Eve Dropped Her Basket

A New Home

2010-05-09T17:18:00.001-07:00

The blog has a new home http://evedroppedherbasket.com/

Shooting the Rapids

2010-05-02T04:48:00.000-07:00

When I was a bit younger, and vastly more adventurous I decided the time was right to stretch my proverbial wings and take some risks. The short list of risk taking "to-do's" included white water rafting. Since I reside within the banks of the Wabash, where the water is neither white nor raftable, I began to look beyond my landlocked borders. At the time I worked in an environment full of people who took risks for a living and had no problem rounding up a crew for a weekend venture. We loaded up the Jetta on a rainy Friday and set out for the hills of West Virginia; to shoot the rapids of the Gully river.

A steady rain followed us for all 7 hours of the journey. By the time we arrived we were stressed, sweaty, and soaked through; but ably managed to trudge to the local bar to get a feel for our new surroundings. As soon as we crossed the thresh hold of the Booze and Bait we knew we weren't in Kansas anymore. The rain apparently had been building for several days in these parts and as we watched the only local channel on the 19 inch black and white(trying not to notice Bubba and Bobbie Sue pickin' the gristle out of their tooth in some sort of strange West Virginian mating ritual) we learned the access points to the river had been washed out. Which meant we would be taking the far more advanced New river, instead of the beginners course; the Gully.

We retired early a bit excited and far too proud to admit; fully scared shitless.They took us by bus early the next a.m. on a "road" through the mountains(which I'm quite certain had been logged literally the day before) to our start point. We de-bussed and gathered near one of the rafts to get our gear and instructions. I knew we were in capable hands when the dread-locked guide, while lecturing on local vegetation seriously instructed us to always remember "Leaves of three; leave 'em be. Leaves of five; bring 'em to me."(It's marijuana people, MARIJUANA!) Life jackets and helmets were handed out along with casual warnings and "next of kin" paperwork in need of signing. Our guide immediately singled me out for the seat next to him, not because I looked cute in my completely inappropriate shorts and flip flops, but because I was apparently the "weakest link".

We were told what position would give us the best chance of glancing off sharp rocks instead of crashing into them, and what to do if we were thrown from the raft toward an undercut boulder(swim like hell!).I remember thinking as we drifted from shore and I began to hear the roar of the rushing current, "this ain't a small world and this ain't Disneyland"(apparently leaving all respect for the English language in the hollers of West Virginia). The rapids were fast, way faster than I imagined. We flipped it through the first rapid. And the second. On the third our guide actually fell out. By the fourth we were bruised, battered, bloody and lovin' every minute of it all jacked up on adrenaline and dirty river water. As we began our fifth and final rapid, aptly called Heaven's Gate, it began to pour cold, dagger-like rain spears. I stood at the helm of our beaten raft shaking my fists heavenward like Captain Dan helming the Bubba Gump, screaming "You won't beat me Goddammit. Not today!"(like maybe tomorrow would be OK, or I could squeeze you in next week; just not today). I glance side ward mid fist-thrust and notice the dumbfounded mouth-gaping gaggle of Girl Scouts(with nary a badge out of place!) drifting by on their pristine, apparently indestructible raft; completely stealing my hard earned dramatic moment.

Faction Fractions

2010-04-11T04:42:00.000-07:00

"Your husband is so funny. No matter how you look at it you got a great deal. I'm so happy for you!" A sweet note from a supportive girlfriend? Not so much. This text was sent to me by my ex-husband, as he was sharing a pint(or a Jaeger Bomb, whatever) at the local pub with my current husband. I know, it's as odd as it sounds but it's our version of functional family fractions.

The tweens dad and I divorced when she was but a toddler, 3 to be exact. The decision to do so was as heartbreaking as you can imagine and still ranks as the most difficult days I've spent. However, it was a choice we made together. It wasn't working. For him, for me, but especially for her. She couldn't know that, but we could see we were changing who she was; even at that tender, formidable age. We would have none of it, so we made a breathtaking decision based solely on the needs of someone else. I can count on one hand how many times I've done that in my life.

To say the journey from there to here has been nothing but rainbows and unicorns would be a gross oversimplification. We stumbled, tripped, he fell, I fell, sometimes he led the way and sometimes I did. There were days her little heart broke, as did mine. Trying to figure out how to partner with someone in raising another human is not exactly paint by numbers, particularly when you add another parental unit to the mix.

Hubby entered the picture when she was just turning 5. From the get-go we knew it was something unique(in that "Oh crap, he's perfect for me, now what the hell do I do" kind of way). I included not only the toddler, but the ex in the approval process; when he had 3 thumbs up he got to stay("Congrats, you win a wife, her kid, and her ex-husband!).

I think they bonded over how difficult I can be. The ex often shrugs his shoulders at hubby in a "better you than me pal" sort of way. They are, after all, subject to my irrational fits of overprotective parenting, uninhibited bouts of random soap box ranting, and unabashed spousal double-standardness. The initial text in this post was preceded by the ex inviting us to stop by the pub. I smiled inwardly proud of a few choices I've made in life, and thought "that's so nice of him to offer." The subsequent text stated "or you could just drop your husband off"... Nice.

4 Year Olds Rock

2010-04-11T04:30:00.000-07:00

Everytime I look at this little bundle of squeezy 4 year old perfection I want to wiggle my nose and stop time. The steps from my side seem to get bigger every day. My spirited, whole hearted, snarl lipped toddler is settling into a slightly less wild version of herself. I can't wait to see what this year brings her. Happy birthday Miss M.

Spring is in the Air

2010-03-13T13:52:00.001-08:00

The toddler and I were walking around the yard looking for signs of spring(it's been a long. long. winter.). Some of the flowers are starting to bud, grass is turning from it's standard shade of yuck to a nice muddled blah. She turned to me and asked, "What is your favorite kind of bird?" A thoughtful question from an inquisitive little cherub. I answered, "A cardinal. What is your favorite kind of bird?" She pondered the question as we walked, and with great consideration she stated, "The Assy. The Assy is my favorite kind of bird." I tried to hide my surprise as I wonder if I heard her correctly(bassy, classy, sassy... Nope. She said assy). "It's a rare bird. So nice and flighty and well... just kind of Assy," she continued. "Yes, the Assy. It's lovely, and so beautiful. When I grow up I might want to be an Assy." It's good to have goals my dear...

Poetic Justice

2010-03-12T16:44:00.001-08:00

I'm sitting in front of a very blurry computer, with one(maybe two) cups of coffee while listening to the pounding of a steel drum playing Rastafarian band that seems to have taken up residence in my frontal lobe. A fantastic night with my boyfriend Jose(Cuervo, that is)? A girls night out? A hubby night in?? Not so much. I was a spectating victim of an errant dodgeball, thrown by a cannon-armed eighth grader.

I arrived with hubby, the toddler, and the ex-hubby to the dodgeball tournament of the tween tonight. My 6'5" hubby stood to my left, my slightly shorter, yet just as broad shouldered, ex-hubby stood to my right. I knelt down to take off the jacket of the toddler, and before you can say "Holy Balls Batman!" my glasses are flying off my face as I am knocked upside the noggin by the rubber missile launched with laser-like precision directly at my melon. I look up at the two men who have at one time or another sworn to serve and protect(love and honor, whatever) me and neither can hide the mile-wide grins gracing their tickled pink faces.

I'm quite sure this weasely, jacked-up, voice-cracking adolescent made the night; dare I say the year, of these two middle-aged men. They were both able to witness me; their kind(bossy), caring(stubborn), loving(obstinate) current or former wife be absolutely drilled in the dome without having to pay a dime for it. Had I not nearly lost consciousness I could almost say I saw them fist bump. At the very least I can say with 87% certainty I overheard them thanking the Gods of Dodgeball for the poetic justice served on the Karmic-laden silver platter this beautiful, memorable(for some) spring night.

The Power of the Strongly Worded Letter

2010-02-26T09:08:00.000-08:00

Dear Cheap Cardboard Valentine Maker,
In last month's letter I may have mentioned the absence of the Disney Princess Tattoos from the Disney Princess Tattoo Valentines my toddler so lovingly selected. I may have explained, in a few choice words, her feelings to the absence of said tattoos and my feelings about the character of the maker of said Valentines. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for the beautiful Disney Princess Easter Egg coloring kit and bonus "Girl Power" sticker book you so thoughtfully expedited to my home address. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for rescinding that pesky little "cease and desist" order and express how much less of a jackass you now seem!

Sincerely,
The satisfied mother of an appeased toddler

It's Educational Honey!

2010-02-26T08:10:00.000-08:00

"Did you..."

"YES"

"buy another..."

"YES I DID"

"magazine?"

"I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT".

I may have a problem. Hubby is sure. Me? Maybe. A little. Probably. Fine, I do. I can't seem to enter a store without exiting with an armful of this week's celebrity-gossip-household-hinting-weight loss-tipping-ideas for redecorating-magazines. My scope of selection is a bit um, scatter shot. I like to say I have broad areas of interest, hubby likes to say I have ADD. Oh! look at that shiny new cover...

When hubby and I discuss the budget, this is the first line item on the chopping block. I alllllllways agree. I don't neeeeeeed those magazines, after all. However, I can't seem. to. stop. I buy them knowing they will come with heavy sighs and side ward glances. I know they cost far more than the 1.99(OK some are 3.99 I'm looking at you Oprah), I so easily talk myself into. What is the going rate for a little slice of dignity? Can I afford the shame I wear like this season's new It color(Mint Green I'll have you know!)?

I've tried to convince hubby the magazines are not new. That they are in fact last week's/month's mags. I've maybe even probably gone so far as to take a sharpie to the cover and alter the delivery date a smidgen(whatever, that should be in next week's hints from Heloise!). I'm the first to give hubby a hard time about his lunch time Iced Tea habit(yes that was the hubster doing lines of tea leaves at Mcd's last week). That's a dollar a day, 5 dollars a week, 20 dollars a month! Seriously! Double standard? What double standard? My conscience is buzzing about my brain like gnats on crack.

I've considered starting a mommy magazine swap. But really, I'm pretty lazy. So if anyone else wants to steal my idea and run with it, be my guest. I've got the inventory, if you've got the initiative. I'll just be here learning 5 tricks for looking younger-how to dress my apple bottom-what color will make my living room pop-why Brad's miserable-and how many children the Dugger's have this week!

Mini-Me

2010-02-19T09:48:00.000-08:00

This morning as we prepared to go to story time at the library, or as I like to call it Germfest at Boogerville, she chose her outfit with care. I selected the shoes, seeing little harm in that. Her shoes are pink. She thinks they are red. The conversation went a bit like this:

Her: "Those are red."
Me: "No they're pink."
Her: "No, they're red."
Me: "No, they're... nevermind. Why does it matter?"
Her: "Because I want to be right and you to be wrong."

