herding squirrels: Parenting in a Blended Family

That's my BOY!

2008-11-07T10:30:00.001-08:00

IMG_1516
Originally uploaded by stephen_dana

Opening night of Trevor's play. I am so, so proud.

DESTROYED

2008-10-07T14:39:00.000-07:00

Alas, it is true.

The StarRainbowUnicorns were knocked to second place in week 5.

SECOND PLACE! I know it so well-- I've lived there my whole entire life. *sob*

By two points.

TWO LOUSY POINTS!!!

But I will go on-- for you, for the Moms-- I will go on. I will arrange the team and press forward and replace the guys on Bye because I CARE. Because winning MEANS SOMETHING.

Also because technically we can't quit.

StarRainbowUnicorn POWER!

2008-10-05T14:37:00.000-07:00

Moms, it's probably our last chance to gloat-- but gloat we shall. The CentralValleyMoms' Fantasy Football team (I KNOW you all have been on pins and needles in your concern over this) is still in FIRST PLACE!

That's right-- 4 weeks in, and we are in the top team in the Fresno Blogger Bowl Fantasy Football challenge. Still. Even after last week's Bye, wherein two of our running backs and one wide receiver were out on rest and we had to replace them with recycled kitchen appliances and an old shoe.

But alas, I fear this is our last chance to brag, as I honestly have no idea what happens next nor how to save us from my ignorance. Thus IGNORE-ence shall commence as I let the team just...do its thing.

It's been a good strategy so far-- kind of like choosing "C" on the SAT.

GO STARRAINBOWUNICORNS!!!

My mom went to the hospital and all I got were these stupid genes

2008-09-22T16:54:00.001-07:00

My father used to lament my feet. He lamented them because they were his feet.

He would apologize profusely every time he saw them, as not only are they highly unattractive on a female, he was forever plagued by ingrown toenails, calcium deposits and muscle pain.

He dreaded knowing what I was in for.

Moving up from there, I suppose things get slightly better. I have my mother’s legs and a combination of my father's and mother’s varicose veins. Joy. I have my grandfather’s eyes and my mother’s skin; my dad’s hips and the flat stomach of the women in his family; and my mother’s enormous, gummy smile.

Tracing my past outlines a fairly unattractive future. My grandmother had dementia before she died in her early 90s. Her husband--my grandfather-- died in his 70s of cardio myopathy; in a cruel twist of fate, my father passed at an even younger age of the exact same issue. My mother’s family is laced on both sides with osteoporosis, macular degeneration, varicose veins and arthritis. There are thyroid issues and kidney issues; gallbladder problems and breast cancer. Oh, and my maternal grandmother’s got an enlarged heart.

You know. So as I grow old I look forward to road map legs; blindness; stroke; a weak-heart muscle with either high- or low- blood pressure; craziness; and a hump on my back. I’ve got thyroid issues and the looming threat of breast cancer to entertain me, and the possibility of arthritis and palsy. But hey, on the bright side, longevity ran in my family too. Again.. Joy.

As a parent I recognize certain features in my kids and my currently healthy heart swells appropriately with pride. I see my sons’ have my eyes. All three of my kids inherited the gummy smile. Poor saps.

But along with the features I happily recognize, I sit watching and waiting with my son in a darkened room in urgent care. As I type this, he lays on the doctor’s table, eyes closed, head throbbing, searching for a way around the pain.

It appears that he has inherited the family migraines.

This is odd to me, for so far as I ever knew, it was only the women in the family that ended up with those horrendous, utterly debilitating headaches. As far as I look back in the line—my greatgrandmother, my grandmother and my second cousins, my aunt, me, my niece—all of us women, all of us starting around puberty. I always thought it was a “chick” thing, and always thought the guys in the family avoided yet another female curse.

But there he lays, having already described to me the horror and awkwardness of sudden, partial blindness; of the dull throb that quickly engulfs the head and is all-too-quickly followed by blinding pain; and the need for someone to help his blind-self to a dark, cool area to wait out (and hopefully sleep off) the pain. So far, no nausea; so at least he’s got that going for him.

It’s here in the dark of the doctor’s office that my father’s words come ringing back to me, his all-too-familiar refrain:

Why do we pass along the worst traits to our children?

If only I could reach over and take away the pain… would I? Having suffered through them for 15 years, the unpredictable, untouchable pain that no medication was ever able to quell, the great unknown if a ruined day would follow what at first seemed like benign sunspots? The nausea, the misery, the blinding pain… would I take them back, so he would never have to experience them?

Yes. In a heartbeat.

Instead, I sit here cursing my genes and hoping better medicine awaits this 15-year old, than did my 15-year old self.

I try to look on the upside. If my father was here, he would have a different focus. Forget the migraine. Dad would be lamenting my son’s feet.

Kids maek me smurt

2008-09-12T16:56:00.001-07:00

I sat there, slack jawed and drooly, staring at my computer screen yet seeing nothing. I had just opened a program and suddenly could not—for the life of me—remember why.

Later I walked out of my office to tell a colleague a very important piece of information. Wait. Which colleague? Who was I about to talk to? I pause outside my office door. And about what, again?

How was I reduced to this? How have I allowed myself to become this heaping mess of forgetfulness and stupidity?

The answer comes roaring into my brain: CHILDREN. I have so many kids, clearly the responsibility has eked away my brain cells.

But, like most things in life, if I actually thought that, I would be wrong.

According to Katherine Ellison, in her book The Mommy Brain: How Motherhood Makes us Smarter, “study after study shows that having babies contributes to increased brain cells, and along with these little darlings (the new brain cells as well as the babies) come increased skills of all kinds.

“At the center of this good news is that now-familiar phenomenon, neurogenesis: the brain’s process of growing and changing through the development of new neurons. This amazing brain plasticity is encouraged by repeated new actions, especially of the “positive, emotionally charged, and challenging” variety, referred to by scientists as “enrichment.” As it turns out, the process of child rearing, beginning even in pregnancy, is enrichment’s mother lode.”

Think it’s fleeting? Not so. “In fact, indications are that the positive changes brought about in the brain by pregnancy hormones, and subsequent stimulation from our babies and children, last for the rest of our lives—long past the time our grandchildren are born.”

Read on, mammas. Apparently there’s hope for me yet!

Suzie Orman: Wow.

2008-09-12T16:55:00.000-07:00

It's not often I am at a loss for words. In fact, I could go on for the next two hours about how I could go on for the next two hours. But yesterday, after I had my introduction to Suzie Orman, all I could say was...

Wow.

And still… wow.

Yesterday I was fortunate enough to attend the Central California Women’s Conference. It was the first time I’d ever been to this event, despite my strong desire to attend in the past.

The event was amazing—I’m always in favor of hanging out with thousands of strong, vibrant women who believe in the power of strong vibrant women. I also am a big fan of freebies, and this event offered plenty.

But the best thing I got out of this event, besides the pens, the reusable canvas grocery totes, the candle, the lip gloss, the mail openers, the candy, the notebook, the bracelets, the watch and of course, the AWESOME CentralValleyMoms.com refrigerator magnet, was the advice. The sound, awesome financial advice I got from Suzie “Crazy and self adoring but you can’t help but like her” Orman.

As my grandmother would say, she’s a real pistol.

From the moment she entered the room to rousing cheers and an amazing, somewhat self-worshipful bio, wherein she was hailed as the single most important female of the modern age (I’m paraphrasing); to her final moments (which were10 minutes past the end of her allotted speech time), wherein she bade farewell to even rousing-er cheers, all I could think was, “wow.”

Suzie Orman. Wow.

The bits that stuck out:

Pay attention to your finances. Do you know what you have in the bank? Do you know how much interest you’re paying on your credit cards? Stop being afraid of the information. In order to gain control, you have to understand your situation.
Don’t be stupid with your money. When you finally get ahead, stay true to your own financial goals. Which means, don’t lend it out to save someone else from their own financial crisis.
Get a Living Revocable Trust. If you die, it’ll save your family untold heartache and tremendous amounts of money trying to keep property out of probate.
Get a will.
Your FICA score is vital; take care of it. That means don’t max out your credit cards, and don’t cancel your credit cards after you pay them off. Either one affects your credit score adversely. Maxing out your cards lowers your score. A lower score means credit institutions can raise your card’s interest rate. Increased interest rates mean a longer time paying them off, and more struggle, which leads to a longer period of time with a low score, which leads to credit companies reducing your available credit, which then hurts your credit score. Seeing the pattern?
Finally, get a Roth IRA. She said a good deal on this point, but let me boil it down to this: If you have money in a 401K (a pre-tax fund), and your company offers matching funds, take them via contributing to your company’s 401K plan. Anything beyond what the company will match, however, should be placed in a Roth IRA. Suzie’s reasoning: On top of already massive national debt, the government has just bailed out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. To fund the bailout, taxes will need to be raised. Who pays taxes? We do. Worse, taxes always increase over time. With a 401K account, your money goes in pre-tax. Unfortunately, you get hit with the taxes when you withdraw from the account. So if taxes rise over time, it would be more economically advantageous to pay the upfront, when they are smaller, as opposed to on the tail end, when you’re a retiree on a fixed income and can’t speculate what they will be.

It was a really fascinating speech. I came away feeling less fearful of my financial future, as I had some good advice to stand on.

For more information—and perhaps a better explanation, check out www.suzieorman.com.

Sydney would go nuts for this

2008-09-08T12:16:00.001-07:00

Spongebob close up
Originally uploaded by sandrascakes

Are you ready for some FOOTBAAAAAALLLL? ... meh.

2008-09-07T19:50:00.000-07:00

So I showed up to the fantasy football draft expecting hubris.

…I showed up expecting beer.

… I showed up with my little printout of the top 30 draft picks my fantasy football fanatic friend (FFFF) gave me, glomming onto the little bits of knowledge he passed my way. I earnestly felt I had the inside scoop. I was holding two entire pages of picks, all stack-ranked for my selecting ease. My dear FFFF explained the key to the fantasy draft—the HOW of picking what positions, the when to do it, they why you did it that way. I felt I was armed with delicious, insider information. Information that, potentially, would completely devastate the competition.

I arrive, the first of the crew, and a little nervous. I have no idea who I’m looking for, as the only guy I know isn’t there yet. The first few stragglers wander in and we make chit chat. “Are you a big football fan?” is my brilliant conversation starter.

“Not really,” is the response. Out of conversation, I stare down at my shoes. *crickets*

(Okay, substitute crickets with an explosive Bertie Higgins song via Karaoke. I know. Eew.)

I order a beer. I gulp. At leisure I notice I am the only female in our crowd of 12. (Please be grateful that I did not offer you a simile for that factoid.) Oz shows up, passes out our draft lists, and we get started…

.. Fast forward an hour and a half into the draft. My 22oz beer nearly gone, I have 3 picks that were on my list—none that were at the top. The rest have long since been gobbled up by the table full of mostly football-lovin’ men (and one "meh" on football man). Men who KNOW football (except that one guy).

And when I say know, I mean intimately.

And when I say intimately, I mean [simile removed]. They know all there is to know about the players, right down to childhood immunization records, next door neighbors, and who owns car dealerships.

“Should I pick this guy?” I ask Oz for the umpteenth time, tentatively poking the ESPN draft doc in front of me. Peals of laughter follow from the opposite end of the table, while one guy encourages me wholeheartedly.

Oz is patient. “Well, he’s suspended.” Apparently something about a dog fight.

“This one?” I try.

“Injured. Out the first few weeks of the season.”

Suddenly I’m groggy and overwhelmed. Eye wide, I stab at the next two name down. “Him, or… him?”

Suddenly the table is abuzz.

