My fantasy WILL CRUSH your fantasy

I was prattling about Twitter one day
Chatting in my catty, catty way
When I was taken by surprise
By a blogging blogger guyyy...
And it got me to avoid work all day!

More to the non-rhyming point, the Beehive's witty and ever-so in touch Mike Osegueda (elsewise known as Oz) threw it out to his tweets (twitter friends) that we should have a Fresno Blogger Bowl-- a blogger's fantasy football League.

I sent him some smart alec-y comment, as is my wont, and he replied: "you wanna represent the CVMoms? Seriously."

With that kind of smack-talk, how could I NOT represent? I'd show him! I'd stuff it in all those bloggers gaping maws the excellence that is my fantasy prowess!

After some detailed explanations that involved a flow chart and a few Venn diagrams, I came to understand that there is fantasy, and there is football, and then there is the space where the two collide.

In this event, I would be picking out several players based on a thing called a DRAFT (which is neither a beer nor an architectural drawing of any sort) that play for REAL teams, and tracking their season-long awesomeness. And then how well my players do compared to the other bloggers' loser players is how my team will crush the will to live out of my opponents.

My preliminary list included several Brazilian players (they always win) and of course the entire Spanish team.

And then I was "informed" that the game based on AMERICAN football. Not the European kind, which is called SOCCER here.

I knew that.

I was just checking to see if THEY knew that.

I have a friend who plays Canadian football which is a lot harder than the American version (fewer downs and more yardage) but the wussed out rules limit me from drafting him either. And that's too bad, because he is a world famous football player in Canada.

And so I will go next week to a meeting of the other bloggers (aka team managers) for the draft.

Based on my amassed sports/football wisdom, I know two things: First, smack talk is the key to total victory. Anyone who's ever seen the classic sports movie knows this to be true. The Karate Kid? All the Right Moves? The Bad News Bears? 'Nuff said. So I will be certain to work on my smack-talking skills. They're right up there with my bow staff and nunchuk skills.

Second, forget all the quarterback hoobidy-doobidy (technical term); if I wan to win, I need a good kicker. And as kicking involves the ankles, I will try to find the player with the biggest ankles. I've already begun scouring Google images.

And so I am set. My homework is ahead of me, I'm clear on my path, and my team-- the StarRainbowUnicorns-- will lead CVMoms to victory!!

OhGAWD-- That's ME?!

My biggest fear about growing old was growing boring. As I watched my parents age, it seemed to me they never did ANYTHING. I mean, they went to school events and drove us places. They went to church. But they never actually DID anything, you know, FUN. And from my 13-year old perspective, it seemed like all the married couples I knew—like my parents friends who came over most Saturday nights for dinner—were exactly like my folks. They, too, eventually entered this great long boring phase, comprised solely of raising a family.

It felt like my parents had given up on life. Like suddenly, they didn’t care about the world, but rather, had become more content simply existing in it. They were always tired, always busy with horrible things like work and cleaning and my siblings. They didn’t do anything. They were just married. Therein lied the excitement of life: Wake, shuttle, work, home, clean, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Upon recognizing this pattern, my 13-year old self decided I would be different. I decided would not be like my parents—not in that way. There had to be more to life. I could be famous! I could live in foreign lands! I could DO ANYTHING!

Fast forward 25 years—to a time when I can actually reference my past in epoch-like chunks, aka, NOW.

My life does not revolve around my kids. It IS my kids. Lots and lots of kids. Whether driving kids, or attending functions for kids, or worrying over kids, or helping kids fall back to sleep or making food for kids or cleaning up after kids or shuttling kids from place to place… In general: Kids.

My life is also my partner, whom I am grateful to spend quality time with between the hours of 10:30 p.m. and 5:45 a.m. Time which sometimes includes conversation; usually about 5 minutes of reading; and generally 7 hours of near-constantly interrupted sleep (see previous paragraph).

My life is also work. Like most people, I work for money, which pays for living expenses. Living expenses, you know, like water and food and a place to live and gas and clothing, and more food. For kids.

I sometimes lay wake and examine our life, and I wonder how I missed the left at Albuquerque.

I didn’t understand that all the boring that I saw in my parents’ world was the gap created by what my parents had given up for me. They gave up on the FUN things and became dull because they were good parents.