I'll take Nature VS Nurture for $500 Alex...

Valentine Schmalentine

2010-02-15T11:15:00.000-08:00

I am fully aware Valentine's Day is a contrived little fauxliday with no real purpose except to make those of us with partners feel pressured into forcibly purchasing false displays of love and adoration, and those of us without partners into purchasing large pitchers of Patron(forget the Margarita mix, it's just that hard core). However, I have yet to meet a girlfriend/fiancee/wife who does not secretly, or otherwise, harbor a desire to be showered with something soft/slinky/shiny/sparkly on this, be it fake or not, holiday.

Having said that, I am not a beat around the bush kind of girl(shocking, I know). I have made it clear that I not only expect to be gifted but will fully relish in gift giving on this day. I will make heart shaped pancakes, homemade/lace-trimmed/hot-glue gunned Valentines, and I will(against the advice of my seasonal color-wheel) wear red. I will hand out boxes of candy, pay way too much for single use, rhinestone encrusted, heart themed t-shirts, and encourage those in my immediate family to do the same.

This year as Valentine's Day approaches, I feel satisfied that I have hinted sufficiently to hubby my heartfelt desire for a large box of Godiva(I'm a chocolate snob, I see no shame in that) and something cozy to sleep in. Hubby is a lot of things; a great gift giver? Not so much. So I hint. I hint for him, I hint for me, I hint for the happiness and future of our(his) gift giving relationship. Hubby presented me with a beautifully prepared heart covered gift bag(points for it not being a creased and crinkled Christmas bag) and I settled in for the reveal. I tossed the tissue paper aside and discovered... Sweat Pants. Elastic waisted, one size too small sweat pants(as in they make me look like a boiled sausage about to split my casing), and a heart shaped box of fruit filled dark chocolate(which clearly violates my long standing no fruit in my dessert policy).

I'm going to avoid drawing parallels between our love and shapeless, comfortable, nondescript sweat pants and generic, bitter "chocolates"; and instead give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm going to edit the context of the gift and conclude that hubby wanted me to be comfortable(?) and healthy(?) not at all pissed and hungry. I'm going to assume he tried really hard to live up to the unreasonable expectations unfairly placed upon him by an impossible to achieve standard set by the nameless, faceless "establishment" of greeting card companies out to make a buck off his good intentions and honest efforts and hope he kept the receipt. I will go out today and feel joyous(damn it) as I purchase my own box of half-price Godiva. I will forget(no I won't, who am I kidding) the sweat pant "incident" and remember the other 364 days a year hubby doesn't liken our love to fleece.

Unhappy Valentine's Day

2010-02-10T15:42:00.001-08:00

Dear Cheap Toy/Cardboard Valentine Maker,

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for ruining Valentines Day in the heart and mind of a certain elephant-memoried toddler. It is likely she will suffer post traumatic Valentine's Day stress disorder for all of her childhood, likely into adulthood; and Lord help the man she eventually finds and engages shall he select this faux-romantic "holiday" to propose to her! It is likely she will be a single spinster-type crabby "get off my lawn" sort of lady as she will never be able to recover from the trauma you have, on this day, forever imposed.

She selected with utmost care and determination the Disney Princess Valentines WITH Tattoos to give to her preschool classmates. We selected these well in advance of the "holiday" paying full price(you have no idea!), knowing full well there will be nothing but scraps and pieces left should we wait until Valentine's Day Eve to purchase said tokens of kindness for gift giving. We held them dear, left them in the bag, didn't break them out until the night before the big Valentine's Day Preschool Party to address.

Her excitement was barely contained. She sat quietly. QUIETLY, you ungrateful unappreciative cheap toy making gluttons. Pathetic in the midst of her cold that wouldn't go away, all sniffy and coughy yet steadfast in her pursuit of the perfect Valentine's Day Card gift giving ritual. We unsealed the package, the Disney Princesses fluttered out smelling new and plasticky; glimmering nearly as much as the twinkle in her wide blue eyes.

I tapped the package waiting for the rest to emerge. The jewel in the crown of the Valentine's Day card; the Disney Princess Tattoos. Nothing fell but her face. The package was empty. She realized it at the exact same time as I did, therefore I had no option but to duck and cover. I'm quite sure when you designed these high quality specimens of stationary superiority you did not intend them to become cardboard projectiles, but that is exactly what occurred. Paper flew, decibel levels rose, and I'm pretty sure she cursed you out in toddler talk.

Now as I venture out, in 6 inches of snow with a windchill of -45 degrees, to the what I anticipate will be completely picked over store shelves, I wonder why you hate the parent's of preschoolers so much. I am fantasizing about sending you empty bottles of Tequila. Maybe fake lottery tickets. Possibly even posing as a Publisher's Clearing House posse, with full on balloon bouquet and a big fat FAKE blank check.

In closing I would appreciate a full refund of my $1.49 that I spent on your heinously defective product and the remaining 3 million in pain and suffering I will forever endure as she relives the fury filled memory of the Disney Princess Valentine's WITH Tattoos that weren't.

Barbie!

2010-02-02T05:44:00.000-08:00

Her favorite part of our visit to the Children's museum? The "itty-bitty tiny little girl potty's". Next time I'm pocketing the 40 bucks and taking a public restroom tour of greater Indianapolis.

Karma

2010-02-01T10:51:00.000-08:00

For the last nine months hubby and I have been unwitting participants in our own low rent version of Disney's classic, Freaky Friday. You know, the farcical tale of two people who swap lives by some ancient Chinese secret(and no it isn't Calgon), and come to understand one anothers perspective by walking a mile in their shoes(bodies). This leads to peace, harmony, and love on all accounts whereby everyone reaches a mutual Utopian existence replete with kindness, respect, and zen-like enchantment. Except our version was mostly the swap lives part.

You know the drill. Hubby was laid off; I went back to work and he stayed home with the little one. At no point did it work for us. It wasn't what either of us wanted or would really ever like to visit again. We're very aware we should be grateful that one of us had a job and the other could stay home. We're also very aware how grateful we should be that both of us have emerged on the other side of this little foray with all our appendages attached and with very little collateral damage.

Today is the first day hubby is back to work. I am working part time, some from home, but mostly I get to be home with the tot; hopefully it will be a good balance. When I longed for this day I imagined sleepy mornings, playgroups, puzzles, games, nap time... I went to bed early last night, got up and sent hubby off with a packed lunch and poured my first cup of coffee. I peeked in to the tot's room to check on her rosy-cheeked slumber. She roused, sat up, and proceeded to throw up all over my pink polka-dotted robe. I've cleaned up more vomit today than in all of the last 9 months. My once white down comforter-covered bed looks like a crime scene. She's taken more baths than we have hot water. The grand lesson here? Be careful what you wish for, someone with a fantastic sense of humor is listening...

Tweenism

2010-01-17T05:54:00.000-08:00

Me, "Why won't you drink milk?"
Her, "Because I'm not a suckling calf."

Touche my dear tween, touche.

Happy New Year

2010-01-01T07:17:00.001-08:00

As we ring in the new year I pause to reflect upon 2009 and can seem to only evoke one sentiment; 2009 you can suck it. You started out with the same promise and hope that all the other years offered. I anticipated all your stretched out days with wonder and amazement. I leapt with both feet into the new year, dragging my family along behind. Off and running we were; a new year to embrace and behold!

And here we are you ungrateful, petulant year. Limping across the finish line, broken and bloodied. Our hair is frizzy, my nails are bitten to the quick and I'm wearing one shoe. I should shake your hand and tell you I'm glad we made it, however I'm too busy flipping you the bird to do that at this moment. 2009 I'm grateful that we made it through and for little else. I'm glad to see you go, and not only will you not be getting a thank you note but you will not be invited back. So let me be clear. You were the worst mothertrucking year we've had yet. Now 2010 and I are going to have a drink...

Tradition

2009-12-24T02:53:00.001-08:00

As Christmas Eve approaches, well arrives actually, I realize I am more like my mother than I care to publicly acknowledge. I fully intended to plan ahead and purchase the kiddos matching jammies(yes, we're those people) wayyyyy ahead of time; so they could open this one present Christmas Eve and by happy chance look adorable and matchy in all the sleepy eyed pics Christmas morning. This is a tradition long held in my family, not the matching part and certainly not the pre-order part, but the one gift on Christmas Eve that is always jammies part. I pulled them out last night to wash and wrap them only to realize they are at least a size too small for each kid. Unless I want my kids to look like some belly-baring hussies on Christmas morn, despite all my list-making planning aheadedness I will be at the mall on Christmas Eve day. Nice.

Growing up there was not a Christmas Eve my mother wasn't frantically secluded behind a locked bedroom door wrapping furiously. I see now that it isn't likely she waited until the last minute, it's more likely she simply never stopped shopping until Santa booted her out the door, on the way to his sleigh. She was the mom waiting in line overnight for Cabbage Patch Dolls. She would buy and hide so many presents I would have to tell her what she forgot and where she forgot it after unwrapping everything on Christmas morning only to not find the Malibu Barbie I had already maybe accidentally(on purpose) come across while looking for something I surely needed in the garage, behind the tool chest, underneath the emergency kit. Our Christmas mornings had an intermission. If you were to look through the window of our home at 5 am on this day you would only see paper flying, girls squealing, and mother sitting serenely Diet Coke in hand(back when they were returnable bottles) surveying her hard work.

Now these traditions seem perfectly appropriate to me. Lots of presents, none before Christmas morning except jammies on Christmas Eve; everyone opens at once, kids get up whenever they want, and eat nothing but stocking candy all day. As an adult I see no reason to alter these holiday mandates as I pass them along to my own children, however hubby doesn't necessarily see it my way(imagine!). His traditions were a bit...different. He had far fewer gifts, not necessarily on Christmas morning, he opens ONE AT A TIME, and wait for it....he saves the paper. I am all for sharing tradition. I love that everyone does it differently. However, when I vowed to love hubby for all of eternity in front of God and those volleyball playing Jamaican vacationers I had no idea I was committing to a lifetime with a paper saver.

On Christmas morning, the kiddos will be exhausted from their marathon present-fest. The living room will be littered with shredded paper. Stocking candy will be spilled and empty wrappers strewn about. The children may or may not look like mini Incredible Hulks in their too small jammies. Mamaw will surely be sitting, surveying the scene with her Diet Coke. And hubby will be happy as a fat Santa sitting amongst all the chaos folding tissue paper. Tradition, that's what it's all about...

Innocent

2009-12-20T11:09:00.000-08:00

Naughty list?? No one said anything about a naughty list...

Or Scanket...

