those poor, unsuspecting boys. I ranted convincingly about the dangers of disrupting traffic, the fact that any balls thrown into the street would be lost to them forever, and generally about the reign of pissed-off-mom terror they would be forced to endure if I saw them try it again. Finished off, like a cherry on an ice-cream sundae, with a reminder that I could, most assuredly, see them even when they thought I couldn't. (Hmph.)

My good friend and fellow Boozey Mommy, Gretchen Reimbold, stood next to me with her hands on her hips through my whole tirade in the standard And-That-Goes-Double-For-Me pose all moms adopt when another mom is schooling a group of kids. When I was done, she looked directly at her child and said "Ben Reimbold, what did Aunt Lori just say?"

Fully expecting "She said not to throw balls in the street" in that bored, surly, sing-songy voice kids use when they’re in trouble, I was surprised when Ben Reimbold answered, "She said y'all.” Gretchen followed with "And what does it mean when Aunt Lori goes Southern?" Ben Reimbold looked at the ground, kicked the dirt, and said quietly, "It means she's mad."

I guess I made my point because no one attempted to throw balls in the street for the rest of the night. Apparently I'm quite Southern when I'm good 'n' pissed off. Let that be a lesson to ya... (all).

We're the Heaglers

A few months ago Ben announced that the bacon I cooked with his Saturday morning breakfast was the perfect degree of floppiness. At the end of that day, it occurred to me that (as I suspected it might be) perfectly floppy bacon had been my greatest achievement that day. Sometimes it’s the little things.

Perfectly Floppy Bacon and Other Impressive Feats will be a glimpse of Heagler Family life – a place where I don’t have to reduce my musings to a Facebook status containing 420 characters or less or a Note than can only be viewed by my Facebook friends. To those of you who encouraged me to do this, I hope I won’t let you down and I hope you’ll never be sorry you said this was a good idea. Be careful what you wish for!

If there’s anyone out there reading who doesn’t know us, read on and come back often. We'll be old friends before you know it.

Perfectly Floppy Bacon and Other Impressive Feats will be about messages written in the dust on my end-tables, raising kids and drinking (a lot of) wine. About “going Southern”, my beloved Boozey Mommies, the horrors of dating as a 40+-year-old single mom, trying on hats, the rocks in my pockets, pick-me-up hugs and never-minding. It will be about tough love, hope, lots and lots of laughter and maybe a little inspiration along the way. And it will sometimes be about autism and its impact on our family.

Let me know what you think. Tell me if you like it and please tell me when I get it wrong. Thanks for reading. Cheers!