I was late in this realization-- it came in labor, actually, mid-push-- that when you have kids, you are no longer the center of your universe. You simply cannot be your primary focus AND still be an engaged parent.

Because part of being an engaged parent means shuttling kids around. And worrying. And working so they have food and clothes. And cleaning and cooking so they grow and are fed and yadda yadda yadda.

And even though I do all these boring, boring, ungawdly boring things, I realize didn’t end up like my folks after all.

See, all those other married couples I knew? They were my parents’ friends. Yeah—my parents had FRIENDS. People that came over for dinner, or that went on family vacations with us. People they laughed with and with whom they enjoyed conversations—ACTUAL grown-up conversations.

When was the last time my partner-in-crime and I had anyone over for dinner?

When was the last time we were social outside our little family unit?

*crickets*

Our kids may be the sun in our world, but even the Earth needs the moon to function effectively.
Clearly, I need to start acting like my parents’ type-of boring.

Help a Mutha Out: Random notes on saving money

My ridiculous MUST SAVE MONEY FOR GAS price shopping has taken me across town to all kinds of stores, clipping coupons from the paper, scouring sales ads in print and online and hunting high and low in-market to find the best deals available.

It's not that I am cheap.

It's that I hate finding out I spent too much.

That, and... okay, I'm cheap.

Recent discoveries:

Inexpensive Vegetative Perfection
- The awesome fruit stand at Willow & Herndon: I do all my veg shopping at non-grocery outlets lately. This stand is my constant. Why? Fantastic quality. Amazingly low prices. Local fruits and veggies. From onions and garlic to strawberries --YES! STRAWBERRIES!-- to green beans and squash and tomatoes to nectarines and peaches, this stand has everything my family eats without having traveled across half the country to get to my table. It is actually RIPE. I mean, tomatoes are RED (not orange). And the price is excellent.

Food & FREE Family Entertainment
- Clovis Friday Night Farmers Market: I'm a little late with this, as it is apparently a summer activity and will be ending soon BUT, if you have a free night (like say, tonight), check it out. Old Town Clovis has an amazing, block-long farmers market with music and food stalls and lots and lots of produce. It's a great family event and, if you want to go indoors for a bit of history, check out the Clovis Museum on the corner of Pollasky and 4th.

COFFEE!
- Trader Joes: I like good coffee. Peets? Starbucks? Two words: OVER THEM! The coffee is nice, but expensive and frankly, I'm not THAT big of a fan. My best coffee-by-the-pound find in terms of quality, price, and good JuJu can be found at Trader Joes.

First, the coffee is Fair Trade, which means the middle man was removed from the haggling process, and the grower (who does all the work) actually gets more money for the product. Second, it's organic. I'm a fan of organic. 'Nuff said. Third, it is great coffee, availale in a variety of roasts all for about $5.99 per pound. And for a caffeine hound like me? That, friends, is the perfect coffee storm.

Cheap Finds
- Winco: Hunting for the best deals, grocery-wise, I've recently turned to two places for non-veg items. Winco is one of those awesome rediscoveries. First, for name-brand products and dairy items, they have really good prices (that are r-bst free, too). Second, I make lunches for my kids. I load up on chips here, as well as bread and now... LUNCH MEAT.

I don't do bologna or Oscar Meyer packaged sandwich meats, but not for snobbery or health reasons (which, for my character, either would be fitting). Truth be told, I love bologna, or did when I last had it at age 12. Nothing was quite as delicious as bologna on white bread with mayo and mustard, and a bit of green leaf lettuce. Unfortunately heath class ruined my ability to ingest such ambrosia, when I learned that scientific scrutiny of such meat revealed bits of cockroach and other non-meat items in said preformed "meat."

So if I wanted a deli sandwich, I relied on the roasted, sliced $5+ per pound items in the glass case.

Until recently.

In the meat case, one can find small hams and whole roasted turkey breasts available.These are much, MUCH cheaper than buying presliced deli meats. "Yes," you say, "but they are WHOLE. I like it sliced, and when I try to slice it, the meat ends up in slabs. Eew."

To you I say, "deli counter." And when your puzzled face makes that little-tilted, wde-eyed grunt of non-understanding, I say, "Take your small ham or roasted turkey breast to the deli counter and ASK THEM TO SLICE IT FOR YOU." Because they will. And cheese, too.