2009-11-30T18:08:00.000-08:00

The crafty gene skips a generation and although I have tried valiantly to turn skirts into shorts, jeans into a fantastic denim handbag, and duct tape into colorful wallets I have failed brilliantly. My craft room(kitchen table) is littered with half made, fully awful "projects". The tween however stokes her creative fire with regularity. This holiday season she decided to make her friends a gift. Although she knits, sews, and beads she settled on rag-tying squares of fleece into an ultra glam scarf(I know). Being my child, her math skills are shall we say... slightly lacking; and cutting with any kind of accurate measurement is not particularly high on the priority list. So ladies and gentleman I introduce to you the worlds first half blanket/half scarf: The Blarf!

Celllllabrate Good Times, Come On!

2009-11-06T04:31:00.000-08:00

Today was a typical day in the very exciting life I am reluctant to call my own. Laundry racks littered my too narrow hallway(sincere thanks to hubby “hang everything up” for starting the laundry in my absence), a trip to the grocery was a must as I just sent Jr to school with a meatless sandwich on a hot dog bun and leftover Halloween candy as a nutritious side(the sucker was orange flavor), and leftover birthday party confetti was still ground into my carpet after the herd of ten year olds who descended on my way too small for this many screaming tweens abode this weekend. I was rushing around trying to find a matching shoe(any shoe will do) when I heard boo boo screaming at me from the kitchen(as this is not an unusual occurrence my anxiety level only elevated to mach 3).

I found her barefoot and shirtless (she turns into some sort of garment shucking Houdini when left alone for more than 30 seconds) at the edge of the counter gesturing insistently(she has no other speed). Atop the wrapping paper littered bar top sat an accurate representative of our hi-tech electronics collection; a 1987 boom box(think parachute panted hubby in his acid wash jean jacket hoisting said monstrosity atop his now uneven shoulder). Curly Girl was shouting “Dance”, “Dance!”. I considered my options, and because I have tried to change the mind of this 3 foot 30 pound version of hubby’s headstrong, stubborn persona before; I resigned myself as a participant in today’s “live from the living room” Solid Gold.

I would like for you to think, as I was about to leave the house, that I had combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and painted my face with something other than boo boo’s sticky fingers, but in the spirit of truth I must confess I was clad in hubby's XXLT work shirt (fine if not for the 5 foot 2 inch frame it graced) and heart covered boxers(a throwback to Valentine’s days that didn’t involve homemade cards and handwritten coupons “good for one back rub”… I’m still waiting.). None the less, if mini-he felt the rhythm, then by golly so must I. Bruce blared from the tin cup speakers and the light shone through my groovy girl.

We shook(some parts more than others), we rattled, we rolled. The whisk(don’t ask me why it was in the toy box) became her microphone, the hearth her stage. She sang at the top of her lungs(incoherently of course; but it was Springsteen after all), and insisted I join in. We circled from room to room and I busted out moves not seen since halftime at my high school football games(think sequins and knee high white vinyl boots). I mixed the running man with the grapevine; the cabbage patch with the Macarena. She squealed in delight not caring that if anyone else had seen mamma’s moves I’d be thrown in the loony bin(or at least a disco baller holding cell with the requisite rhinestone spandex and neon head banded uniforms). Suddenly the errand running seemed a lot less of a priority as I was forced to not just live in the minute, but celebrate it. I danced. For her, for me, for all the other errand runners not so luckily thrown off schedule by this blessed memory making moment. Breathless, flushed, and sweaty browed(me, not her) she began to lose interest. Our impromptu Saturday Night Fever re-enactment drew to a close(thank goodness, I think I pulled something). The next time life seems like one big to do list I will smell the sweat soaked Springsteen T and take time to celebrate. Dance on my fellow rhythm-less brethren, dance on.

Sisterhood

2009-11-03T17:38:00.000-08:00

Lately I have questioned my blog-loving, journal writing identity. I began this blog because I was so mortified by showing my butt at the neighborhood pool that I didn't know what else to do but write it down(and my Xanex prescription had run out). It made hubby laugh and I sort of loved that, so I continued. Oftentimes it didn't occur to me that anyone else actually read them(except for you mom, so thanks!). The other day I told someone they made me laugh and they should write a blog; as I would love to read it(I have a girlfriend who writes one and I love nothing more than to lose myself in it). This person said to me that she wasn't sure what a blog was, but she thought it was a page where people "wrote crap about themselves". I was taken aback. Did she really say that? Did I hear that correctly? My blog is only an exercise in ego stroke? Surely no one actually says that sort of thing? I'm sure the comment did exactly what it was intended to do(hello it's 1989 calling and they'd like they're letter jacket back) and forced me to question what exactly it was I was doing with this blog. And I realize she was exactly right, and so the truck what? This is where I write crap about myself. And?

I write crap about myself because I know you have crap to write too. I started this blog as a way to reach out. To reach out to the humanness in those of us who have shown our butts in public. There is a common denominator in the bonds that we all share and it is mortification, humiliation, butt showing embarrassment. We have all done it. I just happen to do it more than your average Jill, but whatever.

I have removed my underwear in a public place because it was too tight. I have taken my bra off in a bar bathroom because the wire was cutting me in half. I have fastened my jeans with a rubber band in hopes no one would notice because I happen to be on the top end of the skinny jeans spectrum. I know I'm not the only one who has left the house with a dryer sheet falling out the pant leg of her khakis. I'm certain I'm not the first person to pay for a Big Mac and a tampon has fallen out of my purse. I'm also sure I'm not the last person to call someone the wrong name, ask about someones recently deceased relative, or send an email to an unintended target.

This blog has done exactly what I intended it to do. It has shown that no matter if your boots say Ugg or Fugg, your car an import or an impound, or your kids refuse to wear clothes in public or otherwise; we are all human. The beauty is in the imperfection and should you choose to read this "crap" and see yourself in my humiliation then by holy hell raise a glass; I welcome you to the club.

Toddler Rebellion

2009-10-31T05:54:00.001-07:00

The little one is fully ensconced in her preschool class and thriving with all her rule-loving conformist little heart. I am watching my wild-haired bohemian baby morph into one that not only craves structure but intends to inflict the same attitude on the rest of her family. I listened to her at dinner tell me to put my cup at the top of my plate so as not to spill it, I stared in confusion as she raised her hand to ask for more juice. My slightly crunchy heart broke just a little bit when she told me to use my "inside" voice while singing to Pink.

What happened to my stinky little ragamuffin who would kick you in the shin while telling you she loved you. The one who told me that when she's ten she's not only going to be a boy, but she's going to play football too. The blond-haired, blue-eyed angel face who told me that when she's a mommy she's only going to have "sons", so she can "wrestle".

Despite my best efforts, my children seem to like rules. They color inside the lines and do their homework before I ask. They seem uninterested in my suggestion that we live off the land and grow our own food. They like broccoli. What did I do to deserve this? My children won't rebel, they'll likely hit their teenage years and join the republican party(gasp!).

I've only ever wanted my children to be happy. I just thought they'd choose to be happy on my free-spirited terms. I look over at my babe organizing her stuffed animals and see a glimmer of hope, as she is doing so completely naked. That's my girl...

Eww

2009-10-30T13:50:00.000-07:00

Are you aware the dirtiest part of your kitchen happens not to be the sink, drain, or faucet handle; but the bottom of your purse? Your purse. You know, the one you paid more than the GDP of Moldavia for. The purse that makes your "uniform"(yoga pants and a hoodie) look tres chic. The purse you covet nearly as much as your yearly(monthly) 2-lb box of golden foil covered Godiva truffles. Yes, that one. Learning this fun little trinket of trivia has nearly crippled the germ-a-phobe in me. If I can't count on cradling my Coach without contracting the creepy crawlies then what I ask, what in this bacteria-laden, virus-infected, parasitic little world is sacred??

I fully embrace the hand sanitizing, air purifying, bleach wiping side of my slightly obsessive, moderately manic, widely phobic side of my personality. I am the first to acknowledge it isn't necessarily logical to hold my breath in the pharmacy. I realize not everyone can go an entire day without touching a public door handle(yes that's me going "toe to toe" with the public restroom door). I may even grant you that not everyone considers PIN pads, turn styles, and escalator handrails the work of a subversive terrorist sect(germ warfare people, google it).

However, consider this the next time you sidle up to your office carry-in. I spent the morning making cookies with my daughter. She's three and loves to help with everything that involves chocolate chips or glitter(in that order). Upon completion we stepped back to admire our handiwork. She apparently was so overwhelmed with the greatness that was our cookie creating that she took one great sweeping look and sneezed. Sneezed all over the 2 dozen cookies we spent the morning mixing, baking, and frosting. And you wonder why I have seriously considered erecting a bio dome in our backyard?!

Happy sanitizing everyone...

Naptime

2009-10-18T11:13:00.000-07:00

Things my daughter will say to get out of a nap:

I like your outfit(sweats and a t-shirt)
We're a family, and families are happy to each other...
I love you mom(as I'm giving her the eye)
When I grow up I'm going to be a nice mommy, just like you(working the flattery angle)
When I go to sleep I miss you, acause you go to work(and now for the guilt angle)
My daddy loves me berry much(clearly you do not mother as I am still laying here while daddy would've let me up a long time ago).
I really need to go outside and play so I can grow big and strong(she chooses now to listen).
You glad to see me mommy?!(honestly.)

I Am Woman

2009-10-14T10:29:00.000-07:00

I've spent the better part of my adult life with my arm's crossed, foot stomping, in my best toddler tantrumesque affectation proclaiming "I do it myself." In an effort to prove to all the world, although with the distance over-thirty provides I'm quite sure no one really cared, that I am a strong independent woman. I can put myself through school, work a full time job, and raise a happy, healthy, straight out of the Gap ad family. I'm the first to admit I'm a bit stubborn(pick up your jaw; you're drooling). One might say I'm bull-headed, even obstinate(I will pause here to wait for the cheering certain to take place as my social circle supports this intervention-like admission).

I have been knee-deep in an ivy justifiably known as poison; blissfully, albeit temporarily, unaware of the seeping, itching, rash-fest soon to occur; as I tried to prove I could weed the jungle, formerly known as the backyard, without any help. When my error in judgement(do you have any idea how many venti carmel macchiatos I could buy with the moola spend on therapy to admit that?) was brought to my attention, I scoffed and continued my hot, sweaty, soon to be mercilessly itchy work; as though stopping to shower off would be an admission of defeat. I would be the first person to swathe herself in a poison ivy blanket and emerge unscathed. Or not.

One ill-fated Christmas Day after an addictive Trading Spaces marathon I ripped up 800 square feet of carpet(all by myself) to expose the just like on TV perfectly intact(or holey, plank missing, is that stain in the shape of a body?) hardwood floor. 12 hours, 8000 staples, 2 allergy attacks, and 1 SOS call to my sister later, I refused to admit I could've used a little less spontaneity and a little more research on how to actually tackle a major home renovation project. I cast the day as another notch in my belt of independence.