“Oh yeah, his QB is great this year—“

“—Yeah excellent offensive line.”

“I’d go with him before that guy, his team is—“

And so I am sold. THIS was the draft. Twelve people, SIXTEEN rounds of names, careful attention to crossing off players. Everybody knows the players, everybody knows the players offensive lines. Everybody but me. (And that one guy.)

I knew squat. THIS was my hubris-purging night.

Thank you OZ, for seeing me through. Your patience and guidance were much appreciated.

And so moms, stay posted to hear about StarRainbowUnicorns. Root us on. Follow the season.

Now let us bow our heads...

"Almighty and ever-living moms,
let it be known that I suffered for you,
so that you may bask in the glory that is Fantasy Football.

Go forth now in peace and love,
to serve the ‘Corns.*

Whoa-Men."

This Week's StarRainbowUnicorns Line-up:

QB: Drew Brees

RB: Steve Jackson

RB: Reggie Bush

WR: Reggie Wayne

WR: Roy Williams

RB: Greg Jennings

TE: Heath Miller

Kicker: Phil Dawson

Defensive line: Vikings

________

*That would be their nickname. At least until something better comes along.

I don't care. SUBTEXT: NEITHER SHOULD YOU.

2008-09-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Gossip Mongers:

I am an unabashed liberal. A proud liberal. I believe in states rights, civil rights, families’ rights, government assistance when you truly need it, a woman’s right to a safe abortion, equal pay for equal work and volunteerism. I believe in the separation of church and state and with that, every person’s right to practice—or not to practice—their spirituality, and not have other’s religious views foisted upon them.

I believe that two consenting adults should be allowed to marry each other, regardless of race, gender, or sexual orientation.

I believe that two consenting adults should be allowed to live together in love and harmony and raise a family and not be forced to marry.

I respect that others disagree with my beliefs. I hope that they can treat me with respect, knowing that I respect their divergent beliefs as well.

On the list of things I don’t care about:

• Various politicos trying drugs in their youth. That Bill Clinton smoked pot in college, whether he inhaled or not, I absolutely, unequivocally do not care.
• Various politicos having made bad choices in their pasts. George W. Bush’s drug and alcohol problems as a young man are his alone, and his to own. Good for him for getting past it. Not an issue now. I don’t care about it.
• Whether or not someone served in Vietnam. Don’t care. A lot of people got deferments. A lot of people served elsewhere and elsewise. My point: It was 40 years ago. Let’s all move past the choices of their youths, and of their parents to help the children they loved to avoid being forced to serve in what was the Iraq of their generation (meaning: A big, highly-unfavorable, terrible war).
• The reported extramarital affairs of the various politicos, including but not limited to: Speaker Newt Gingrich, Gov. Eliot Spitzer, Sen. Gary Hart, Gov. James McGreevey, Bill Clinton, JFK, FDR, Thomas Jefferson, Grover Cleveland, Woodrow Wilson, Dwight Eisenhower, etc. Their lives. Their bedrooms. Their karma. DON’T CARE.

As such, I want to be clear:

I do not care and do not want to hear about Sarah Palin’s daughter. She is 17. She made a choice and is dealing with it. Had she chosen abortion, I would feel the same. HER LIFE. HER CHOICES. NOT MY BUSINESS. We owe this girl nothing less than privacy and respect.

I do not care about some 20+ year-old incident on Palin’s husband’s driving record. LET IT GO!

Leave her family alone, media. While you’re at it, leave Joe Biden’s family be, leave Obama’s family alone, leave McCain’s family alone. All of them. I DON’T CARE.

Let me say this again: I am a proud LIBERAL. Liberal is a good word, and there are many, many of us with these beliefs who are good, caring, intelligent, patriotic people. And there are many of us who are idiots (Hello, Mike Malloy). Just as there are many, many ridiculous and idiotic conservatives (I’m talking to you, Anne Coulter), and many good, kind, intelligent, patriotic conservatives, including some of my very own family members.

THAT SAID:

I DO care when people try to associate such muckraking with one side of the political arena or the other.

It’s ignorant.

Yes, there is a liberal media (Hello, ABC). Yes, there is a conservative media (Hello, FOX).

Yes, both sides try to capture viewers/readers and be opinion leaders. They make MONEY. Most times, raking muck is how they do it.

But media, there was no part of me that was ever going to vote for the McCain ticket. And seeing how Palin’s daughter ISN’T ON the ticket, nor Palin’s husband—leave them out of it. Talk about Palin's track record. Talk about Palin's ability to govern.

Some choice that was made or something that happened 20 years ago to a member of someone's family? I DON’T CARE.

I freely admit that I acted like an asshat 20 years ago.

I presume that WE ALL ACTED LIKE ASSHATS at various points in our lives.

Thank gawd I have changed.

Thank gawd you have too.

So let’s also presume that politicians have changed over the course of the last decades, just as we have, and get back to actual, important, valid, kind and respectful political DISCOURSE.

Thanks.

My fantasy WILL CRUSH your fantasy

2008-08-29T22:07:00.000-07:00

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?!

2008-08-27T15:12:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-22T19:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-21T18:55:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-13T13:19:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-08-04T10:12:00.000-07:00

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?

European Travel: I spy a thumb in my eye while I fly...

2008-07-29T20:47:00.000-07:00

JUNE 26: We were intensely, immensely excited for our trip to Europe. We started the day at 4 a.m.; the camera came out 45 minutes later. Above, the first picture of our European adventure: The exotic locale of McDonald’s in Kinsgburg. We felt so international!

It was a fairly brisk trip to the airport, minus the whole LA freeway driving thing. It could have definitely been worse, but thank GAWD we padded our travel time as much as we did. You never know what to expect at check in. In our case, it was pretty packed (a youth soccer league was ahead of us).

Notes from the plane:

· Thumbs up: Thank you, security agent, the only kind person in all of LAX (and coincidentally, NOT an employee of U.S. Airways), who was amazingly cool and funny. She got us excited for our trip.

· Thumbs up: I applaud the ambitious efforts of the ESL Asian woman who repeatedly attempted to understand the computer at the self-check- in kiosk.

· Thumbs down: Amazed and disgusted by the desk agent, standing directly behind said kiosk, who refused in every aspect to assist the Asian woman (even after my family and I spent 10 minutes trying to help her) in navigating her way. Of course the desk agent had no problem assisting us.

· Thumbs down: My body exudes waves of intense dislike aimed at the woman sitting behind me, who tapped me on the shoulder and immediately complained about me reclining my seat. Then complained again 2 minutes later, after I'd already repositioned it to accommodate her girth (to my great discomfort).

· Thumbs down: The woman who ends up in our row. She freaked out when she thought we were in her seat. In the end she was right, but we were sitting there unintentionally and tried to be kind about it. Her instant, over-the-top reaction was unnecessary.

· Thumbs up: Later, to the same woman when she turned out not to be a total arse, but someone desperately afraid of flying. Also, a talented cross-stitcher.

· SIDE NOTE: I still hate the woman behind me.

· SIDE NOTE: Prediction: The retro-cool gift coming to Target next X-mas will be the USB powered turn-table, available for $19.99. Of course it is on sale now via SkyMall for the low-low price of $229.95. Or thereabouts.

· Thumbs down: The cheap-ass airline who charges us hundreds of dollars for the ticket but refuses to serve free soda pop. Cheapos.

· Thumbs mid-point: There’s a lemon in my drink. I love lemons. But I read this story. GAH!

· Thumbs down: There’s a distinct lack of drink in my drink.

· SIDE NOTE: Even though First Class consists of the first 4 rows, and I am sitting in the 5^th row, I am not allowed to use their lavatory. The flight attendant did not evict me, however. Just almost. Why is it these flight attendants never smile?

· Thumbs up: The woman behind me has dozed off. I want to throw peanuts at her sleeping face.

· Thumbs down: The airlines no longer serves peanuts.

More than your Emo boyfriend.

2008-07-24T14:36:00.000-07:00

On June 26, 2008, my partner, three nervous teenagers and I ventured off to Los Angeles, where we boarded a plane, and then another, and eventually woke up on a transatlantic flight headed for Dublin, Ireland. The whole vacation itself consisted of three cities—Dublin, London and Paris—and if you were to ask any of the teenagers, they would say the trip’s purpose was three-fold: First, to eventually catch up with Madeline, our oldest daughter, who was traveling with a student group in the British Isles; second, for each—our oldest son, Trevor, our nephew Colin and Madeline’s best-friend, Darlene—to see Europe; and third, to afford Trevor and Colin the joy of cramming in the faces of their peers (aka OTHER family members) they fact that they have been to Dublin FIRST.

Naturally, we adults had an agenda too.

DIGRESSION:
My partner in crime and I have many, many things in common. We each like the color blue. We each brush our teeth twice a day. And we each grew up with devoted, family-centric parents who—while offering untold numbers of family camping-trip-based vacations—themselves never traveled abroad until they hit their retirement years. And to both my partner and I, international travel was exactly that: Something we both yearned to do, yet felt only retirees were supposed to enjoy.

And that is when the swirling black cloud of death descended upon both of our lives.

First my father passed, and I was inaugurated into the Dead Dad’s Club (ooh! Matching jackets!).

Sometime later, my then-not-yet partner earned his Dead Mom’s Club lapel pin.

And sometime even later, after the easy laughter and puppy love of early dating, and after slightly-deeper monologues about child rearing, came the soul-baring conversations about these enormous, earth-shattering losses that had changed our lives in many startlingly similar ways.

Such conversations gave rise to various, life-altering realizations, the most profound of which being: Life is for the Living.

Why did we keep saying, “Someday, I will visit X,” when we could visit X now? Why did we compartmentalize all that we wanted to experience into a chunk of time not destined to occur until a series of far-reaching conditions were met?

It was a very scary, but very serious, question. Why did we keep putting off all the things we really wanted to do on a very-distant later? What if, after all the putting off, and more putting off, and STILL more putting off… what if there was never an “on”? What if later never happened?

We both saw firsthand: Death permanently invalidates all the dreams you have sitting out there.

And so we, my partner and I, began making different choices. We began redefining our lives in terms of the now, as opposed to the maybe later.

I planned a trip, an unconventional trip, and planned on taking my sons. After some time, my partner agreed to come along, to meet us on our unconventional trip and so it was that in June of 2006 we met up in Machu Picchu, Peru, and went on to see the Amazonian Rainforest together.

Okay so now we’re getting to the crux of this missive . (I know, finally, right? Bear with me.)

It was on this trip that we realized and saw—truly saw for the very first time—how enormous this great wide world is.

*forehead slap!*

Each of us had lived in many places over the course of our lives, and had always understood that there was more to life than what was in front of our faces. Our parents had said that very thing to us—WE had even said that very thing to our kids: THERE IS MORE TO LIFE THAN WHAT IS IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE. Duh, right?

Still… it doesn’t really sink in until you actually have something different in your face.

For my boys, seeing how people in Cusco or Iquitos or deep within the rainforest live— that was life changing. We were old, seeing this, REALLY seeing this for the first time. But my boys, they were young. They got the realization early and maybe it would change who they became and how they lived their lives, how it affected their choices? Maybe they could avoid getting sucked into the “maybe later” rut, and live in the now?

We left to visit a small bit of the world, and came back with the understanding that there is MORE TO LIFE.

There is more to life than School. There is more to life than College. And Church. And Family. And Fresno and Clovis and CALIFORNIA. There is more than the United States of America, more than just the English language, more than the dollar and the Euro and Lays potato chips and your Emo boyfriend and your X-box. There is more than just YOU, in your little world, with your real and perceived, serious and not-so-serious, dilemmas. There is so much more than you’ll ever know or be able to understand unless you go out and see, really see it for yourself.