The price on Jennie-O whole turkey was $2 less per pound than the stuff in the deli case. And cheaper than the Oscar Meyer Deli select stuff by about the same margin.

The ham was also about that much less per pound.

I found better deals on brick cheese, too. The deli staff is more than happy to slice these items for you, and you will end up saving enough for maybe a gallon of gas... depending on how much you buy, of course.

- Vons: In short, MEAT. Watch for their sales. They have in-paper coupons and amazing 2-for-1 sales that, at the right time, are the best I've found. Recently, I got buy-one-get-one-free on packaged ground turkey.

So okay, Moms. I've shared my finds. But I NEED yours! If I'm going to be able to feed and clothe six kids in the current economic environment, i'll need all the help I can get.

Any advice you can share??

How not to manage your finances

1) Visualize that your ATM card is connected to a gigantic pit of money.

2) Use the little transaction record book to balance out the wobbly leg on your kitchen table.

3) Go out to movies, buy new clothes, and sign up for online services. Often.

4) Tattoo your social security number on your bicep and then just hold your arm steady in front of people as often as possible.

5) Open as many credit card accounts as is possible, and max them out instantly.

6) Repeat step 5.

7) Toward the end of the pay cycle, decide lack of food in the house means it is a good time to begin eating out. For every meal. Repeat loudly and often: Cooking? What’s that?

8) Make sure your spouse has similar spending habits (easier for finger pointing)

9) The day before payday, as your checking account is showing a balance of $1.06, vow to get super financially responsible.

10) Celebrate payday by taking the family to Flemmings.

Faces of Goodbye

The blood pulsed through my head like a bullet train.

I was sitting on the floor in the bathroom, staring at my wall but not really seeing it. The little plastic stick sat feather-like in my hand, yet the blue plus sign at its tip weighed a thousand tons. My vision was swirling as my world capsized: I was too young. I had nothing. I wasn’t ready. My largest dream come true stared at me, all I ever wanted poised, ready for the larger embrace-- the most perfect and frightening thing in the world-- and still my brain screamed WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

I was 22. I’d just graduated from college as a drama major. I had a part-time job at a bank, I was living in Los Angeles, taking acting classes and attempting half-heartedly to get an agent.

Those dreams were gone with the wave of a wand (albeit through a stream of urine). I rose from the floor and splashed off my face. My eyes were huge and dilated with shock. “Goodbye,” I whispered, and walked out the bathroom door and into my new life.

___

It’s 1987. My sister has just burst into my bedroom and woken me from a light sleep; she squeals with delight and shoves her left hand in my face. The giant rock illuminates the darkness as she announces the news that she is planning a fall wedding.

And then we’re in the kitchen toasting the happy couple My father calls him “son.” We order a pizza and laugh over the proposal story and I watch my sister as she walks on air. Her dream has come true, she is marrying her prince.

My parents are elated for my sister’s happiness; their smiles are rich and genuine. We say our goodbyes as the couple drives off into the night, my sister high as a kite, and my parents now strangely silent.

___

Her eyes are large and teary. She lays on the gurney waiting for the orthopedic surgeon to come in and deliver the news which she knows can’t be good. Her largest fear, her darkest nightmare has come to pass and though she tries her best to lay still, the muscle spasms increase her pangs of anxiety.

Blind and permanently on oxygen, my 91 year-old grandma lays fearfully as the world speeds by. Her day began with the anticipation of church and lunch with my mother, and was interrupted by a fall and a trip to the emergency room.

Her fragility amazes and frustrates her all at the same time. And when the surgeon announces that she has broken her hip, not in one but in a few places, her heart monitor begins to beep rapidly. He gives her options: Do nothing, remain in pain and never walk again; or, attempt surgery with her enlarged heart and poor circulation. Yes, she could die; in fact, that is a distinct possibility. But there is a stronger possibility that she will live, and walk again, and be pain free.

A spasm hits.

She opts for the surgery.

Within an hour she is wheeled into pre-op; my mother and I sit with her as the nurse is somehow able to remove her wedding ring from her gnarled, arthritic hand. Unseeing, she begins to cry. She has never taken the ring off, and some part of her fears that it is an omen.