I have painted rooms "construction cone" orange and proclaimed it the must have color of the season. I have paid triple my limit on a bad I didn't need, caught up in the sport of shopping on eBay only to realize there are no medals awarded for coming in first. I have accepted a job I didn't want, to purchase a truck I didn't need, to pull the boat I didn't have. i would rather cut my entire yard with hedge clippers than ask for help with a mower that only works on the second Tuesday, of the the third month, of a leap year.

Until that is, I squared off in the mirror that is my spouse as I concede my stubborn ways are stymied by one that is more headstrong than myself. Rather than spend all of eternity fighting, feuding, and fussing my way through tasks both menial and monstrous I have learned that "compromise" isn't a dirty word. I'm quite certain fate delivered on my doorstep a 6 foot 5 inch version of myself as karmic retribution for all the stubborn waves of resistance I have emitted into the universe. Because spending all of eternity with my horns locked in an epic battle with the battering ram I call hubby seems less desirable than giving up chocolate for Lent, I will try to see the logic in using a level. I will ask for help carrying objects what weigh more than I do, or just wait for him to move his car. I will use a hammer instead of a shoe, and a map instead of my gut. I will show hubby spontaneity can be a good thing, and even better when you have someone to stumble with. I will try to balance my left field with his right, and convince him change is a good thing. And someday with enough patience and meditation I just may admit there is a slight possibility I could be less than right on any and every issue.

Why?

2009-10-10T11:39:00.000-07:00

I'm wondering why men(surely it's only men) feel it's necessary to hang a pair of testicles from their trailer hitch. I also wonder how they would feel if I mounted a big flashing vagina to my bumper. I'm considering it.

Aunt Judy

2009-10-06T18:40:00.000-07:00

I will remember the pride in her gait, the steel in her spine, the mischief in her smile. An open heart, a warm embrace, love winking in her eye. She walked with dignity and pride, fearlessness, and strength. Free from the shackles of illness; I know she is at peace.

The Next Big Thing

2009-09-23T18:59:00.000-07:00

We were playing outside tonight putting off closing up shop as long as possible, savoring the waning summer sun like it was the last Swiss Cake Roll in the box. In the far off distance we began to hear music. Not the usual "thump thump" of today's garden variety rap and roll music blaring from the cruising neighborhood boys(pretending their Vista Cruiser is a 69 Charger), but a slightly creepy, yet oddly nostalgic chime of an old school spinning ballerina jewelry box. Standing still, squinting our ears, we place it at the same time. With big, round eyes of recognition we scream, "The Ice Cream Truck!". We leap over discarded toys strewn about the yard in our version of a suburban obstacle course, running for cash in any stashed place we could find it. I throw money at the kids, and encourage them to "RUN! RUN!" down the middle of the street, without your shoes, without looking both ways, and "STOP that TRUCK!". We spend two dollars a piece(remember when it was a quarter?) for some sickly sweet treats we would never buy in our usual grocery getting venture. The kids are as happy as if Santa himself wandered through our hood tossing toys from his overstuffed sack. I look at hubby grinning slyly as an idea of my own starts to percolate.

Imagine, if you will, what IF the ice cream truck turned from "G" rated to a more adult version. What IF the ice cream truck were more like a , oh I don't know, liquor wagon. A cask on wheels. A steel drum playing, thatch roofed run up bar. Can't you just see all the moms in their running pants(OK jammy pants, whatever) chasing after the margarita mobile with their change jars held high, like they're running the last leg of the Olympic torch relay. How great would it be if happy hour came to us?! I'm onto something here...

Tub Time

2009-09-15T18:43:00.001-07:00

Soaking in a hot, bubbly tub is my remedy for well; everything. If I'm cold, tired, worn out, or simply having a bad denim day the bath is where I head to soak(semi-recline really as you would have to be concave to actually soak in this tub). Our tub is unfortunate at best, embarrassing at least. If our tub were playing Red Rover it would be picked last. Our tub is the tub all the garden and jacuzzi tubs point and laugh at. I try my best to doctor it up; I add bubbles, I dim the light(trust me not even I want a clear view), and add a nice pillow to soften the 90 degree angle my neck is forced to assume while laying prone.

The kiddos were all tucked in and hubby was all nyquilled out, so I grabbed a book and headed to my zen den. As soon as it was hot, steamy, and coconut lime verbeenied I settled in. I lay my head back and was startled to hear what I thought was a muffled scream. With a great sucking vortex I leapt out of the water, flung open the door, and dripped down the hall. All was quiet and dark(your welcome neighbors and small, defenseless animals). I tiptoed(the less you move, the less you move) back to my slowly cooling cocoon.

I settle in, lay back gingerly; and hear it again. A high pitch, muffled, "eeeeeee" kind of scream. Because I am more patient than fearful I sit up and wait. Nothing. I lay back; screaming. Nothing/screaming/nothing/screaming as I perform what will be the only sit ups of this decade(nude and floppy=post traumatic stress syndrome). I lay back as slowly as possible and realize there is a direct correlation between the position of my body and the screaming(like I've never heard that one before). I am forced to draw some conclusions if there is any hope of saving this sacred bath time: A. The fairies of bathville are dying a slow and painful death from a full mooner eclipse B. Sylvia Browne is right and our spirit guides CAN actually see everything or C. The inflatable bath pillow has a pin size hole that squeals with expelled air every time you settle upon it. Calgon(eeeeeeee!) take me away(eeeeeee!)...

A Letter To My 22 Year Old Self

2009-09-13T13:55:00.000-07:00

There is no way to prepare for what you are about to endure. There is no way to ready yourself for the weight of the pain that is soon to be shoveled upon your too young, too narrow shoulders. Unthinkable things will be asked of you, unspeakable memories will be made. Everyone will tell you time heals; it doesn't.

You will want to get through it with your eyes shut; open them. Hold them longer, as long as you want even if it feels like you shouldn't. Press them to your chest, feel them in the curve of your neck, hold their tiny hands. You will have to place them in someone else's care; give yourself the same gift. Their death was not your failure, their birth was your success.

Talk about them. Share your experience. Say their names. Hold them near your heart or insist your mind's eye not remember them; just for a moment. Protect yourself if you must, but leave time to feel nothing but joy at having had them; no matter how briefly. Celebrate their birth, thank God for giving them to you; cuss him for taking them away. Laugh, cry, scream. Try not to hide.

There is no secret formula. You will get through it because you have no choice. You will know many moments of incredible happiness and be thankful to them for giving you a perspective of gratitude and grace. You will fall, rise up, and find balance. Love them. Love you. Always remember.

My Baby's Got the Blues

2009-09-08T03:54:00.000-07:00

I don't really understand the "hows" or the "whys" but my blue-eyed, blond-haired baby girl seems to be channelling B.B. King. She closes her eyes, grabs the nearest "whatever" that passes for a microphone(hairbrush, sippy cup, princess tippy toe shoe) and soulfully belts out whatever hard luck tune that comes into her curly little head.

I love my mom
I love my dad
I love my blanky tooooooo.

I miss my bear
I miss my crown
and I miss my bottle tooooooo.

I'm a bit embarrassed to say she certainly does not get her classic taste in music from me. If I'm in the car it's on A.M. I know, don't even bother. If her dad had his way she'd be in leopard print tights and a leather jacket livin' on a prayer. But soulful she is and singing in a smokey blues bar I'm sure she will be. I can already see there is not a road less traveled she will not take. My baby's got the blues.

I went to school today
And colored with crayons
My teacher said "clean" up
It's time to lay dowwwwwwwwn

It's nap time
Nap time at schooooool (repeat 8000 times)

OCD-ish

2009-09-06T07:07:00.000-07:00

You might be a germaphobe if:

You use the shower cap in hotel rooms as a condom for the remote control.

You’ve considered home schooling for the months of September through February.

You spend more time bleach wiping your cart than actually shopping.

You read library books with gloves on.

You won’t wear new clothes until they’re washed at least once.

You’d rather coast to the mall than use a gas pump.

Clorox is your baby’s first word.

Before going out to the new local hot spot you check health code violations before reviews.

You’d rather risk death or serious injury than use the escalator handrail.

Your purse begins to resemble a TEMA emergency kit; prepackaged snacks, disposable utensils, bio hazard mask (what? like you don’t have one!).

You buy a pen at the pharmacy rather than using the “community” one provided.

Bathroom door handles? Might as well lick your neighbor’s nose.

Girrrrrrl Power

2009-09-03T03:48:00.000-07:00

I hopped on the treadmill today(no, no sit down. please hold your applause) and turned up the volume on the borrowed I-pod of my ten year old suburbuspawn. I have established some criteria for the downloads(no bitches, ho's, or boy bands) but had yet to listen to her carefully considered selections. As her playlist unfolded I found myself running longer not wanting to miss this insight into her psyche. Alicia Keys led off, followed by Fergie, Pink, and Sara Barreilles. I found her picks to be heavy on the empowerment side of life, oddly strictly female leads(or maybe not odd at all.)

I have challenged this one since she was small enough to comprehend why things are the way they are, and are they really that way at all, or are our perceptions slanted by the lines we're fed and who exactly is feeding them to us. She wondered aloud at 6, why do they call it a game boy and not a game girl? Why is it Burger King and His story(history), what about Her story(herstory) and wouldn't that be an entirely different story all together? And most recently she wondered why for the first time in hundreds of years is it considered shocking that a woman is simply applying for the job of President? Don't get me wrong this girl of mine loves pink sparkly anything and is into(although not obsessed with) whatever latest Disney pop princess the factory has produced. But she gets it. She gets that "it's about the money mom, not the music". She loves school, but doesn't work well in groups; she always wants to be the leader(is it wrong to be proud of that?) And I love that when I'm wrong she tells me not only that she thinks so, but why she thinks so.

Raising girls today isn't easy, and I in no way pretend to have it figured out. But what I constantly am reminding myself is that I am raising her to be independent and successful at whatever she chooses. Whether she becomes a hairdresser like many a woman in my family or a maid; as was my career ambition for a large part of my childhood(let's hear it for attainable goals!). She is lucky to have a family full of strong women. Of sisters, mothers, aunts, and cousins who continue to prove that despite life's sometimes unfair circumstance you can roll with it and succeed. "Every problem has a solution", she is oft to tell me.

I heard someone the other day scolding his two year old "don't tell me no." But isn't that exactly what we should be teaching our little girls? Shouldn't they feel not only free to say no to drugs, boys, peer pressure and the monsters that lurk in the dark corners of any church, school, or family reunion, but empowered to do so? Shouldn't they feel like they're opinion matters, even if they're just a girl? The way I see it, the obedience(how I despise that word) will be beat into them with every progressive step into adulthood, and if we create a base of just enough defiance and thoughtful questions to "authority" they will hopefully attain a center of strength that will lead them to good choices and positive effect.