A whole wide world churns, grows, cries, laughs, buys, sells, produces, EXISTS just beyond your doorstep, and no matter how deeply involved you are in your own tiny little area, thinking that whatever is in your face is all there will ever be…

You’re wrong.

There’s more.

That was our agenda: To share this message with these up and comers, as they approach the next steps in their developing lives.

That, and to cram in the faces of our friends that we saw Dublin FIRST.

Most. Humble. Mother. EVER!!

2008-07-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

My boys got an agent. As in, they are officially represented by a talent agency. It's a wonderful and strange thing to think my boys are actors and they are pursuing their dreams of fame and fortune and supporting their mother's early retirement; and yet it is quite another to place those thoughts into reality.

My boys are really actors! Who will be acting! They (with the help of their father, with whom they live during the summer months) actually went on auditions and procured an A-list agent. And now, they have headshots.

Behold, my awesome sons! I am only a little bit proud when I scream, OH MY GAWD THEY ARE SO HANDSOME!!! Check them out:

Harry

Trevor

But at least I'm not bitter.

2008-07-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

When I booked my flight to Europe, I was going for cheap. Months in advance I began trolling various online flight aggregators in search of the best flight deals. And time and again, I noticed the same airline has the best fares—if only by $50 even—than the nearest competitor. And since our trip was on the double-cheap, and since $50 could translate into a museum pass somewhere (let alone a meal), I decided to go with what appeared to be the most economical choice.

Two words, dear readers: NEVER AGAIN.

Four words, dear readers: WORST CUSTOMER SERVICE EVER!

And whether you’re 10 or 110, kindness and customer service matters. But see, you don’t realize just how important it is to be treated with a modicum of respect until it’s gone.

As an avowed, unapologetic feminist, I have no problem stating that all of the old biddies (and they know who they are) working for EXPURGATED Airways should be fired or forced into retirement, the lockers containing their personal items pilfered and the contents of said lockers deposited in various airports strewn across the country. But not before they have been repeatedly bashed in the elbow with an overloaded drink cart.

All the juvenile (both literally and figuratively) male attendants who look up to and emulate the crappy attitudes of the older set should also be axed, their eyes super-glued mid-roll and forced to RINSE the gel from their hair and their overly applied cologne with the deep blue waters of onboard lavatory. This all should be done, of course, AFTER being doused with piping hot coffee.

There are apparently no youngish female attendants, nor aged male attendants, working for this airline (or at least working any of the legs that my family and I flew). I cannot therefore make a recommendation to EXPURGATED Airways about how these sub-groups of employees should be treated, but based on my experiences of customer service with the rest of the company, I’m going to lump them in with the previous. The youngish females, then, will be known as stinky, self-absorbed brats and the aged men as asses. Old-fogie asses.

Whatever. Come up with whatever non-stereotypical, non-sexist, non-gender-specific insults you prefer, so long as they are childish and offensive and descriptive, and that is EXACTLY how I feel about the customer service personnel with this airline.

But the issue goes so much deeper than simply the flight staff.

If an entire company’s staff is miserable, from the greeter (who looked like this) to the ticket taker (who looked like this) to each and every flight attendant (who acted like this), I’m not really sure where the fault of such a tremendous failure in customer service lies.

Is it with the individual? Certainly these people should bear the responsibility of their actions. Isn’t that one of the basic tenants of life? The Golden Rule? Treat others as you would like to be treated. Unfortunately it appears that every individual working for this airline—or perhaps, just the individuals working in Los Angeles and Philadelphia—likes to be dominated, condescended to and verbally abused, sexually harassed and ignored because of their race or age or gender, and thus expects that treatment in return. Yet, having been on the receiving end of such abhorrent behavior, I can’t imagine anyone prefers such treatment. (I can’t speak for fetishists, however.)

Yet I also can’t help but blame the corporation, the master entity who both allows and apparently fosters such horrendous customer service. After witnessing a ticket agent ignore a woman because English was clearly a distant second to her native tongue; after being verbally abused and herded by various staff members (“Get in this LINE! NO! You people—OVER THERE!”); after witnessing my seat-mate get doused with coffee by unapologetic and somewhat inebriated flight attendant; and after watching various passengers receive eye rolls and annoyed sighs for any request, I sought out a supervisor. I relayed to him all that I had seen and how we all—my family and the greater public—had been treated by the staff of the organization. I was professional, yet frustrated; he was nonplussed and unapologetic. When I requested that he forward my suggestion that the airline’s staff revisit customer service training, he agreed that it was an obvious, necessary step and followed up with, “Ma’am, that ain’t ever gunna happen.”

I wished him well in his union’s upcoming labor negotiations (but I secretly didn’t mean it. I’m not entirely certain he caught the undertone).

No matter who is to blame for such horrendous behavior and despite the strong language herein, I have largely moved beyond my misery of my flight experience with U.S. Airways—oops, I meant EXPURGATED Airways. Since my return I’ve heard many stories about this airline from lots of other people, and the endings all seem to be the same: NEVER AGAIN.

So there you go. For all future travel plans, whatever they may be, I will fly with other airlines. I strongly urge those of you who may have future flight plans to think twice about how you spend your hard-earned vacation dollars.

cross posted from centralvalleymoms.com

World travel.

2008-07-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

I have been away for a few weeks, visiting our sister countries across the pond. Many amazing good times. Several trying ones, but only when dealing with Americans. What is THAT?

Check the photos:

See PARIS!

See DUBLIN!

See LONDON!

I gotts mad Photoshop skillz

2008-06-24T16:11:00.000-07:00

Campfire Stories: The Most Horrible Story of All

2008-06-23T15:13:00.001-07:00

We sat around the campfire, telling ghost stories of one kind or another. There was the one where the couple on Lover’s Lane end up with the hook in the door; the one where the escaped mental patient shows up at the campfire itself, to the terror of the campfire listeners; and then my children’s favorites, the stories I find most horrifying of all: The stories of my social mortification.

“Come on mom, tell that one!”

“What one?” I feign.

“You know, the ONE. The Most HORRIBLE Story of All!” Seeing the glint of fear and anticipation in their eyes, who am I to disappoint?

*sigh*

“Alright. Here goes….

“She was fifteen-years old. A simple girl in search of simple things, a girl who was kind and naïve; a girl who was exactly like you (“but smarter!” they shout) and looked like you (“but cuter!” they sing) and dressed like you (“but cheaper!” they laugh). In fact, this girl could be you, any one of you…”

“Except she wasn’t!” They ring out.

“No, she wasn’t. Lucky for you.

“One random Wednesday evening the girl, who for the purposes of this story we will call ‘Graci,’ and her best friend went to her church’s youth group. It was almost like any other night at youth group: There would be teens, there would be laughter, there was going to be a teen-only mass. And even better…”

“The boy she liked would be there!” the kids fill in.

“Exactly. The boy she had the biggest crush on ever in the history of big crushes: Darren Brown. He was cute. He was funny. And best of all, he was smart. Very, very smart. Yes. You see, kids, Darren was Brain Attractive—and that's the most desirable-kind of attractive there is for a girl. Next to Funny Attractive. Which he also was.” The girls all nod in understanding. The boys all look down at their shoes.

“Everything was perfect for young Graci that night. She was wearing her khaki shorts with the white Venetian-blind style shirt and her white Keds without laces, the tongue folded down. She wore her stonewashed denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up two times, her long bangs cascading delicately into her eyes, her white Ray Ban-knock-offs perched on her head… she looked AWESOME. She felt awesome. And yet little did she know the night would go horribly, horribly wrong.”

Panic fills the kids’ eyes. They huddle closer together, wrapping their arms around their tiny bodies, hugging each other for comfort.

“The group was meeting at the director’s house and the priest was there to officiate the short mass. Everyone was crammed in the small living room and to Graci’s surprise, Darren ended up sitting RIGHT NEXT TO HER! She was amazed. She was speechless!

“Her mind whirled with all the possibilities. Maybe she would get enough courage to talk to him? Maybe… maybe HE would talk to HER? The priest began the service, everyone listened respectfully. But Graci was only partially listening. She was trying to calm her breathing. She looked up to find that Darren was smiling at her.

“She smiled back and shyly looked away. OH MY GAWD HE WAS SMILING AT HER! That was a sign, right? I mean a boy smiling at you, out of the blue like that? That is a sign that maybe he thinks you’re cute, right? Wasn't it??

“Then it was time to recite the Our Father, and everyone held hands. And Darren was sitting next to her, which meant he ended up holding her HAND!

“Graci was stunned. She couldn’t believe her good fortune! Sure, the seating on the floor was pretty uncomfortable, straining her back, but she was sitting next to DARREN BROWN! It was worth the discomfort. Because, when it came time to give the sign of peace, everyone hugged. Which means she actually HUGGED Darren Brown, the cutest, smartest boy in the whole-wide room!

“It was the most amazing night of her life. The communion began and everyone started to sing. She sang softly and tried to use her best voice—she kept looking up from the Missile to show she knew the words but tastefully looked down on occasion so she didn’t come off too much like a show-off. Darren sang too, and he had a nice voice. She was in bliss. A state of pure and total bliss. Her leg was asleep, sure, but this night was fantastic.

“They’d all been sitting pretty still for a long time. Being on the floor and all crammed in the living room like that, everyone’s limbs were slightly contorted like the amazing rubber lady at the freak show. And Graci had a dead leg. She felt the overwhelming need to move, if ever so slightly, just to pull some blood back into her foot. She wiggled her toes, moving them just a bit. She scooted herself up to better posture. And then...

“The song ended. The room hushed. And in the split second of silence between the song’s end and the priests final blessing, like a small frog's ribbit, Graci flatulated.”

The boys at the campfire squeal with laughter. The girls sit in quiet mortification.

“Graci remembers nothing past this point except this: She never wore that outfit again.”

An Open Letter to Stupid People

2008-06-19T15:55:00.000-07:00

Hey, you! EGGHEAD!

Yes, I’m talking to you, tough guy. Mr. Auto Mechanic with your Fu Manchu mustache, Popeye forearms and weathered skin like leather. You who could beat me senseless by just looking at me.

You, sir, are an idiot.

So are you, little old lady with the lavender, polyester pants and fluffy white hair that matches her tennis shoes. You are a complete and total imbecile.

You girls there, you teenagers heading to the mall in your tiny denim skirts and oversized sunglasses? You are just as big a pair of fools as that computer-geek couple in their late 40s with their black socks and running shoes, or the preppy twosome trying to be all sporty in Tommy Hilfiger.

Yes, I am talking to all of you Stupid People.

Congratulations. You are all top winners in my daily, personal Darwin Award effort. Each and every one of you suffer from a particular kind of DUMB and it really ticks me off that I, a simple woman who does not know you from Adam, care more about your very existences than any of you do.

I applaud all of your efforts to find alternate transportation, or insert more exercise into your daily routine, or take yourself on a stimulating outing. And yet, when I look at each of you, I wish you’d stayed home and couch surfed instead.

There are those of us who take bike riding seriously. We do so because we have almost been hit several times by soccer moms who cannot see us in their oversized SUVs while conversing intensely on their cell phones; cursed at by home boys, frat boys and cowboys who’ve been inconvenienced by our properly executed left turn; and had drunken partiers nearly run us off the road on their way home from casinos. Some of us know what it’s like to undergo hip or knee replacement surgery after having been clipped by a lax driver, or to spend months nursing a broken shoulder because someone rolled through a stop sign.