My mother and I, the eternal Pollyannas, tell her how much we love her and how we’ll bring her some dinner back from the café and of the plans we’ve made for her post-surgical therapy and oh, how she has the nicest nurse and goodness, aren’t we all lucky she was able to get into surgery so quickly and… anything else our fretting minds can conjure up behind our calm faces.

And when the man in the flouncy teal hat and matching scrubs begins to wheel her away, we reassure her of our love and her safety. She acquiesces, and says she will see us after surgery. But her eyes are wide and fearful when she says, “Goodbye.”

__

Tiny hands clutch my pant legs, tiny beet-red face presses into my thigh. “Please, mommy! Nooooo!!” my third child wails. The entire car ride was filled with the pronouncement, “I don’t want to go to school,” which turned into ear-piercing wailing and crocodile tears. I’ve seen this dozens of times in the faces of her older brothers, depending on the day, the angle of the sun, and how much breakfast was—or wasn’t—consumed that morning.

The beautiful spring day tugging at my desire wasn’t helping any; it was almost as strong as the crying face that deflated my spirit.

What kind of horrible mother was I? Look at this crying mess of a child! Couldn’t I just call in, perhaps, take a last-minute vacation day? We could go to the park and feed the ducks.

…except that I have 3 can’t-miss meetings this day. And deadlines. And we’ve been here before. I need to go to work. She needs to be at preschool. I need to get PAID. Being around other small people and coloring and learning the alphabet is not a bad thing for her.

I bend down to hug her, one final kiss before I head to work lugging my heart of stone. Her face is small and hot, and her runny-nosed kiss makes me want to die. “I love you baby,” I whisper, and the teacher’s overly enthusiastic voice suggests Syd wave to me from the window.

“Bye-bye,” I say as I wave at my small, frowny girl with tiny hands pressed against the glass. But my mind is saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I hide. I watch. Almost instantly my little actress is smiling and laughing with some other girls, wiping the wet from her face. “Bye-bye,” I sigh.

Step one: I'm powerless. Step two: Nevermind.

Hello. My name is Traci and I’m an addict.

I realized my “problem” when I attempted to scarf down a frozen burrito this morning too-soon out of the microwave. The result: My tongue was charred beyond recognition. It’s this little black lump-like thing, now. Ouch. Let this be a lesson to you all: Addiction = BAD.

Naturally it didn’t stop me from continuing to eat the burrito via the hot-mouth dance: Alternating too-hot food (placed in the mouth so that the tongue *barely* touches it) with a flood of cool drink. Progress in the following manner: chew, flood, chew, flood, chew—until the coarsely masticated food is no longer scalding. Swallow; repeat. It’s not at all enjoyable, though I believe it does fit Einstein’s definition of insanity: “…doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” (“The food will get cooler! It will!! D’Oh!”)

My addiction of late is not hot food, per se, but the ambrosia that is the frozen burrito (which is eaten hot). It’s like the gods put their heads together and decided that one day, there would be a food that is both chewy and hot, the perfect texture and taste and would simultaneously encourage the human gullet to exude wood-chipper-like behavior. (Thank you, Dr. Phil, for the analogy.)

Our vending machines here at work are RIFE with frozen burritos. Abounding. Overflowing. Teeming with the suckers. And, YES, I am aware that I can buy a sack of ten for $2 at FoodMax, but it’s my ADDICTION that keeps me buying them here at work for $1 each.

Honestly: I don’t want ten burritos loitering in my humble abode —I’m adult enough to admit how that would be disastrous. I mean, I’d have to keep the sack at home and do you have any CLUE how many CHILDREN I have? SCADS and SCADS of children. My house is practically CRAWLING with them. Those Hoovers would scarf down my precious burritos inside of 30 seconds, and then where would I be??

(SIDE NOTE: What is it with kids and the constant EATING, eating, always EATING? And then the GROWING? It’s like some vicious, never ending, amazingly expensive cycle. Alas, I digress.)

And so yes, dear reader, it is to you (and to those that follow me on Twitter) that I profess my love for, and shameful addiction to, the frozen burrito. It has almost reached caffeine-sized proportions. NOTE I said ALMOST.

I therefore take the first step, and admit herein: I am powerless to the frozen burrito.

I also acknowledge that there is a power above myself that could restore my sanity.

This power is called Costco. I think I can get an ice chest for like $15 and keep the suckers at work.

Problem solved.

Addiction? What addiction?