By "Go" I Mean "Stay"

2009-09-02T04:22:00.000-07:00

The toddler starts preschool this year. And by this year I mean yesterday. It's not really a surprise to me that I'm having a difficult time with this transition, however I wasn't aware that I may be physically unable to actually leave the parking lot. I don't know what I expected really, that she would run screaming from the building as I pull up curbside, fling the back door open, and peel out like we were knocking off a convenience store.

Actually, she ran into the building(imagine my surprise). She was so excited to find her cubby, meet her friends and teachers, and sit in her special chair. She chattered nonstop and smiled from ear to ear when she discovered the dress up clothes box(10:1 odds she'll be naked in the first two weeks; any takers?).

I acknowledge fully the "problem" lies with me and not her. I'm so not ready to have 2 school age children. The toddler would still be on the bottle if I had anything to say about it. And please don't give me any of that happy bull shizzle about how good school will be for her, and how it's so important to let them go and do things on their own. I miss my baby. I miss her now, I will miss her tomorrow, and I will miss her as she limps to her car with me clinging to her leg as she leaves for college.

Turn Over!

2009-08-29T04:57:00.000-07:00

He snores like a rusty wood chipping diesel powered saw. It’s like sleeping next to a constantly idling 1979 Harley Davidson that chokes and sputters it’s way through the sleepless (for me!) night. When confronted with the glaring reality of his ear splitting, decibel smashing, reverberating midnight orations I am met with a wide eyed, “who me?” stare wordlessly proclaiming his innocence. I slog through my morning searching with heavy lidded eyes for the caffeinated jolt Mr. Bright Eyed Bushy Tail was so kind to have readied.

His denials are vehement as though admitting to becoming a member of the society of snorers is some sort of character flaw. In my constant quest to prove myself right in any and all matters I decide to produce irrefutable physical evidence of his nightly serenade. I wait for him to fall asleep, I don’t have to wait long as he is one of those “as soon as his head hits the pillow” kind of guys; falling blissfully asleep with nary a worry running through his fade to black at the stroke of 10 mind. I, on the other pillow, contemplate all matters personal, local, and worldwide while flipping through the multitude of, never would admit in public I watch, celebrity reality shows on the 42 inch flat screen he swore he needed in the bedroom (although he has never made it to actually watch a full episode of anything after 9 as he falls under the hypnotic spell of the sleep by number bed he also swore he needed.)

I slink to the kitchen to find the hand held camcorder with the night vision feature. I realize using the night vision in the bedroom has proved quite profitable for many others who shall remain nameless (rhymes with Karis Kilton) but I, however, don’t think youtube would be interested in this green tinted, grainy version of a nearly forty(sorry dear, but it’s math not magic) husband and father of two snoring like Fred Flintstone after a long night swilling bronto brew at the water buffalo lodge. I sneak up to his side of the bed and capture the sought after footage and excitedly rouse him from his teeth rattling slumber. Ha! I got it! Look, you snore!! He groggily looks at me like I have lost what was left of my sleeplessly fried mind. Begrudgingly he views the playback.

I sit by full of vindication with the proof right in his little hand as he plays it over and over. He giggles and puffs up with testosterone infused pride that he can manage to irritate me while unconscious. He hands me the cam as I stand there hair mussed in my flannel jammies waiting for, well I’m not exactly sure what for, and says “Your right honey, I snore. Goodnight.”

I dejectedly amble back to the kitchen, pausing long enough to craft ear plugs out of cotton balls and wonder if I can soundproof the closet.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2009-08-20T01:46:00.000-07:00

When I was a full time stay at home mom it seemed I spent 98% of my time with hubby trying to get him to understand how incredibly challenging this job(J.O.B.) actually is. I implored him to acknowledge that it wasn't all picnics and play dates with pots of pink cotton candy waiting at the end of rainbow colored slides. It is work. With a capital hard. I begged him to trade places with me for just a day, betting the bread basket he wouldn't make it 3 Barney filled, dirty diaper laden hours. I insisted his "job" was like a vacation, that his day had a beginning and an end with lots of quiet, peaceful, tantrum-free moments in between. I usually began these discussions(pow-wows) about 11 at night, insistent we reach a "mutual" understanding(agreement on my supreme rightness) before sleep could even be considered. It might be worth it to mention that hubby never actually disagreed with me. He might have even expressed his gratitude once in a while(daily) for everything I did not just for the kids but for him too. He may have even, after a 12 hour day working outside in 90 degree heat; humidity at a solid 400%, offered to take care of the kids while I took a "mommy" moment(hot bath, cold wine, jumbo size bag of jelly beans. We all have our own versions of Utopia). I am even willing to acknowledge that he would, in addition to working 50 hours a week, help out around the house; where I would promptly complain that he wasn't cleaning the "right"(my) way.

Then our carefully planned lives took a detour through the porthole of parallel universes and we came out the other side like a husband and wife version of Freaky Friday. He's home, I'm at work. Simple enough, right? I mean if you don't mind questioning your existence and place in the world while trying to maintain a modicum of normality in your marriage and family life. Whatever, we're rolling with it as we'd prefer not to be run over by it. Now it is me who is up at the ass crack of dawn(I don't know who dawn is but I'd rather be completely unfamiliar with her ass crack); and not only dressed but wearing shoes and washing my hair before noon. It is me who leaves the house for 9 hours a day while he stays home with the little one. I come home exhausted and he greets me at the door not only with a smile but with happy children. No one is melting down, nothing is thrown at me, in fact I dare say they may even have a good time while I'm gone(ungrateful little heathens).

Trading places with hubby has proven what I have said all along. There should be compromise, respect, and support in a marriage. I just didn't necessarily realize I was the one who should've been listening. And to hubby I say this; cut, paste, and print because this is as close to an apology as your gonna get.

To Cut or Not To Cut

2009-08-12T06:25:00.000-07:00

To say that my relationship with my hair is love/hate is to indicate there is sliver of rational thought involved. A more accurate description of the give and get between myself and my follicular extension would be "Oh lifeless strands of straw why do you hate me so?" or "Dear follicular canvas of life why must you paint such a volatile vista?" My mother was a hairdresser during my formative hair don't years. Not a dreary weekend passed where altering our face framing locks was not considered a must "do". With every new technique learned came a perfect excuse to alter the follicular course of our universe. From pin curls to perms(who didn't love the 80's?), color to crimp it's beyond remarkable that I still carry an original hair on my head.

I often say my hair has multiple personality disorder. I change the cut, color, or style depending on my mood; or the phase of the moon. When Brittney went bald, I totally got it. I feel the same frustration a few times a month and frankly admire her lack of commitment to regular medication that apparently inspired her liberation from long locks. I have been every color of the rainbow from Loretta Lynn black to Sun-In orange. I have chopped it off after a knock down with hubby, and grew it long when I felt too vulnerable; hiding behind a hair curtain like Violet on the Incredibles(no, I have no adult film references). There was an unfortunate incident with an at-home highlight kit that when combined with my chlorinated summer quaff, left me looking like Suzy Lou Who on acid.

Those of us who have straight hair wish it were curly, and those of us who have curly hair wish it were straight(even if the rest of us just think they are ungrateful wenches). Our(my) identities are entirely too wrapped up in the fluff on our melons. Short cuts are often described as "sassy" and long locks "glamorous"; as though our dead, lifeless strands of DNA have a unique personality. Although on humid days I would argue mine is out to get me like a hit man halo. Once in a class on Death and Dying(tuition dollars hard at work!) when encouraged to write our own obituary and description of ourselves at the time of departure; 73% of the female students said their hair was "short and dyed blond". As though the only time we will follow our follicular hearts is when morbidly fantasizing about our own mortality. I believe the time has arrived to burn our proverbial bras and just do it ladies. To cut it, color it, or otherwise harm, maim, or injure our previously perfect pelo(hair for our non-Latina friends). Why not right? You only live once and if you're living like me, in a ponytail and bobby pins then I say do it. There no doubt will come a day that I question every poor, irrational, impulsive "decision" I made as the strands thin, and the color greys. For now, however, I say what are we waiting for? I'm rallying the beauty battle cry. And I don't want to be the only one on the "what was she thinking?!" list. Now if anyone knows a hairdresser that will offer margaritas and mojitos I'll meet you there...

Posted by edn at 11:21 AM 0 comments

Maybe It's Just Me

2009-08-04T18:46:00.000-07:00

This weekend we rented "He's Just Not That Into You". I loved it so much I decided I would begin working on the sequel, "He's Just a Total Assbag".

The Big V

2009-08-02T07:25:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I have initiated the conversation. The conversation that will inevitably occur when your last child is approaching school age and you are approaching middle age. The conversation that makes every man recoil in fear and apprehension. The mere mention of the word incites crotch grabbing and side ward glances among the brotherhood of ball bearers not seen since Lorena "the butcher" Bobbitt led the evening news. To snip or not to snip that is the question. The big V, the cut and run, the swimmer stopper; call it whatever you like.

Our youngest is 3. We feel like we are just beginning to emerge from the baby haze. The memories of sleepless nights, spit up, and stinky diapers are softened with time. I'm convinced our brains are wired to filter the recall feature of the first 3 months of your newborns life to ensure perpetuation of the human race. Right about the time you can leave your jeans buttoned all the way through dinner you start to over inflate your abilities to raise another human. You're sure this time would be totally different. You'd be the squat and pop mom. The mom who pauses only briefly from her highly organized life to secure the baby in it's sling while finishing the 5K. The mom who nurses while grocery shopping in shoes with a heel and full make-up. This time the baby would conform to your schedule. You would shower daily and the baby would not only sleep through the night, but do so in it's own room. I'm suffering from post toddler delusion.

Ultimately this is a decision less about him, more about me(aren't they all?). I don't feel even a little bit sorry for hubby having to go through the actual process. Three words; natural child birth. I figure he owes me. What I'm faced with considering however, is not about getting pregnant again but about not having another baby. Ever. That I have held my last newborn, snuggled my last milk scented neck, seen my last first smile, crawl, step. I wonder is that my inner voice(there are several) or is this something everyone who is or has ever wanted to be a mother feels?

I must remind myself that I should probably consult hubby when making decisions that involve a scalpel and his six shooter. This is a decision, maybe the only one, that I'm glad to not have to make on my own. Now I'm off to mix a Gin and Vicodin tonic to prepare him for news of his already booked appointment.

Grace

2009-07-30T17:02:00.001-07:00

Today, in one fell swoop, I'm reminded of my quickly advancing age, of my inability to rebound from injury, and my complete and utter lack of grace. Taking out the trash with a co-worker I was deeply engrossed in conversation when I suddenly and without warning disappeared from her eye line. I just fell. I didn't trip or stumble. Nor was I pushed. I fell. Yes, I fell like a big, giant, ton of 34 year old bricks. One minute I was talking to her and the next minute my ample ass was tumbling across the wide-open and obstruction-free parking lot. I sat(sprawled) briefly stunned taking inventory of all my moving parts. Realizing I had unfortunately not broken anything(which would've garnered sympathy instead of snickering) I oh so gracefully began to gather myself. Rolling over onto my hands and knees, shirt askew and shoeless I also realized the only thing more ungraceful than falling flat on your ass? Trying to get up off it.