We cyclists all have our war stories, our almosts, our near misses; each is different and special to the telling. But the one thing we serious bicycle riders—whether we’re toddlers or adults—all have in common: We ALL wear HELMETS when we ride. It is WHY we CAN still TELL OUR STORIES. Why we continue to make it through another commute or trip out to Millerton.

And all of you, from cute little granny to the rockin’ Fu, to the ridiculous girls who were also riding on the WRONG side of the road to the sporty couple out on their morning “date” to the mom with the 3 kids tooling around on a Saturday—get your fat heads out of your… armpits… and put helmets on them. On your fat heads, I mean.

If you ride a bike—whether it is 10 feet or 10 miles—WEAR A HELMET. And, Stupid People, stop thinking that because you are over 18 that wearing a helmet somehow doesn’t apply to you. It does. It applies to everyone, even Stupid People. Enough with the worrying that it will crumple your hairdo, or that wearing one will make you look uncool. HELLO?? Of course wearing a helmet will make you look uncool! Of course it will crumple your hairdo! The alternative is that you end up looking like a complete freak with a crumpled HEAD without using one. Have you SEEN what steel plates do for fashion? NOTHING. No one designs with accommodating steel plates in mind.

You know what? On second thought, DON’T. Do us all a favor and don’t wear one. If you’re stupid enough to put your life on the line because it is an inconvenience to you or an embarrassment to have brain protection, maybe our society as a whole is better off without your special brand of self-absorbed absurdity.

But first, please buy helmets for all your children and force them to wear them every time they get on a bike—especially your toddler with the tricycle. You see, that way we can ensure that your funeral will be well attended.

Thanks.

Procrastinators: Read this... eventually.

2008-06-16T07:06:00.000-07:00

I stare at the page, and it stares at me. We regard each other amicably enough, though I know the page is thinking nasty thoughts, and if I listen close enough I am pretty sure it’s got a potty mouth.

Right when I decide that it’s time to begin, that I need to start writing down what I sat to write—oh holy Hannah, what is that noise from the closet? Seriously? The shoe rack collapsed. Okay, so after I fix the rack-- wait. My bed isn’t made. Someone downstairs wants something to eat. I just walked in my room to get something—what was it? The laptop! Okay—so, after I fix the shoe rack, pick up the shoes, change my sheets, make my bed, start my laundry, make a peanut butter sandwich for kids five and six then macaroni and cheese instead, clean up the cat vomit, turn down the TV, go upstairs again for the laptop plug, change my shirt, change my shirt again, put on some face lotion, watch kid number four show me his Halo maneuvers, listen to kid number one fret about friends, go back downstairs with the laptop plug, then I will begin…wait…. What was I doing?

Oh yes. Procrastination. If it were a nation, I would be its Queen. Apparently, and though it feels contrary, I am not alone in my ability to put off for another day all that can be put off... for another day. And another.

If you're like me, you'll be happy to know there may be hope for us yet. On today’s Talk of the Nation on NPR, “Procrastination expert Timothy Pychyl and self-professed "structured procrastinator" John Perry discuss[ed] the latest research on this type of behavior and how to prioritize what's really important.”

Listen in!

Three Tiers for Mr. Jarman!

2008-06-09T19:15:00.001-07:00

J cake
Originally uploaded by girlmonkey

Hip, hip, hooray!
Hip, hip, hooray!
Hip, hip, hooray!
I baked this cake last week for Harrison's teacher.

Jana's 9th Birthday Cake

2008-06-04T12:43:00.001-07:00

Jana's 9th Birthday Cake
Originally uploaded by artofdessert

OMG-- what a great looking cake!

It's 10 o'clock. Have you seen my 12 year old?

2008-05-30T09:38:00.000-07:00

I had been warned for years, and had been expecting it. I knew viscerally and in every capacity that yes, it was BOUND to happen and likely SOON.

So why, when my 12-year old son up and got all hormonal on me, was I so flippin' shocked?

Maybe because I anticipated a slooowwwww slide into puberty, like that of his older brother.

Maybe because I was hopelessly-- if not freakishly-- in denial.

Maybe because I underestimated the lure of technology and teen-hood.

Whatever the case, my handsome, witty, charming, intelligent, wonderful, soulful, thoughtful and thought-provoking, well-spoken, humorous 12-year old son has been bitten by the sharp eye-teeth of puppy love. Clearly, a boy so enchanting as to be described with no less than ten adjectives in one sentence by his very own mother is clearly worthy of the attention of the young ladies.

Girls. I'm not certain 11- and 12-year olds even qualify as "young ladies" yet.

And one particular girl has captured his attention so thoroughly that he has developed a second love, a partner in facilitating his flirtatious affair: his cell phone.

My quick-learning (11 adjectives) son learned (rather quickly) how to use all the features of his new constant companion. How to set new ring tones; how to change the wallpaper; how to record his own alert saying, "You have a text message" sounding like the 90s version of "You've got mail."

He has also learned that when this goes off 100 times in as many minutes, he will get heckled by his siblings.

Relentlessly.

My son has taken to needing his privacy at all hours of the day and night. His usual post on the couch or recliner lies empty. He no longer plays X-box with the veracity of his stepbrother. Instead, my prepubescent is like a terrier, cutting a repetitive path about the yard: he paces the back lawn, exits through the side gate, cuts across the front yard, heads down the front walk, turns up the driveway, meanders around to the side yard, goes back to the side gate, and re-enters the backyard-- all while deep in cell-phone bliss.

I suppose I should take solace in the fact that while he is all-consumed with his first "girlfriend," the extent of their relationship (beyond the cell phone) amounts to playing basketball on the blacktop after school, for about 30 minutes (when her parents pick her up). His buddies are there, her girlfriends are there, three school monitors are there. I don't fear the hanky-panky. In fact, I find the innocence of their mutual interest charming in that can't-take-my-eyes-off-that-traffic-accident sort of way.

I'm just not ready for the sudden "loss" of my son to his own internal need to grow toward independence. And yet, as I write this, this same son informs me that he has found a long-lost "collector's item" in his sister's room. (A Pokémon stuffed animal.)

I am grateful for the mild reassurance this statement offers.

For a whole 30 seconds anyway, when our conversation is interrupted by the alert "You've got a text message" chirp from his pants pocket, and I watch him dart out the back door.

American Idol Cupcakes

2008-05-21T10:44:00.001-07:00

American Idol Cupcakes
Originally uploaded by SweetToothFairy

These are the kinds of cupcakes I aspire to. Gen, you should have had these last night!

Olbermann on Clinton: Understanding who matters

2008-05-21T07:18:00.000-07:00

In a tricky primary season filled with tricky definitions of tricky counting procedures, Keith Olbermann predicts Clinton's next steps.

Dear 1983: Thank you for synthesizers & synthetic fibers

2008-05-19T16:52:00.000-07:00

The weekend is over, your gas tank is empty, your inbox is full. Dinnertime is around the corner, you have no meal planned, and dosing the kids with Benedryl and dropping them in front of the electronic babysitter is sounding better and better.

DO NOT DESPAIR! All you need is some INSPIRATION! Something to pull you out of your rut, yank you back into reality. For your Monday afternoon pleasure, I offer you passion, so you CAN make it happen, baby.

Go now, hear the music. Close your eyes, feel the rhythm. And then answer the uber question: Lip syncing or what? And where can I get me some of those leg warmers?

cross-posted to centralvalleymoms.com

The Tell-Tale Laundry Room

2008-05-16T12:02:00.001-07:00

TRUE! Disorganized, very, very dreadfully disorganized I had been and am; but why will you say I am lazy? The slovenliness had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute…

To wit: I awaken with a start from a deep, deep sleep.

I lay awake, listening. I hear it. Something… no? Perhaps not. I lay back down. My mind drifts back to the comfort of my dreams, visiting places that exist only in the quiet, charmed recesses of my sleepy imagination.

And there is was again. A thumping.

My eyes pop open. I wait. I strain with the effort to decipher sound past that of my blood coursing through my veins, but I can’t. So I climb out of bed, checking on all the sleeping children in their various states of snoozy drool. All safe.

Back to bed I go, calming myself with thoughts of the next day’s work. The kitchen to clean; beds to make; the scrubbing that lay ahead.

When I had made an end to thoughts of these labours, it was four o'clock -- still dark as midnight. I lay with my eyes closed, coaxing sleep to visit me again. My partner wakes, noting my state, and asks of my sleep.

And then I heard it again. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but no. Again it sounded. Faster, constant. I tell my partner that I am fine, with all the reassurances I can muster. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

Thump-thump.

It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet my partner heard it not. I could hear it beneath me, through the floorboards. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased.

Alas I could take it no longer! I ran from the bedroom, the thumping increasing. The vile washing machine was calling out, calling to me, reminding me of its week-long neglect. It pounded against the door of the laundry room, crying out for attention.

"Villains!" I shrieked at the washer and dryer, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! I am lazy! I have ignored you for a week and it felt GREAT! GREAT, DO YOU HEAR?!?!”

I wrenched open the laundry room door to a stale, dirty clothes-filled silence.

“Meow,” said the cat.

Gabby's Birthday Cake

2008-05-14T12:18:00.001-07:00

IMG_0359
Originally uploaded by stephen_dana

I was pretty proud of this effort, until my sister's only comment was, "Those roses could sink a ship." Then I strangled her.

Sanctuary! Sanctuary! SANCTUARY!!

2008-05-14T12:14:00.000-07:00

Seven o’clock a.m. I sit on my bed, my laptop before me. I attempt to cull my thoughts into some cohesive semblance of communication. I have things to say, and I want to say them. I want to be witty and evoke a connection through my writing, and my laptop-- like a good therapist-- waits for me to begin. I tap out a few words. We smile at each other, my laptop and I, smile in that knowing way of old girlfriends. I begin telling her a story—something silly that happened the other day-- and rapidly get caught up in the telling. Soon the screen and keyboard are lost to the vision unfolding in my mind’s eye. And as I paint the story in further detail, as I float deeper into my story’s journey-- WHAM! An explosion of sound and fury rips me from my netherworldGoodmorninghellohowareyoublahblahblah…

…in bursts the first child of my day-- let’s call her HappyPants-- fully intent on telling stories of her own design. Interrupting and oblivious of my intense laptop communion, HappyPants speaks to me outright about everything and nothing all at the same time. I stare at her, face frozen in a strained smile that poorly shrouds my roaring brain. My internal screaming becomes a barrier (OHMYGAWD STOP TALKING I’LL LOSE EVERTHING I WAS JUST ABOUT TO WRITE) as I try with all my might to care about the flippant conversation. I sense my beet red face and shallow, rapid breathing is giving me away. Eventually HappyPants finishes her morning monologue and exits. Leaving the door wide open.

My eye twitches.

I close it behind her.

I sit. I attempt to commune with the laptop once again. Where were we? Ahhh yes, dear friend, we were just about to-- ENTER Groggy Slowpoke in search of socks. In search of clean clothing. Do we have soap? Where do we keep the milk? Groggy trudges out again in a cloud of his own confusion, and is immediately followed by HappyPants and my Heterosexual Life Partner. My previous conversation with HappyPants replays before my eyes, and I watch HLP navigate the conversation much more adroitly than my previous attempt. HappyPants turns on the desktop computer and proceeds to print out school work while checking out MySpace. HLP is interested in continuing the conversation, but now HappyPants is lost in a digital world of her own. She has stopped talking.

Blessed silence. Three whole seconds worth.

The distractions resume. Enter Grumpy Mumbler, just waking up, wanting attention but not conversation. He flops down on the bed, causing a minor earthquake in my world. Mumbler is followed by Slowpoke, still on his quest for socks. To my left there is a loud slurp of coffee followed by a rumbling amongst all about what is read in the paper, about what is happening at school, about what time we are leaving, about that funny thing that happened in that movie—did it go like this? NO! Wait, it was like that and then hahaha…and suddenly a horrendous screeching, grinding noise fills the room.

The printer has jammed.

As the crew leaps forward to assess the problem, I sneak out with my laptop and hide in my inner sanctum.

Silence.

I smile at my friend and get back to my story. The details. The emotions. I snicker at my creativity. I get lost in my brilliance. We fly, we soar, we come to a crashing halt when someone pounds on the bathroom door.

“Mom? Are you in there?”

I close the laptop. I flush. In a home with six children, there is no sanctuary.

BONUS QUESTION: For ten extra points, define R.S.V.P. Then do it.

2008-05-07T11:11:00.000-07:00

I take the blame.

My bad.

My ego, though healthy and large, is not too all-encompassing to recognize when I eff something up, and take responsibility for it. And I effed this one up but good.

I planned my kid’s 5^th birthday party with the speed of a cheetah, the grace of a gazelle, and ended up making a baboon out of myself. You see, for all my mania and effort, my daughter’s party was worse than poorly attended. Put another way—thank GAWD for family. Because without them, it would have been me, my daughter, and two dogs.

I acknowledge that not passing out maps with the invitation was a very poor choice. Yes, people could Google or MapQuest the address, but a good host would have provided general directions. Clearly, my mistake.

I acknowledge that could have planned the event further out, so that people could properly reserve the day on their calendars. Very poor planning on my part.

Finally, had I been a truly responsible host, I would have verified that the day of the party did not coincide with any other major event (INSERT the Clovis Rodeo HERE.) Truly horrible mistake. My head is bruised from all the forehead slapping.

AND yet…

While I am most willing and able to fall upon the sword, as it were, I cannot take ALL of the blame here. Blame, like credit, belongs where it is due, and some of the blame for the horrendous attendance must rest squarely on the shoulders of the uncultured swine that birthed the some-twenty invitees who did not respond to the invitation in any way.

No I am not bitter.

…Okay, yes I am.

And when I say uncultured swine, if you yourself have ignored the little line at the bottom of the invitation that reads, “R.S.V.P.,” then include yourself in that insult.

Because that one tiny line is enough for inhabitants of ANY OTHER CITY IN THE WORLD to know how best to deal with an invitation.

Any city, that is, but Fresno. And why do I pick on Fresno? Because virtually EVERYONE I know who is NOT from here, has had this same issue since moving here: Invitees in this area simply do not R.S.V.P. for parties or events in this town.

I have heard it over and over again: "We invited 50 people. Nobody R.S.V.P.'d, can you believe it?" "I think it's the way people do things here. They just don't respond."

As many of the inhabitants I’ve met since relocating here almost 8 years ago are kind people who would not willingly or knowingly be rude or hurtful, I can only presume that of the some 20+ events we’ve held, the several hundred invitees simply do not understand how to respond to an invitation.

PRINT FOR YOUR USE:

R.S.V.P. is an abbreviation for Répondez s'il vous plait. That’s FRENCH, Fresno, and at the bottom of an invitation it means “RESPOND, please.” NOT “Regrets only,” NOT “IGNORE this little blurb HERE”, but respond.

As in “WILL YOU ATTEND THE PARTY OR NOT?”

The name after the R.S.V.P. is the person you respond TO, and phone number is the number you call for said response.
It is perfectly reasonable to leave a message on an answering machine, or with anyone who picks up the phone.

The message you leave answers the question, “WILL YOU ATTEND THE PARTY OR NOT?”

It’s not just that we, the party throwers, want to know if your precious little imp will grace our home with his manic behavior or not and if not, oh how downtrodden we will be—GAWD no. It isn’t about giving you or anyone a guilt trip. It's not completely about you. Rather, knowing if you will attend is about US-- our planning, so we know how much food to prepare; how many gift bags to ready; and how many children we will have to entertain.

For those that understand R.S.V.P. AND make use of it, thank you. Thank you for continuing to be kind and respectful and courteous to hosts everywhere. It really is important and does mean something to the person going to all the effort to host an event to know simply whether or not you’ll be there.

And for those otherwise: BE CULTURED. You are now officially in the know, there are no excuses. RESPOND. Please.

REDEMPTION!

2008-05-03T18:44:00.001-07:00

By the Power of Grayskull, There WILL BE A PARTY

2008-04-25T16:42:00.000-07:00

MONDAY
6:38 AM
I awake Monday like I do most Mondays—slowly and wishing it was Saturday.

It wasn’t until I hopped into the shower that I remembered that my youngest daughter was not only turning five on April 28, but that we were planning her party for Saturday, April 26. Which is fine, completely fine. Except it was now Monday, April 21 and I had done nothing—literally NOTHING—in terms of planning for this event. I hadn’t even passed out the invitations yet.

OOOOoohhh, rrriiiiight—I hadn’t made them either. GAHHH!!

Okay, look—if I could make a person in nine months, I could plan a kid’s birthday party in five days. Not a biggie. I can do this. Just because I was distracted for several weeks by, I donno, LIFE, doesn’t mean we still can’t throw the party.

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

First things first: No invitations? Ffft—no problem. I had PhotoShop and I wasn’t afraid to use it. Plus, these were invitations for a little girl’s 5^th birthday party—all I needed was squirrelly font and rainbow colors. PERFECT.

Narrowing down the guest list was tricky. Originally Syd wanted to invite about 5 girls only, but soon it became all the girls in class, which then expanded to all the girls plus this boy and that boy and then, the next thing I knew, she wanted everyone to come. The guest list went up by about 25 kids inside of 10 minutes.

Not a problem. We have a big enough yard which can work out great in sunny weather. How to entertain a squadron of 5 year-olds? BOUNCE HOUSE. Reasonable price, easy entertainment. The kids will love it! They’re going to be jumping around anyway, all hopped up on sugar, right?

I type, “ Birthday party, 11 AM to 1 PM. Bounce house! Games! Pizza!” With invitations printed up on my handy inkjet, we got them into the class cubbies by 8:15 that morning. We’re on our way!

TUESDAY
7:20 PM
I am way too into the thought of baking a pretty cake. My ridiculous obsessive nature has pulled in the excitement of my little girl and now it’s beyond my desire to make the cake—it is part of the expectation. As we peruse the beautiful cakes on flickr.com, I somehow convince myself that I CAN make a comeback and get past the Great Cake Flop of 2008 (pictured here). My confidence high, I decide I will promptly get to planning the party. At some point. First though, I needed to look at a few more cakes. And read some e-mail. And watch Night at the Museum with Syd. She likes Larry.

Procrastination is yummy.

This is when Syd informs me she’s decided she doesn’t want pizza. She wants hot dogs. The long ones. (Dodger dogs.) The invitations have been in parents’ hands for about 24 hours and already have obsolete information. I feel my eye begin to twitch.

WEDNESDAY
8:07 AM
It’s drizzling outside. Great. Rain. I’ll need that Saturday like I need yet another hole in my head.

Oh holy crap I forgot about the bounce house. GAH! I called, diligently left a message, and promptly neglected to actually procure one. Worst. Mother. EVER.

Via my emergency call to the local rental agency I am informed that there possibly could be a total of ONE bounce house available in Fresno County this weekend. Maybe. She’ll make a few calls and see what she can do. I’m told to hang tight.

2:35 PM
I’m hanging tight. My office is a meat locker, so cold one’s fingers should snap off. But me? No. I’m sweating. Dizzy. Still no call from the bounce house lady. My nerves are killing me. That or the fattoush salad I had for lunch.

4:00 PM
GOT IT! The World of Disney modular bounce house is available—more than what we were looking for, but it’s all they have. Twice the fun, sure…at twice the price. WHAT??? I even don’t hesitate: We’ll take it. Ch-ching.

5:40 PM
Nerves nothing; it’s food poisoning. Party planning put aside, I lay in bed cursing my English stomach. And the fattoush.

THURSDAY
7:30 PM
Why did I plan the party for 11 AM? WHAT WAS I THINKING? I have to clean the house, mow the yard, feed children, bake a cake with the skill of a master pastry chef, do 17 loads of wash, buy gifties and fill goodie bags and decorate a house and take Syd BACK TO THE DOCTOR for a tetanus shot re-check all by Saturday at 10:30 AM, when the bounce house is set to arrive. All this in TWO DAYS.

I have no decorations. I have no goodie bags nor goodies to fill them with. The only thing I can knock-down early is the cake. So I begin baking. For those interested in one of the greatest recipes ever for chocolate cake, check out allrecipes.com. I love this cake. First, it’s chocolate. Second, it’s moist and a little dense and third, it’s chocolate.

My last cake experience was a failure on par with... something that really failed one time. Overly dry, cracked and dusty fondant (the cake’s candy-style icing) was thickly rolled over heavy cake to produce a large lump. It looks like pasty old man in dominatrix leathers. Short story: Not the look I was going for.

I vow this time, this cake will be different. I find a better recipe for fondant,—one that is tasty, easy to roll out, and quick to make. Better, stronger, faster than before. A bionic fondant, if you will.

And so I begin building my masterpiece.

FRIDAY
1:00 AM
I am covered in powdered sugar.

I have melted marshmallow stuck in my hair.

My fingers are stained with food coloring.

The cake looks faaaaabulous.

*zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*

6:40 AM
Friiiiiday! I love a Friiiiiday! I awake like I do every Friday—slowly and glad it isn’t Saturday YET. I can savor the flavor of a Friday.

Especially when my Saturday will be filled with many, many 5 year-olds and sugar.

No. No everything is not complete. No I am not Atlas, carrying the world. No I have not yet finished planning the party, cleaning the house, buying the items, decorating, doing laundry. But, I STILL HAVE ROUGHLY 24-OR-SOMETHING HOURS.

I will not quit. I know I can. I know I can. I know I can. I am the little mom that could.

Don't be a boob. Be a bra.

2008-04-21T16:05:00.000-07:00

You wouldn't notice it unless you were watching her very, very intently. She smiles congenially as her four year-old granddaughter runs halfway across the room to greet her. But if you pay close attention, as the preschooler wraps her arms around her Grammi’s neck, the big hug, the big kiss—THERE it is. As the two pull apart, the woman reaches up and tugs on the back of her hair, adjusting her whole hairstyle ever so slightly.

The woman, my mother, laughs with delight as my little girl announces how she has told her teachers about Grammi’s “hair hat.” Sydney is intrigued by the fact that Grammi had to take some very “hard medicine” that made her hair fall out. She asks her grandmother at every visit and in every phone conversation if Grammi’s hair has grown back yet. “Not yet,” the patient answers patiently. “But it will.”

My mother is a cancer survivor. Breast cancer, to be precise. Her story is not so different from the millions of women that came before her, and horribly, the millions that will follow.

The short story: During her monthly self-exam, she found a lump. The tumor was aggressive; my mother underwent a mastectomy within a month or so of the lump’s discovery.

(SIDE NOTE: Hey mom, you don’t mind if I publicly talk about your boobs, do you? Just checking.)

For those that are unaware, a “mastectomy” is the medical term for the partial or total removal of the breast. As one can imagine, having a body part removed is a physically and emotionally painful experience.

During surgery, two drains (surgical tubes connected to a container for capturing fluid) are installed. There is a method of tracking the amount of fluid that fills the drains, as well as specific procedures for cleaning them.