Summoning what was left of my bruised ego, I limped inside all bloody-kneed and road-rashed; with asphalt staining my previously crisp white linen pants. I sit here with my doctored-up, Barbie bandaged boo-boos wondering; when exactly did walking become a complicated task? Once after an afternoon of jello shots and beer pong I did 37 cartwheels in a row, landing a round off that would've earned a 10 from even the toughest Russian judge. And now I can't put one foot in front of the other without drawing blood? Seriously.

The conclusion I reached? It really doesn't matter how cute your 3 inch Nine West wedge sandals are if you can't ambulate without injury.

Baby's Got Back

2009-07-28T03:34:00.000-07:00

I would like to speak to those of you who have trailed toilet paper from the heel of your Manolo(well we wish, more likely the BOGO at The Shoe Carnival); those who have gone out in public forgetting to comb the sausage roll curl out of your bangs. Those of you, and you know who you are, who on a dance floor gleefully went to embrace the girl wearing your identical pants only to realize it was a mirror; and share what we sisters can call a unifying uber-embarrassing moment. I joined the society of devastation at the beginning of this summer past.

Our neighborhood has a community pool. A place where friends and neighbors can gather wearing less than you would in any other socially-acceptable setting while pretending not to stare, compare, and take stock of what the president of the PTA must've paid for those pups she's stuffed into her hot pink two-piece.As the mother of a tween(must be said with the same disdainful dialect as if Buffy found a fly in her fois gras) and a toddler; going to the pool is less like lounging and more like bending, chasing, and running interference as the only safeguard between my fearless child and the nether region heretofore known as the deep end. As such while my pool attire should be less like swimwear and more like active wear, one wouldn't want to draw attention to oneself by standing out amongst the spandex set. I resigned myself to a hip-to-shoulder, full coverage, ruby-red Land's End number(more Bea Arthur than Baywatch).

One particularly sweltering summer day Hubby joined me and the kids at said pool. It was packed. Men, women, kids, teenagers trying to appear parent less, lying in various states of observation. Hubby was particularly attentive, remaining close behind my every step as if to say to all the unattached(chest out, hands on hips, oddly reminiscent of the Geico caveman) "This is MY woman, avert your longing glances." Feeling dainty and girlish with a sense of esteem not experienced since Molly Ringwald was the new IT girl, I was Susie-chats-alot. Waving to this one, gesturing to that. As we all became sufficiently sated with the serene blue water, hubby suggests we call it a day. I resist, he insists, off we go with a sweeping wave to the minions.

As we settle into the quiet of our coach Hubby leans in close for what I assume is a lazy afternoon-capping smacker. Up he looks with those baby blues and says, "Honey, it's your butt. You can see your entire butt through the bottom of your suit." I'm certain that if I remain motionless I will be launched into a parallel universe where butt-showing is not only commonplace, but encouraged. Though the ride home was short, the silence was deafening.

Back at the ranch I dared to go where no over-thirty worth her weight in Godiva dares to tread. The rear view of a full length mirror. Now ladies, if you have not attempted this ill-conceived feat in the last decade simply do NOT. The trauma centers are not equipped to handle the throngs that will descend if we try this life-altering gesture in unison. There it was, my bigger than I remember backside not even remotely disguised in my used-to-fit me suit of humiliation.With much trepadation Hubby pushes open the door, knowing full well what is said in the next two minutes will determine the way in which we will forever relate says, "We can sell the house if you want."

Sir Stompingham

2009-07-25T17:52:00.000-07:00

We refer to hubby as El Destructo, Sir Breaks-A-Lot, Busty Von Bustington. He is the proverbial Bull in the china shop. At 6 feet 5 inches this world was not made for him. He ducks his head, tucks his legs, splays instead of sits. His feet hang over the bed, his sleeves are too short, and he has to lean down to shower.He is like the Labrador lap dog; having no clue his limitations. It's ball's out or coma for hubby, no in-between in sight. Hubby met the now tween and I at a park in those get to know you days. They took to each other immediately and scampered off to test out the merry-go-round. Unaware of his own strength, and the laws of physics apparently, the first spin sent the now tween flying; landing with a thud in the mulch. He was devastated and cried more than she did(sorry honey but you did). To make up for it he volunteered to play Barbies with her. He took the Barbie fairy dancer in one hand, the pull cord in the other and after one ambitious pull the fairy danced no more.

We have 7 pillows on our bed. I use one. Last night I lay my head on the edge of his pillow so to better see this weeks reality edition of "we have a butt load of kids". Hubby comes in and starts grabbing pillows to "fluff" like he's Rocky working the bag. He grabs the edge of the pillow my delicate melon was perched upon and yanks it like Mr. Magnifico pulling the tablecloth from under the dish filled table. My head spun around reminiscent of Mr. Owl in the tootsie roll pop commercial(how many licks does it take you to get to the center?), and today I look constantly curious with my head in a perpetual lean.

The toddler seems to have inherited hubby's destruction gene. However much he refuses to acknowledge it, she bulldozes her way through life like a teeny tiny version of him. Her obstinance? Totally me. But her total annihilation of whatever happens to be in her path? Totally him. I love them both and am resigned to resting on blow up furniture with nerf knick-knacks for now...

Visa Misses Me

2009-07-25T11:44:00.000-07:00

I get my hair cut at great clips and my idea of a vacation is a buy one get one mani/pedi at the beauty college. I have foregone new; well new anything and count the neighborhood garage sale as a primary source of income. I only recently joined the world of cellular communication and am certain my phone is one step above two cans and a string. I wash out Ziploc baggies and repurpose aluminum foil. My hair dye comes in a box and I pay my colorist in vodka-tinis.

This sort of penny-pinching, deal-seeking, cost-saving behavior was not always in my repertoire. I used to buy a new car with every change in the season(come on, a convertible for the summer, and a truck for the winter makes sense right?). I once paid $54.00 for a pound of turkey due to a typo in the deli, but was too busy(lazy) to return to the store and claim the ten time overcharge. I once got into a bidding war on eBay for a pair of Ugg-ish boots and ended up paying more than I would have in the actual store(take that sherpa156). My handbags came with their own dust covers, my shoes were real leather, and my highlights cost more than my rent. Then hubby came into the picture.

I am a victim you see, a victim of the thrifty ways of my conservative spouse. He had the nerve to ask why there were clothes in my closet with tags still on them. He didn’t understand why you would charge dinner and pay interest for a month(or longer, whatever) on a steak that took you 10 minutes to consume. He didn’t believe in rent to own, had a credit card only for emergencies(seriously!), and paid cash for his car(singular). Since compromise is the key in any successful marriage(and under threat of monthly budgeting-what the hell?) I decided to give his way of thinking a go. Certain it was only a matter of time before he threw his hands up in defeat and bowed to the ultra consumerism that had, up to this point, been my philosophy.

After a few false starts(and cancelled credit cards), I started to see the point in not paying 35% interest on Taco Bell(I love my Mexican food but really it’s vapor in 2 minutes flat). I will never say that hubby was right, but I will say he was not entirely wrong. I still pay way too much for purses, but I get them at the outlet. I will never wear clothes that someone else has given away(I have a monogamous relationship with the crotches of all my pants thank you very much). However, there is some merit in a savings account(Cancun y’all!!). I love hubby for all his thrifty ways, and love him even more for understanding that yes, if you would like your head to remain on your shoulders it is necessary to spend 5 dollars for a cup of coffee.

Ch-Ch-Change

2009-07-18T16:38:00.000-07:00

The only thing scarier than not having a job is finding one. The initial ecstasy of achievement at being selected to fill a position is quickly replaced by the wide-eyed oh-holy-hellness realization that now I have to not only step outside my comfort zone but do so wearing pants with a waistband. I have to leave my routine, held dear(or loathed completely, depending on the day) for the last 4 years and wake up to an alarm clock, pack my lunch, AND wear make-up. Who are we kidding? On most days this would never happen before noon and now it must happen before 8 am? I’m not so sure I want to see more than one 6 in a day. However, happen it must and hubby and I are preparing to swap roles(much different, and a lot less fun, than role play) he being the domain keeper, fire stoker, child wrangler, and me; employed OUTSIDE the home.

I am intimately acquainted with the difficult job of staying at home with the kiddos. It’s harder than anyone who has never done it realizes for a multitude of reasons. The tasks are numerous, the rewards are few, and the demands are high. I have an endless well of respect for those who choose to do it and for those who have it chosen for them. I have more apprehension for hubby’s adaptation to the world of staying at home than I have for my adaptation to the working world. Those who fear the beast; slay the beast and he thinks it’s going to be easy. No matter how much I’ve tried to prepare him, his response is “I got this”. It’s the equivalent of running a marathon when you’ve trained zero, smoke a pack a day, eat Mexican the night before, and have tequila shooters for breakfast.

It’s been one week. It hasn’t been pretty, but we have survived. I try to reassure hubby that it will get easier, that there is nothing sexier than a devoted daddy. However, it’s as though someone put his biscuits in a ball jar and stored them high atop the shelf of depleted self-confidence. His esteem lived comfortably in the world of monetary provision. With that option stripped away, so was his swagger. Add to that an approaching birth year milestone, mentioning the year would be the equivalent of advertising my current weight (it’s all about respect yo), and here we have hubby in a full blown funk.

I stroke(his ego) and massage(his confidence). I tell him(and actually mean it) how much I appreciate him. He’ll get better at this, and unlike me, will probably do it without gaining 20(or so, shut up) pounds. It’s likely he will be better at this in a month and a half than I was. Ever. It’s like with anything new, it takes a lot of patience(chocolate and margaritas). In the mean time I will insist he play ball, tattoo something, lift heavy things, and I will pretend to be unable to open the pickle jar. I say this with utmost respect, honesty, and admiration; hubby you’re a total DILF.

6 Years and Counting

2009-07-12T10:14:00.000-07:00

This weekend hubby and I celebrated 6 blissful(well mostly bliss but some stress with a side of what the hell? too) years of matrimony. As we sat on the balcony of a new favorite haunt slinging back $2.50 Sam Adams(I Know! I had 6!) I reflected upon the day(s) 6 years ago that started this whole crazy train.

This is the second go round for hubby and I. We both gave it the traditional hoo-rah the first time and this, we knew, would be the last time so we decided to just have a good time; and fly to Jamaica for the all inclusive(endless rum runners served by handsome Jamaican boys poolside for 3 days/4 nights? Sign. Me. Up.) wedding-moon. I took care of the planning, prepping, and packing because it's just what I do; and off we went for our pre-flight night stay at an airport hotel.