My mom was punted to the curb—ahem… DISCHARGED from the hospital within less than 24 hours after her surgery. She had 4 adult children devoted to her 24-hour care for several ensuing days. A retired RN, mom was an easy (if unwilling) patient. When one is used to caring for the world, it’s a bit more difficult to let go and let others be in charge of the care. That said, I’m sure it’s even tougher to get those others to let go when you, yourself, raised them to be caretakers. And tenacious caretakers, to boot (though I’ll blame the tenacity on my dad).

There was no way on this green earth that my mother—a registered nurse—would have been able to care for herself during the first few days after surgery. Though her recovery was amazing, she still needed help. You know, just the minor things. Like MOVING. And EATING. And assistance with the more complicated details, like the tracking of fluid , the doling out of medication, the cleaning of the drains, the whole post-surgery-foggy-headed thing.

(SIDE NOTE: Can I tell you how incredibly awesome it was to be able to FINALLY mom my mom?)

My point: The Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act of 2007 (S.459/H.R 758) is languishing in committee. Among other things, this bill will require insurance companies to cover in-hospital stays for mastectomy patients for a full 48 hours after surgery. If you have time, please read the bill. If this is a cause you support, please sign MyLifetime.com’s petition. Or, even better, please contact your congressperson with your support of the bill.

As they say on the MyLifetime.com site: “Be my support. Be my strength. Be my Bra.”

I am HARDCORE. In plaid.

2008-04-11T13:34:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what got into me. Or maybe it’s what never got out. Confession: The other night I bought two pairs of awesome pants at Hot Topic.

Yes, I just wrote “awesome pants.”

Yes, I just wrote “Hot Topic.”

Yes, I am 38 years-old.

LOOK, I am an 80s girl at heart and they had these amazing plaid clam diggers in different colors YES PLAID with zipper pockets and these, like, metal studs and they go super cute with my flowy black top and YES I AM TOO OLD for Hot Topic but… but…

…I liked them. And no, they are not entirely me—not me anymore, not the me of NOW—I’m noticing something strange happening to me lately (lately being anytime in the last 9 months). It’s been hard to figure out, but… I think I’m now attracted to all things hardcore. Seriously hardcore.

Like my recent affinity for Hot Pockets. Who doesn’t love a delicious scoop of cheesy goop molded into a rectangle? And those clever little cardboard wraps for the microwave to “crisp” them up? Believe me when I tell you that the inventor of the Hot Pocket was hardcore. Only a true microwave culinaire would think about that cardboard.

Or my desire to go bowling lately. What is that? That is HARDCORE. There is no other sport nearly as badarse as bowling. Don’t believe me? Watch Kingpin.

I’ve also been craving the snacks of my youth. Remember Lemon Heads? Or the big, long Charleston Chews? I used to like them frozen. Not that I my hyperactive twelve year-old self had the patience to wait for them to freeze, mind you. One could buy them that way at the community pool. (Remember community pools?) And while I make do now with modern candies like Hot Tamales, (hardcore), I do miss the sugary goodness of the old Now & Laters, back when they could break your teeth. Plus I’m pretty convinced all candies were way bigger back when I was two feet shorter.

… and while it’s all decidedly less hardcore, lately I’m also missing rainbow flip-flops, cherry-flavored lip gloss and my mom’s gigantic station wagon with the AM radio blasting Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park.” I miss long, lazy summer days, Drumsticks, scary movies about sharks, Depeche Mode, Sixteen Candles, watching Days of Our Lives at 3:00, listening to Live 105 on the radio, riding my bike past dark, and wondering what it would be like to have a boyfriend or go to a party or not live with my parents anymore.

Enter the deep, resonant sound of the chi gong. Aaah, realization.

I took my stepdaughter to get her driver’s license. Her nervousness was endearing and her desire palpable. Months of preparation and years of yearning culminated with this one moment at the curb. And for that brief moment, when I repeated my father’s advice (“You’re a great driver and you’ll pass the test but you know what? If for some reason you don’t, it’ll be okay. It really will. You really can take it again.”) I remembered the delicious taste of innocence.

…and big candy.

…and bowling with my friends.

…and clam diggers. Awesome pants.

Plus, I looked really good in them. I mentioned they go with my flowy top, right?

cross-posted to centralvalleymoms.com

What the??? What is going on in India?

2008-04-09T11:56:00.000-07:00

Not that atypical things don't happen elsewhere (coughMy House coughcough), but I ran across these two stories in the last 12 hours-- both about two kids in India-- and I felt compelled to share.

First off, old news arrived in my inbox from a friend. She introduced me to 15 year-old Jyoti Amge, who is the World's Smallest Girl. She's 11 inches tall. Worst quote ever comes unintentionally from mom: "Jyoti is small, yet cute, and we love her very much." Subtext: "Thank GAWD she wasn't hit by the ugly stick, because otherwise she's be on the first train outta town."

Second, this baby is a two-face. Literally. The baby has two faces. And while my first concern was that the child might suffer at the hands of the unkind, it appears she will have a whole different set of pressures to live up to. "Rural India is deeply superstitious and the little girl is being hailed as a return of the Hindu goddess of valor, Durga, a fiery deity traditionally depicted with three eyes and many arms."

Go read.

cross-posted to centralvalleymoms.com

Me and my mommy

2008-04-07T15:58:00.001-07:00

IMG_0071
Originally uploaded by stephen_dana

Mom and I at Madeline's 16th birthday bash

I'm learning.

2008-04-01T15:38:00.000-07:00

“I’m late,” she said, looking at me with wide eyes and shame. My bleary-eyed self was not ready for this. I was two sips into my coffee before she came to me with the news she could tell no one else. Cloistered away in the car, the two of us sat staring out the windshield. If I wasn’t ready for this, there was no way her dad would ever be.

We have that relationship, my stepdaughter and I; I am that non-parent port in a storm that can equally guide her forward as be her sounding board. We’re new at this, but we both feel blessed in our ability to communicate. But this… this I was not expecting.

I was stunned. Speechless. My mouth flubbered around for something intelligent and compassionate to say and the only thing to crash forth was, “But…Have you even had sex??!”

She began to slowly nod, which turned into a slow head-shake, which turned into a very slow, “Nope…. But it’s April Fools today.”

*snap* oooohhhh, she got me, the rat.

Allow me to introduce myself: My name is Gullible Suckerpants.

In case some of you have forgotten, escaped, or have been hiding under a rock, today is April Fools’ Day. And if you love a good fool story, be sure to check out some of the whoppers flying around the net.

First up: Last year’s masters are back, and at if with a mega dose. Google has at least two good pranks out there. Check out the all new Google TiSP Beta, their free in-home wireless broadband service.

Need a little escape? Apply to be a Virgle pioneer, “the first permanent human colony on Mars.”

Gmail users will appreciate the new Google Custom Time feature—a service that will allow users to send e-mail from the past. “You tell us what time you would have wanted your email sent, and we'll take care of the rest. Need an email to arrive 6 hours ago? No problem,” the site says. But hop on the feature, because it disappears all Cinderella-like at midnight.

One of the Web’s better reads is ESPN’s “Election Deathmatch Coverage,” where Clinton and Obama will apparently “face off in a winner-take-all tournament.”

Finally, are you tired of always being the office fool and never the fooler? Get going on a few good pranks of your own. Check out Popular Mechanics “Top 5 April Fool’s Day Pranks.”

As for my stepdaughter... the old shaving-cream-in-the-hand-tickle-your-face trick is sounding awfully good.....

BREAKING NEWS: Truth Revealed About Kopi Sotiropulos

2008-03-27T16:30:00.000-07:00

Driving to school the other morning my 12 year-old informed me of an interesting playground rumor that EVERYBODY who was ANYBODY under the age of 15 knew to be true, which, in FUSD schoolyard circles is right up there with the adult equivalent of the Richard Gere rumor.

Seeing a bright, orange school bus pull away from the curb, my son detailed how every year, every elementary age student is required to watch the school bus safety video starring the Valley’s beloved weatherman, Kopi Sotiropulos. This I found both interesting and amusing but not too surprising—I mean, c’mon. He is Fresno’s real-live version of Troy McClure. (Don't believe me? Check out his ImDB page.)

My amusement was not to end there, but rather, with the tragic, gooey, absolute sworn certainty covered naiveté that, as a parent, I find amazingly delicious. It was playground gossip, and therefore fact, that Kopi – being a rich and important celebrity— brought tremendous value to the safety video; so much gravitas, apparently, that the poor Fresno Unified School District did not have enough money to pay Kopi his exorbitant fees. And therefore, they gave him a bus. THE bus, in fact, that he drives in the video itself.

“And you’re sure about this?” I asked my son. “I mean, son, if I go to press with this, I need to know that it’s true.”

“Mom I swear. Well, that’s what a fifth grader told me when we saw the video in second grade.”

Ah, HA. So it WAS true.

However, being a loyal employee of the Valley’s top news source and number one local news Web site (fresnobee.com), it was my responsibility to verify the validity of this “veritas,” as it were.

I had to find Kopi. Ahhhh, but where to start?

It was going to be difficult, but my superior Google sleuthing skills led me directly to Fox 26’s Web site, and within minutes I was leaving a message with the receptionist. Oh sure, she said he’d call me back, but we all know how coy these celebrities are with hardcore journalists such as myself.

He returned my call the next morning, leaving me a message with his personal cell phone number. Coy indeed.

Initially I wasn’t sure how to approach this delicate subject, but inevitably decided I’d just out with it.

“Kopi… there is a very serious rumor in schoolyard circles about you and that school bus safety video. I think you know the one I mean.” He assured me that he did.

“So let’s just get it out there: Rumor has it that the Fresno Unified School District could not afford your appearance fees for the video, and so as form of payment, they gave you a bus.”

Pause.

“A bus?”

“Yes, the school bus.”

Pause.

Laughter. Laughter?

“When you said there was a rumor… you see, I wear a hairpiece.” Pause. “I thought you were referring to my hairpiece. In the video, I’m bald. I thought maybe some of the kids were confused as to whether it was really me or not.”

I was stunned, caught in the headlights. It was like listening to someone actually TALK about the huge zebra in the living room. I mean, everybody knew about Kopi’s hairpiece, but nobody ever TALKED about it—well, everybody talked about it-- but not with HIM. To his FACE. I mean who DOES that? We all knew he had a hairpiece, but did he know we all knew he had a hairpiece?

“No, uhm… no, actually, the rumor was about the bus. The school bus in the video. Is it true? I mean, did they give you a school bus… as… payment?”

“They did give me a bus.”

My jaw dropped to the floor.

“To drive in the video. They gave me a bus to drive in the video. And out of the kindness of my heart, being the benevolent person that I am, I gave it back [at the end of filming]. I told them ‘I’m doing it for the kids.’”

And there you have it.

Kopi Sotiropulos wears a hair piece.

You read it here first.

crossposted to centralvalleymoms.com

Party planning, Step one: Choose Theme. No take-backs.

2008-03-25T18:59:00.000-07:00

Though you wouldn’t necessarily know it by looking at my home, I’m a pretty detailed organizer/planner. When given a giant plateful of stuff, I’ve always had a talent for ordering the information into a series of steps, deciphering then completing tasks in their order of operations: How to go from A to Z and on to triple z subset iii, if you will. (A little formatting humor for you there.) (ah-GEEKchoo!). The only part of mathematics I’ve ever excelled at (let alone understood) was the proofs in Geometry. Thing A, thing B, set of rules for getting there. Follow rules in order. Done.

Knowing I could have a truly excellent military career as a battle planner, along that same line, I became a mom.

In addition to my planning skills and my bowstaff skills, are my creative WILL NOT EVER QUIT skills. These skills have served me in good stead, if only to prove that yes, you can make a pair of binoculars out of an empty tuna can and a stick of gum. Just go with it.

And so, when our sixteen-year old to-be decided she wanted a Sweet Sixteen party, and the theme would be Roaring Twenties, I was all flippin’ over this thing. Major events, famous people, music of the bygone era... Each room had a theme. The loft was going to be a jazz club; the bathroom was going to be the Stock Market Crash. The party was completely outlined within a week, give or take.

And when theme became an Evening in Hollywood, NOT A PROBLEM. I was so all over that like white on rice. Easy as pie. I had the entire thing dialed in from palm trees to red carpet to Lindsay Lohan’s arrest. It was elegant. It was mind-blowing. Naturally, it was changing.

I was nonplussed. I could handle anything she threw at me—even though we were a mere six weeks out. I am a party planning genius, I told myself. So, what’s it going to be?

“I’m thinking like, cities, but different.”

“Cities? Like, A Night in Paris?” DONE.

“Mmmnn.. no, more like, lots of cities.”

Lots of cities?

“Like, you know, like… the world.”

*blink*

She narrowed the theme down to… the WORLD??

Thank gawd I am a party planning genius. Even better, thank gawd I am a procrastinator extraordinaire. Because, let me tell you, it takes both of those things to stage The World in six weeks.

Just ask God. Though a slightly better planner than I am, she'll tell you the same thing.

It's PARTY TIME, baby!

2008-03-12T15:07:00.001-07:00

Ahhh, the delights of party planning season are upon us.

As the happy coparent of six kids, almost all of whom were born in the spring (mammals much?), as of right this very second I face five birthdays (and as many parties) between March 23 and June 14. And each child faces the possibility his or her celebration a little differently.

It all starts off with kid number 1, who turns Sweet 16 in March. Originally slated as a get “together with a few people” at a friend’s house, it later became a “joint party” with a best friend, which then moved to our house because the 20+ person guest list was too unwieldy for it's former location. The guest list somehow stretched to 50 shortly thereafter. And then came the decision to bifurcate the parties-- just the celebration of our girl turning Sweet 16.

But the guest list expanded to 70 people.

*blink*

Next up is kid number 2, who could care less about a huge hullabaloo, but would likely groove on a family party, pizza and Xbox. However, as "family party" is defined as upwards of 25 people, it takes a little coordination.

Kid six cuts in line for party 3 and really has no idea what to expect. This will be her first beyond just-family birthday party, which for her is an exciting and frightening prospect all at once. Apart from cake (which she has dictated WILL be chocolate WITH pink and purple frosting AND princesses AND a bride AND a groom AND sparkles AND maybe a rainbow on it) and the knowledge that presents will be involved in some way, she is pretty much open to anything that comes down the pike. So long as it's pink and purple and sparkly. With princesses. And brides.

Kid five, as party 4 honoree, describes her needs in one word: Boomers. ‘Nuff said.

And kid four? House full of musky 12 year-old boys. Pizza. Xbox. (I am seeing a theme among the boys.)

I counted the months, I looked at the planning, the guests, the food, the sheer cost of all these to-dos and I reacted like… like… well, think Robin Williams in The Birdcage.

I WAS BORN FOR THIS! I'm so excited, my synapses are firing off like microwave popcorn. Move over Emeril, cuz BAM! I’m kicking the creativity up a notch.

Stick with me in the coming months as I ride the party-planning wave, from theme, to food, to invitations, to decorations, to where to buy the cheapest Advil. Got suggestions? Send them. Got advice? Linky love? Pass it all along.

Something tells me I’m going to need a little help.

No, I don't want a bigger penis. Thank you for asking.

2008-03-10T16:11:00.001-07:00

It was a big weekend for me.

I’d been informed, by a super secret, totally anonymous source that I had “too much junk in the trunk” and I needed to lose weight. Someone I apparently met at “Kimber’s party” was bored and wanted excitement, and politely queried whether I was interested in perusing “hot XXX shots” of her on her live Web cam. I'd also gotten an amazing business offer from this really needy poor-speller in Nicaragua which I am a little hesitant to mention here because I’m supposed to keep it under wraps. Suffice it to say, with a small investment, the exiled prince will be sending me MILLIONS for my efforts.

Wow. I could retire and become a full-time blogger. Right after I enhance my penis, of course.

Spam, spam, spam, spam, unwanted e-mail and spam. It’s exactly like that really funny Monty Python sketch, only there are no men in drag with overloud squawky voices. That, and it’s not funny.

Frankly, it’s been awhile since I’ve been subjected to the deluge of offers and the unapologetic cajoling of peddlers trying to sell me various and sundry items, or the pleadings of anonymous people pushing me to make really bad X-rated choices. And I hadn’t missed it. Yes, I would occasionally get this junk e-mail at work, but our ultra strong-like-bull spam filter would kill out most of this stuff. And since I switched to gmail (Google’s free super awesome [technical term] e-mail service), my personal account has been largely spam free. My e-world went quiet.

And it has been deliciously quiet for several months.

But then, suddenly, lately, it’s back, spawning like sick salmon fighting their way upstream to my inbox with an unforeseen tenacity. Over the last few weeks I’ve begun receiving a spate of offers from Russia. And this spam, it’s nothing like the old days. There are no images of sexy vixens, no mortgage offers, no sound files, no badly designed, overly-blinky HTML giving me seizures.

This spam is black and white and text driven, and boring. Enough squabbling, we have the answer: boring spam is a sure sign of recession.

(cross posted to centralvalleymoms.com)

I'm on jury duty (HA! I said duty!)

2008-03-04T22:54:00.000-08:00

I was recently empanelled on a jury. That much I can officially tell you. I can also tell you that the trial is scheduled to last at least a couple of weeks.

What’s it about, you ask? BNNNNN! Officially, I am prohibited from answering that question.

Wanna know who is involved? BNNNN! Sorry. Again, the whole prohibited from answering thing.

Who’s the judge? BNNN. Can’t even tell you if she’s hot. Or if he’s hot. So don’t ask.

But, I know you’re curious, so I can officially tell you that I am officially empanelled on a jury and that the trial is officially scheduled to last a couple of weeks.

Unofficially, however… part of me needs talk about my experience.

So here it is:

Secretly, I love being on a jury. It gives me the sense that I am doing something really good and beneficial for society at large. It makes me feel important, and honestly, there have been very few times in my small little life when I’ve gotten to feel like the star of a show. And when you’re a juror, it’s like you’re part of an ensemble cast in a very successful show.

People move aside for the jurors. Hello, obnoxious lawyer! See my badge? That’s right—no talking to me. My mere presence makes attorneys look awkwardly askance and move away. SUCH POWER!

We the jury get our own lines and entry doors; we get fresh coffee (albeit Folgers) and breaks and smiles from bailiffs and officers in uniform. We actually talk to these uniformed individuals, and they are polite and talk nicely to us. This includes security guards.

I don’t know if I should be wowed by the fact that the police talk to us, instead of at us, but I am all the same.

Added bonus: There’s the whole get-to-see-sunshine thing--which in my day job, hasn’t happened in almost 8 years.

Overtly, I loathe being on a jury, because fitting jury duty into my life is like trying to shove the circus fat lady into a clown car sans grease. No worky.

To wit: This morning I had to rise at the butt crack of dawn, perform a half-hearted and sleepy job/walk combo; work on the computer; bathe (always a good thing after the jog/walk); wake 6 kids (not as easy as it sounds); pack 7 lunches (mine included); force 3 kids to brush their teeth, 2 to bathe and persuade one four-year old to wear clothing; and get 3 kids to schools each located in separate parts of town.

AND THEN I was ready to go to jury duty. I’m fairly certain I dressed myself at some point.

The jury waiting room is nothing but temptation. First there are the admonitions not to discuss the case, but I’m stuck in a small room around a conference table with upwards of 12 other people I don’t know, being asked to avoid the largest, stinkiest zebra that ever existed in any living room anywhere, ever.

Next, like a preacher in a cathouse, I must force my newly Weight Watcher converted self to avert my eyes and abstain from engaging in intimate relations with the sleazy, tawdry donuts lying seductively on the table. Naughty, naughty donuts.

Finally, and possibly worst of all, there is no privacy whatsoever in the bathroom connected to this place. I am absolutely convinced all the jurors can hear every move I make when I’m in there. Suffice it to say, I personally am not able to function properly when others are in earshot. That is a whole special kind of discomfort, right there.

But the one thing I was dying to tell someone—ANYONE— today but could not was that today, apparently, was Blue Day. Every official person in the courtroom was wearing a blue suit. This recognition was somehow important for me to note, if only in that Chandler Bing laugh-at-the-word-duty kind-of way (which they did say several times, by the way, forcing me to snicker inwardly).

Alas, I suspect no one else cared that it was Blue Day, because I bet no one else noticed that it was blue day, because I couldn’t share with anyone my keen observation. Because as a juror, I’m not allowed to share any observations. Not about the case. Not about anything.

Except… well… I am officially empanelled on a jury and the trial is officially scheduled to last a couple of weeks.

Chihuahua: Family Pet or hors d'oeuvre?

2008-02-27T12:31:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago, and when I say not too long ago I mean at some point in the last 5 to 7 years, I remember reading an online piece about a family who had a pet python. The mother in the family was particularly devoted to her 20+ foot reptile, extolling its virtues as a loving and caring and important member of the family. And there, on the associated video of the story, the mother laughed joyously as her infant child stuck the snake’s tail in its mouth.

There are many words for my reaction to this piece, but I think the one that sums it up most eloquently is EEW. Who does that? Is that woman some special kind of stupid? Clearly I’m no herpetological GENIUS or anything, but I can pretty much guess that allowing my baby to suck on a reptile’s tail cannot be good for the baby. I can’t even begin to guess what the snake thinks about it.

That said, another household python story graces our news again today. In this one, a 5 and 7 year old boy and girl watched as a “scrub python devoured their silky terrier-Chihuahua crossbreed Monday at their home near Kuranda in Queensland state.”

"It actively stalked the dog for a number of days," said Stuart Douglass, the owner of Kuranda’s Australian Venom Zoo. "The family that owned the dog had actually seen it in the dog's bed, which was a sign it was out to get it."

*blink* Stalker snake?

Okay, from what I understand, this python was not a family pet. He wasn’t even a family friend. I’m not one to jump to conclusions, but what level of ridiculous must be attained after “snake in house, in dog’s bed” before one decides it is reasonable to call an animal control expert? Cuz me, I think it would be long before “children watch snake devour family dog.”

And there’s another thing. It’s not like the snake fled from the house like Marion Jones. I’m going to say it took minutes—and in my mind, that’s at least 120 seconds—for the thing to get up, stretch, make it’s excuses, share pleasantries and depart. Could they not have followed it? Could they maybe have called animal control while it was taking it's siesta aka laying in wait for the pup?

But again, I’m no herpetological genius.

Just one time makes a tradition

2008-02-14T09:59:00.000-08:00

The kids asked to have breakfast for dinner last night. Harry was particularly excited about this idea-- that kid is a breakfast eating machine. In the midst of his enthusiasm I reminded him, "Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Are you sure?"

"YES!" he shouts, sans hesitation.

His answer insures that he and his siblings are about to eat pancakes for two meals straight.

But the Valentine's Day breakfast pancakes are not just any pancakes. These are special, heart-shaped-frosted-with-sprinkles pancakes. It was a tradition started so long ago I don't even remember, only that at sometime in my poverty-stricken, family-on-another-coast-all-alone-out-here-with-two-kids past, I decided we needed something like that. Some kind of special something that, even on a middle-of-the-road weekday, we could get happy about breakfast.