6 am arrives, and we bid a skin-crawling farewell to our no-tell motel and board the airport shuttle. We arrive at the international counter bright-eyed and eager where the clerk asks us for our passports or birth certificates. This is where I have the first of what will turn out to be several "Oh Shit" moments ; realizing I have neither. I'm not really sure how I thought I was going to gain entrance to the FOREIGN LAND of Jamaica with no documentation but as Clarise the ticket counter girl quickly pointed out; it would not be happening today. I no doubt was an amazingly convincing spectacle in full on ugly cry mode; snot running, incoherent sobbing and all. Alas it was not to be as we headed back to our hometown health department to obtain proper documentation.

The next day, after another lovely stay at the "Free Crabs with Every Overnight Stay!" motel we managed to actually board an aircraft with little sobbing involved. We buckle in, confident we are on our way to start our No Worries Mon vacay. Now maybe I should point out that I am not the best flyer. I think it would be a good idea to actually meet the pilot pre-flight, check his resume, administer a portable breath test, and inquire as to the health of his heart, his job, and his personal life before entrusting him to hurtle me through the atmosphere at 300 miles an hour. However, since this is generally frowned upon I settle for a Seabreeze/Xanex cocktail to get me from point A to point B. Hubby knows this, and claims this is why he neglected to mention that we would be flying through the red swirling eye of a hurricane to get to our destination. As we began our decent I notice the flight attendants take their seats and buckle in; never a good sign. I begin to hear dings and bells and notice concerned looks cross the faces of my fellow passengers. We began to dip and sway with a little side to side shake thrown in. I, white knuckled and sweating, ask hubby through clenched teeth "Why dear God did we not just go to the courthouse?!" Count this as the second "Oh Shit" moment of our trip. We landed safely and I vowed to ramp up my cocktail for the ride home.

We found our Sandals Shuttle, which was really a converted school bus with shag carpeting and a chandelier, and boarded grateful that these dreadlock-having, peace pipe-loving boys would not be flying us anywhere. Rasti, our driver, started out the 2 hour trip by telling us a little bit about transport in this fine country by saying, "the right side is the left side and the left side is the suicide." Great, glad we got that straight. I look over to my soon to be betrothed and nod knowingly that the worst part is surely over. Because the trip is long, hot, and bumpy there are road side "rest stops" where we were happy to stop and regroup. We disembarked, I look cautiously around at the groups of natives and watch hubby go off through the swinging doors to the restroom followed by no fewer than 4 of the locals. I panic slightly wondering if I will ever see my soon to be again, wondering should I bust in to the bathroom? Call the authorities(seriously, who am I kidding?), Cry(yes, that's the solution genius)? Hubby reemerges after what seems like an eternity, wide-eyed and eager to board the party bus. I look at him after we are safely on our way and ask what the hell happened back there? Where he proceeds to tell me he had to give them $20 bucks for the "I'm sure that isn't oregano" bag of "Welcome to Jamaica" they so kindly pressed into his palm. Count this as moment number 3 as I imagine the Rastafarian loving swat team that was sure to descend upon us any moment now. Your welcome to whomever sat in that seat after us; the good time you had was on us.

We finally arrived, and have never been so grateful for free cocktails in all our lives. The wedding went off the next day(a day late and totally my fault) without a hitch. And it's been smooth sailing(comparatively speaking) ever since. Yeah Mon.

Daddy Day Care

2009-07-07T06:55:00.000-07:00

The zoo is one of our favorite things to do in the summer. Maybe its the kinship I feel with the momma elephants, the sisterhood I feel with the round-rumped rhinos; or maybe it's that I can totally relate to the momma monkeys grooming all those in sight with babies on her back. Likely it's an afternoon diversion for all of us and a peaceful ride home as the kiddos sack out all crooked and peaceful; content for at least 60 miles(I'll take it!).

As we packed and prepped yesterday; hubby and I shared duties. I loaded bags, coolers, sunscreens, DVDs, and car games. I stuffed snacks, brushed heads, color coordinated, and charged phones, cameras, and IPods. Hubby paced, spinning slightly as I sped past, scratching his head in wonderment as to what this whole process entails; I asked him to get her shoes. We loaded up and headed out.

Upon arrival I see my stocking-footed babe clambering into the stroller and look perplexed first to her feet, then to my hubby. Shoes? Anyone? Anyone bother to shod our child? For a long day at the zoo? Anyone? Bueller? He forgot shoes(Yes you did. Yes you did. It's my blog and I say you did). He who will soon be the primary caregiver of toddler and tween for no fewer than 40 hours a week. My, oh my this will be an interesting ride.

So if you see my children at the park, the mall, or the zoo and they look like they have dressed themselves in the dark and combed their hair with kitchen utensils please don't call the authorities; it's just daddy day care.

Happy Father's Day

2009-06-21T07:07:00.000-07:00

Today I will wander the aisles of the hardware store for hours unquestioningly without inquiring as to what exactly he intends to do with a super-mega-titanium infused-diamond bladed-power whatever. I will avert my narrowed, slightly judgemental gaze as he reaches for the fourth Smithwicks before noon. I will not criticize his selection of entertainment even though I really can't see how 4 hours of golf can be considered entertainment. I will let him nap frequently, snore noisily, and scratch randomly. I will fix a dinner of bone on ribs with a side of steak and a jerky dessert. I will rent, and watch eagerly, something with a car chase and explosions. I will not ask why he leaves his wet towel on my side of the bed, or why he has different versions of the same flip-flops for different tasks, or why he hangs clean clothes on every corner in our room(he might want to wear them later in case you were wondering). I will not nudge, push, or nag. I will smile, be sweet and agreeable(even if it kills me); the entire 24 excruciating hours of this day. Happy Father's Day dear. I hope you rest up for tomorrow.

Play Ball

2009-06-17T18:06:00.000-07:00

Growing up summer meant softball. I played every year I was eligible and loved every, well most every(my dad was coach after all), minute of it. Generally played first base, wasn't shy with the bat, it's likely I peaked at age 13; this I've come to terms with. I am now seeing the sport from the other side of the proverbial backstop as my oldest decided to play this year.

I encourage my kiddos to try everything. The tween is a smart kid, most often found with her nose buried deep between the pages of whatever she can get her hands on. She loves school and excels at most every subject she sets her sights on. Sports, however, not her forte. This she acknowledges laughingly, accepting of her strengths and aware of her not so strengths. This year though she wanted to play, and so she is. Her career will not be made between the chalk lines but she loves it. And as a parent I find myself so stressed on the sidelines I've considered taking up smoking.

It's clear the umpires of this particular league are working their own agenda. The calls have been so blatantly biased against our team I often gawk open-mouthed at the field sure I'm being punked. I get it that we're supposed to be teaching our girls good sportsmanship and to be in it not just to win it, but to have fun. Here's where I toe the line. At what point do umpires stop the game to take cell phone calls and we as parents just watch quietly; forbidden to object or protest under threat of forfeiture. It's outrageous. It's not in my nature to idly watch any type of injustice occur without doing something. I fight the momma bear urge that flames deep within my belly to charge the field. Mostly because my tween would never talk to me again.

Tonight as I sip my Sam Adams, unwinding from a stressful YOUTH softball game I find myself wondering how do you just let it go? It's silly, I realize, to be this fired up. Yet here I sit. It's not that they lost, it's that we are supposed to be teaching these young women to conduct themselves with integrity and confidence. As the leaders in this game they should be shown that it matters how you play, not who you play. I pat her on the back and tell her to just let it go; that you play your game and the rest doesn't matter. I tell her to keep her head up and play hard and the rest will fall into place. As I seethe, shocked at my internal struggle. That's it, next game Xanex are on me!

Let's Lighten the Mood

2009-06-01T18:02:00.000-07:00

As only a toddler can express herself.

Curveball

2009-06-01T14:08:00.000-07:00

So I have moved through this recent "recession" with a smug sort of employed indifference. Terrible, yes. But not affecting me directly. Sorry for them, yes. But we're managing OK. Then fate hit me between the eyes with a rusty nail-spiked 2X4. Layed off is a gentle way to put totally not employed. For the last 4 years we have relied on hubby as our single solitary source of income. I stay home with the kiddos while they(she) is little, then maybe when she goes to school, I'll go back to work. Funny now as I look back at the arrogance with which I thought I had a choice. Hubby came home wide-eyed, and terrified more of telling me I think than of the actual news. Layed off.

I was pissed at first. Really pissed. You had one responsibility, I thought. To maintain employment. Ugly isn't it? But true. I was mad. I asked him to just give me a day. To process, be pissed, resent him completely. He loves me enough to do just that. Then we got down to the business of figuring it out. What we(the operative word) are going to do. The first thing we decided was to not panic. It would be different if it were just he and I. We can put up with a whole lot of Ramen noodles. But when you look into the innocent, expectant faces of your children your stomach recoils like you just crested the first hill of the Beast.

So we did what any rational, recently unemployed person would do; we headed to the lake house(ours by way of marriage). It's amazing what you can figure out while staring out at the water. As we got into town we stopped at the Bait and Beer, the perfect his and hers shop for us. I stayed in the car with the kiddos and noticed a truck pull up next to me rather expeditiously. I glanced over and saw a middle aged man hop out and head to the passenger side. He grabbed the hand of the man, must've been his father I assumed, to help him out. I couldn't avert my eyes as this younger version of the older he aided; ambled into the store. The man was wearing a baseball cap, covering his too thick and unkempt silver hair. It was warm out that day but the winter fleece he was wearing hung from his bony shoulders past his too baggy jeans. He shuffled along, arms unmoving at his side, staring straight ahead as if through sheer will he was moving forward. His skin was waxy and yellowed indicating to me, end stage of something unspeakable. A last fishing trip.

I looked in the back seat at my round little girls and watched my husband bound out of the store; healthy. And knew there are worse places to be than where we are now. What we're going to do, I'm not exactly sure. But I do know that whatever it is we will do together.

Green Thumb, Fierce Shoes

2009-05-13T05:47:00.000-07:00

Innocence Lost

2009-05-08T05:26:00.000-07:00

Since the weather has finally turned and spring is breathing life into our stale winter souls we have been outside soaking up the not quite hot sun as much as daylight will allow. The minute the little ones' feet hit the floor it's outside she wants to go. Happy to oblige, and thankful for the neighborhood park outside our back door off we have gone. Walking down the sidewalk she is a sight as she pushes her baby stroller with her naked dolly safely tucked inside, her wild blond curls flying every which way. We were on our third park trip of the day as I gratefully calculated how early I would tuck her in from her "all day park adventure" exhaustion.

As we arrived she excitedly commented that her "friends" were there. Any child playing at the park automatically becomes her friend, whether they know it or not. We approach and I immediately notice this isn't the regular park crowd, but rather a collection of wounded innocents banded together in play with heavy, slouched shoulders and eyes that have seen way too much in their short little lives. There is a woman in our neighborhood who has selflessly dedicated her life to fostering kids with special needs. Whether they are victims of abuse or neglect they find solace, albeit temporary, in her loving home. At the park today was a boy of about 7. As he stood sideways he looked no different than my child or yours. But when he turned his head I could hardly avert my, all too familiar to him I'm sure, pitiful stare. The entire side of his face was swollen black and blue. His eye was black and sealed tight with injury. His jaw unrecognizable and distorted as though a victim of stroke. As he swung he casually told his story as though reciting what he had for lunch; his dad was angry that he didn't return home from a friends house on time and felt he needed to be punished. Sickened I thought this certainly isn't the first time and the scars this boy will carry are visible to none of us. We played with him and all the other children as though it were another typical day at the park and my heart wasn't breaking for him; all too aware that these "normal" days at the park are few and far between for this young boy.

Before having my littlest one I volunteered for an agency advocating for the needs of abused and neglected children. I held little ones crookedly as their casted broken limbs made even cuddling difficult. I testified in court that this parent was unfit, that this child would certainly face only further abuse if returned to the home. There were times reunification was the best option and leading the parent to the help they needed to create a safe home for their much loved children was tremendously rewarding. However, I found it increasingly difficult to look into those wounded faces and not see my own child. I took a break feeling like I had let every one of them down but knowing my limits; always with the thought that I would go back when I was strong enough to fight the fight.

It has become all too common to read in the paper or see on the news the latest child to succumb to their parents fits of rage. Most recently a 3 year old little girl whose life was lost at the hands of her mother's boyfriend. I hear it, close my eyes and thank God they will face no more abuse. As I open my eyes I see myself sitting there with 2 healthy, happy children in a safe, loving home and feel so much guilt that I'm not doing my part to help those children who deserve as much love and care as my own. I don't think I have the luxury of choice anymore. There are so many children who need us to be their voice, because no one hears them. We owe it to all the children in our community to do what we can to provide them safe passage not even into adulthood but at least adolescence. Consider becoming a CASA with me; everyone can do something to help save the life of a child.

Grouchland

2009-05-04T10:40:00.001-07:00

Try as I might(which really isn't very mightily) I'm not always my usual chipper, positive, happy-go-lucky self(shut it, who asked you anyway?). Sometimes I'm a bit crabby, cranky, grumpy, even grouchy. Today happens to be one of those days(left over resentment from my mope-filled weekend at the neighborhood garage sale). After receiving an email chain letter imploring me to list all that I am grateful for, I deleted it and decided to make my own list.

Things I hate and am not at all grateful for:

Chain emails. Although I am a huge fan of regular chain letters and if I received one in the mail I would happily sit down, with a stack of paper and a multi-color pen, writing out in my big, fat, loopy long-hand verbatim copy of all the ills that will befall you if you don't keep the chain going.
Half full boxes of fast food french fries. Seriously, it's my business how many arteries I want to clog with these greasy, salty gifts from the cholesterol Gods so be a good little burger flipper and give me every calorie I paid for.
Rain soaked pant cuffs. There is nothing worse than wet denim. Kind of like when you wore your best jean shorts on the log ride at Kings Island and spent the rest of the day trying not to chafe all of your girly parts from the hundred pound denim sandpaper now suspended from your waist.
Mirrors. Full length ones.
Nutrition information on chocolate. Seriously if I really cared would I be eating it? There is no need to remind me that a serving is a piece; not a box.
Deodorant that doesn't work. It may have worked for nearly the entire tube you've already used, but there will come a day when it just decides, "You know what, I have kept you stink free for nearly 3 weeks; I think today I will let your natural fragrance flow. Just to remind you how much you need me." Ungrateful little deodorant jackass.
Bras. I really hate bras. I have considered becoming a marathon runner so I would no longer actually require one. But then I learned how much work it is to have 2% body fat and suddenly strapping myself with under wire and metal hooks all for the sake of perkiness didn't seem like such a terrible idea.
Telephones.
Animal people. You know, people dressed like animals. Elmo, Barney, all those characters that went off the air like 15 years ago now doing time at amusement parks. With their freakishly large heads and crazy, jacked-up smiles. Waving with giant hands as they reach for your cowering children to draw into their stinky, furry, armpitty abyss. Yeah, I hate that.
Magicians.
The inventor of the pap smear. There simply must be a better way. Or consider if there were actually compensation for the completion of your yearly. Compensation and mood lighting. With a nice little bottle of Riesling as a parting gift. Or swag bags. Swag bags full of sparkly, silver-lined spa products, gourmet biscuits and jordan almonds. Someone should really consult me.
Puns.

Come on, it feels great! Tell me what you hate. Unless you're going to say this blog in which case I will tell you I totally saw that coming and you should be a little more creative.

Little Ears

2009-04-25T19:29:00.000-07:00

She was soaking in the tub tonight after a long hard day of soccer, sand, and bubble blowing. Filthy she was, so we let her soak a little longer as we lingered outside the door to listen. Listening to a three year old talk to herself is fascinating, if slightly head spinning, as she jumps from one topic to another. "Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles, I love snakes. No I don't love snakes I love juice. And milk, but not the white kind, the chocolate kind. And ice cream with sprinkles but not too many I said! Twinkle, twinkle little SOAP..." When she began to play with hubby's bar of soap. She was making "roads" and singing "scrub a dud, scrub a dud" about 150 times in a row when he stepped in and said, "OK that's enough. That's daddy's soap." I pulled him aside and quietly said, "Let her play with the soap. She's not going to always want to play with the soap, someday she will be too old to find a bar of soap entertaining for long. And on that day you will look at me longingly like you did today at Target when you saw that newborn baby girl all chubby cheeked and pink just begging to be squeezed, and say, "I wish she still played with soap." And besides it cost like 35 cents you soap scrooge, so lay off." "Fine, fine", he conceded "let her play with the soap." She called to him and in he stepped expectantly. She said, "daddy I think you owe me an apology for the whole soap incident." Little ears always listening.

Damn Bird

2009-04-20T20:38:00.001-07:00

A jolly round and fat momma robin has decided the interior of our garage is the prime piece of real estate for nest building. Much too late for any of us to notice, she also decided to furnish her nest with 2 bright blue eggs. Inside the garage. Where according to all sources on the Internet she must then perch upon them for the next 2-4 weeks. Inside the garage. Much debate has occurred in our family as to how we can let momma robin incubate the eggs while still maintaining some level of security at the ranch. We decide to, rather than leave the door wide open all night(and ensuring I don't get a wink of sleep), leave it open a smidgen at the bottom. Momma has a passageway and we don't get robbed, pillaged, and plundered.

Hubby has two responsibilities in our house; doors and trash(well besides that whole primary and solitary source of income thing). So tonight as the house bedded down and we nestled in for a little one on one time(watching Discovery channel's "Davinci's Masterpieces"; seriously), I inquired as to the state of security in our casa. As he does every night he assured me all was locked in, buckled down, and zipped up tight. I switched the channel to Chelsea Lately, he passed out, and I got up to check. Just as I thought, the garage door was wide open. I closed the garage/house door to ensure a quiet environment for adjusting the overhead door. To quickly realize the garage/house door was locked. Now, we don't lock the garage/house door as I do not currently nor have I previously held a key to this particular door.

I stood in the garage in my pajamas which on this particular night happened to include bottoms(your welcome) and debated my options. Since waking up the neighbors or children were not on the short list I decided to go outside and gently tap on the bedroom window with a screwdriver to hopefully rouse hubby before I got arrested. Mid rap I see the blinds quickly shake and hubby's saucer size eyes peer between the slats. I ran back in the garage before I got a BB in the back and hoped he figured it out. After what seemed like an eternity(although he was probably just changing his shorts!) he let me in, and I let him have it as momma smugly watched from her nest.

??

2009-04-19T20:05:00.001-07:00

So here's what I'm wondering. At what point did Burger King decide it was a good idea to use Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" to sell kid's meals? Is there a conference room at the castle filled with eager execs whereby someone suggests using raps ode to ass as a great way to get the kiddies on board? The song goes(and I know because I love it) "...When a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist, and a round thing in your face, you get sprung". Did Billy the intern raise his hand and say "I've got it let's talk about booty and boners and the chicken tenders will just fly off the shelves!".

Now I'm all in for illicit content. A song about thongs? Totally there. Salt and Pepa's "Push It" is first on my I-pod rotation. But seriously, to sell kids meals? Time and place people, time and place.

Twitter Redux

2009-04-19T07:42:00.000-07:00

I posted on this dear site not long ago about my reluctance to enter the world of Twitter. It didn't really seem right for me, seemed a little out there, seemed a bit much; for about 3 minutes. Then I fell in love. Seriously, micro-blogging. A blip at any point in the day to touch base with your beloved, your posse, celebrities who will never know who you are. I'm so in. I wish you all would join me there. Try it, you might love it. Install the tweetdeck and there's a sweet little "ding" every time someone updates their twitter OR facebook status. Follow me at @erinnichols44. Happy Tweeting!

Momshell

2009-04-19T07:11:00.000-07:00

While slowly poring over the last tangible vestige of information gathering this morning, I came across an article on Moms. Always interested since I am one, it took no more than a few sentences to incense me. A full article on the "new" mom(seriously new? how many reincarnations can there really be?), the "momshell". You know an adorable little play on words; from the original "bombshell". Moms apparently who are so gorgeous we have to invent new words for them. Experienced and "real" moms like Jessica Alba and Nicole Richie. Moms who do their own cleaning, with no outside help I'm sure, and hardly any free time to go to the gym, and limited(damn recession) resources for hair/makeup/manis/pedis.

Listen, I have nothing against this mom. I fantasize about being her at least 17 times a day. I think that just being a mom is a little miracle in itself not a one of us should take for granted, and any old way you can do that task well; then by golly more power to ya! However, where my problem lies is with the constant pressure heaped upon this grand group of dames. Not only are we supposed to raise socially aware, morally responsible, ecological conscious little humans but we are supposed to be the neighborhood hottie too? Add to that a job outside the house, a hubby/partner, even one interest of your own... forget about it.

I am not the mom who wears a cardigan and jewelry to the playground. When I wear make-up the children gather around, gaze up, and shield their eyes as though they are observing a solar eclipse. Most days I do well to make it out of jammy pants by noon. I look on to those moms who seem to have a handle on it all and think; "what is she on and I wonder if she'll share". I admire them and am wise enough to realize it will never be me. I am generally a mess in athletic shorts and tenny's as I'm always hopeful my feet will meet the treadmill at some point in the day(always prepared!).

I'm quite sure there are more than a few laps between me and the new momshell. However, can't whatever it is we are orchestrating in our own little orbits be enough? A little leeway, understanding, and support go a long way. Momshell? Not so much. Mom? Quite enough.