I think it began on St. Patrick's Day, with the green pancakes. It grew to birthdays with candles and frosting and Valentine's Day with hearts, and Halloween with candy corns. It appears that the one food I can make and never screw up is the holiday pancake.

My kids love it. They go nuts for it. In fact, last year Gabby was sick on Valentine's Day, as was Harry, and both were at my house. It was Gab's first time enjoying Valentine's pancakes. She still asks about them and was bummed that she wouldn't be at our house this year to enjoy them.

Maybe I'll have a repeat on Sunday?

Four year-old humor

2008-02-13T07:16:00.000-08:00

She hides beside me beneath an oversized blanket, blowing raspberries, declaring "You don't see me!" On cue, I reach over and tickle her middle, or something resembling her middle so far as I can tell (she is beneath a blanket after all). Peals of laughter turn quickly into appeals for more. The game continues for a few minutes-- calls, tickles, laughter-- until the blanket lies silent. I type. I get lost in my typing.

But the blanket is not appeased.

"Steeeeben! Steeeeben you can't seeeee me!!" The person-shaped lump beside me snickers. She is chumming. PIC wanders in from the bathroom, easily caught.

"Oh gee," says the fish, dryly reciting his lines, "I think I must. Sit down. Here. On the. Bed." Hysterical laughter explodes from the blanket as it's contents are partially squished. "What the?!?! Why, what is THAT??"

Moments later the blanket is thrown back, the sunshiney little girl floats on air, so pleased with the game she's created, the attention she has captured. Humor has become her drug.

"DO IT AGAIN!!!" This partial request/partial demand is met with more tickles from me, breaking from the typing.

Each time the joke is repeated, it is just as funny. Each time it ends, sunshine begs for more.

I wonder if this is somehow a metaphor for our political system. Let's just say that it is.

My valuable time

2008-02-08T08:41:00.000-08:00

As bleary-eyed me stumbled from bed LATE this morning (my bad), tripping over piles of unfolded, clean laundry (my bad), and sought to hound bleary-eyed children from the safety of their beds (bumping directly into sunshiney Gabby on the way-- sorry Gab, my bad), a whisper of a thought danced in the recesses of my mind, a whisper whose message rose, gaining power and force, taking voice and becoming a whirlwind, twirling and building until it ripped through my being like a tornado, tearing down the shreds of sleep, it's message leaving me quivering and exultant: it's friday, It's Friday, IT'S FRRRRRIIIIIIDDAAAAAAYYY!!!!!

Suddenly I was moving with purpose.

My petulant voice became commanding.

My body moved with the confidence of a three-star general. UP! OUT! ONWARD!

This day, this foggy, groggy, slow-moving day was the beginning of something huge in my life. Something fantastic and special and I'd be damned if I was going to let the sloth-like demeanor of six (well, five-- Gabby was already up) kids impede my purpose. Not Today. Today is amazing and special and should be treated like a national holiday and is so personal and near and dear to me that Today shall be capitalized henceforth.

Because Today is also the FIRST day of a 3 day-- BRACE YOURSELF-- kid-free weekend.

WHOOOO effing HOOOO, baby!!!! I love my runts, but for the first time in months, literal MONTHS I tell you, PIC and I will have (ohmyGAWD if I put it into words, will it jinx it? Will it somehow not happen, dissappear, be consumed by the needs of others like the last 3 dates we had planned???) time. alone. together.

NOT running-to-the-store-grocery-shopping-together alone time.

NOT finally-laying-down-at-10:30pm-OH-THERE-YOU-ARE-I-REMEMBER-YOU-and-I-LIKE-YOU -ZZZZzzzzz alone time.

But actual unfettered, weekend-long ALONE TIME.

Oh yeah, baby. No kids-- just him, me, alone in the house, some wine, a warm, crackling fire, some witty banter and you know what that leads to...

... I finally get to finish that book I've been reading.

Giddy!

There are no words

2008-02-07T10:51:00.001-08:00

As every homemaker knows, the key to having a successful home is having a glamorous home. And the key to a glamorous home is FASHION. This is Brenda Dickson. Welcome to her world of big hair, crystal earrings and ostrich feathers. Just remember: she specifically CHOSE the orange lipstick.

I feel so much more informed. And slightly vomitus.

Visual representation of edible boredom

2008-02-06T16:48:00.001-08:00

Sydney & Gabby's veggie creation
Originally uploaded by girlmonkey

As I busied about the kitchen on Super Bowl Sunday (side note: Why is it called Super BOWL? I know nothing of this game, but I'm almost positive it is not played in a bowl, nor do they wear bowls, have bowl cuts, nor play with an actual bowl. In fact, I'm pretty certain the game is about feet, and a ball. And really tight pants.) making various edibles for our extended family, the little girls made their level of boredom known by creating art out of crudite.

Several vegetables were harmed in the making of this photo.

My civic duty

2008-02-05T09:25:00.000-08:00

I rose earlier than usual today, knowing that I wanted to swing by the polling booths before the vast crowds hit. Yes, today is SUPER Tuesday. Do not confuse it with Meh Monday or Abject Poverty Thursday.

I was going to bring two of my herd with me and have them witness the fulfillment my civic duties. And then drop them off at school. My 14 year-old (who's personal excitability level is on par with Lurch) was actually moderately interested in seeing me exercise my rights. Even more fascinating, my four year-old couldn't WAIT to go and VOTE. In fact, when I invited her to witness the prestigious event, she bounded out of bed. BOUNDED, I tell you. I was stunned. This is the same child that shouts at the sun for rising each morning.

By 7:20 we were on the road, in search of our polling place. According to Yahoo maps, the fire station was about 3.5 miles from the house. This seemed a little far to me, especially since I passed 2 other polling places on my way.

Fast forward to an hour later: I've dropped the 14 year-old off at school, the four year-old is crying because she wants to go "bote," and I am grumbling like Fred Flintstone under my breath (frickafrackbrickabracka) as I drive the same stretch of road searching in vain for the non-existent address.

Eventually I gave up. I took babygirl to school, well against her wishes, and called the county registrars office asking for better directions. Yahoo's maps were wrong. And I ended up voting during my lunch hour.

Thank GAWD I am a committed voter. Yay me. But how many other people face the same doom, spending eons driving in circles and eventually just give up, casting their votes instead to the four winds?

Confusing political process be damned. I know the truth: Yahoo is responsible for voter apathy and low turn out.

Super Tuesday | vote | Yahoo

Your chaos is my normal.

2008-02-01T12:21:00.000-08:00

A quick phone call to my mom always puts the perceived chaos of our home life into perspective. And it's not necessarily anything that she says, except.. that it kind of is.

"What do you have going on this weekend?" she cautiously asks. Without a second thought I rattle off the various schedules of each of the inhabitants of our household. With six kids and my ability to go tangential on her, this can take some time.

In the background three kids are playing some form of tag, running up and down the stairs; one is advancing her solo drum career on Rock Band; one is watching Dr. Strangelove on the downstairs TV, surround sound blaring; and one is following me from room to room, attempting to draw my attention to her with her squawky why-are-you-running-away-from-me, borderline-whiny voice. Eventually she is sucked into the play of the older kids, and I slip out the front door for some privacy.

I finish the cataloging of our monkeys' planned weekend activities, which is followed by a pregnant pause.

"Mom? Are you...still there?"

"I'm here. Wow. That's... wow. You have a lot on your plate."

It's at this point in the conversation that I am at a complete loss for words. My mom is not being judgmental nor negative in any way. But her stunned demeanor always throws me.

The truth is, I don't feel like I have a lot on my plate. I don't feel like we live in chaos, or in an atypical situation, mostly because it's US. It IS our situation. It seems entirely normal, regular, life as usual to me. It is THIS thought that makes me pause.

Am I supposed to be overwhelmed?

Am I supposed to feel exhausted? Crazed? Hanging on by a thread?

Is it wrong that I am doing okay?

*breathe* I tell myself.
*be calm*
*There's nothing wrong feeling good about your life.*

And this is where I do the big *forehead slap.*

When one is busy living life, one's life is-- by it's very definition-- ONE'S OWN life. Normalcy is entirely subjective.

In my mother's world, normal was living with and caring for my 90 year-old grandmother, until my mother was recently diagnosed with cancer. And now, normalcy for my mom includes quiet, sweatpants, baldness and chemo.

Nausea and the constant white-cell battle she wages is exhausting and frightening to me. But chemo is the hors' deouvre that fills her plate. Like it or no, it composes her reality, and defines what is and is not normal in her world.

By contrast, normalcy in our home is defined by the many people and pets that live there: everybody has an issue, an agenda, a need or desire and they want it all solved, directed, attended to NOW, just like at work, at school, or at any other home in the world.

I suppose, yes, we do have a lot on our huge plate. But we also have much bigger appetites.

chaos | humor | cancer

Dad watches

2008-01-30T15:56:00.001-08:00

Dad watches
Originally uploaded by girlmonkey

Madeline puts the finishing touches on her make-up as dad, reflected in the mirror, watches his little girl from across the room.

mmmm...chocolate

2008-01-30T15:37:00.001-08:00

mmmm...chocolate
Originally uploaded by girlmonkey

Hotter than the Monte Carlo fire

2008-01-25T16:23:00.000-08:00

Tonight is Friday night, which is lady's night-- and the feeling's right. I am so close to my wild weekend I am OOOZING wickedness.

We only have 3 kids tonight. That's right baby-- 3 kids, one of whom hides out in his room editing movies, another who may or may not entertain himself with his DS, and the third is a high-maintenance toddler who might visit her electronic babysitter this evening (via "Mulan" or "Aladdin"). EASY STREET is laid out before me, like miles of... uhm... pavement. Really easy pavement.

First, I plan on coming home, stripping down, and rinsing the work/computer stink off my supple-yet-drooping body. Then, I have an old pair of leggings and a stained old t-shirt all clean and waiting for my sexy self to adorn. Finally, hair thrown up in a messy bun (men like buns), make-up free and glass of cheap wine in hand, I plan on ROCKING OUT the Rock Band, baby. And do the sexy dance.

HOT.

Monte Carlo | Rock Band | Friday

Kilptrick & Beatty had textual relations

2008-01-24T12:17:00.000-08:00

The recent furor over the mayor of Chicago having relations with his chief of staff-- and both lying about it while under oath-- is generally one of those stories I would ignore. And when I say ignore, I mean it in the *search-it-out-on-Google, read-what-I-can, comment-on-it- with-friends-passing-mild-judgement-while-trying-to-cover-my-karma-tracks-qualifying-my-opinon* kind of way.

Except there's that one part that makes me cringe.

That one part that I can relate to so well it makes me blush.

I will admit, I am no saint. I, too, have had textual relations. And ohmyGAWD I think I would fall over and die if anyone OTHER than my intended read them, let alone have them subpoenaed and read in a court of law, to the media and in full and complete access of my mother.

Frankly I think what goes on between two consenting adult's mobile devices is between those two consenting adults and that the government, or one's children -- in a moment of "I'm helpful, let me read this message you just got on your phone" spontaneity-- should never interfere.

And I think any normal, healthy adult person who's had amazing, consensual adult monkey-text knows exactly what I mean.

Kwame Kilpatrick | Christine Beatty | text messages

Hilarious.

2008-01-24T11:00:00.001-08:00

Blasphemy | humor | YMCA

Hairless

2008-01-23T13:54:00.000-08:00

My web hosting company upgraded to a new content management system. They sent out notices that they were doing it. All was going to be seamless.

Except nothing I published appeared on my site.

*this is me, pulling out my hair, strand by strand*

Ooohhh, yeah.. Oops. Forgot to mention in the "Upgrade" e-mail that the server info was also changing.

A 48-minute hold time sent to me a foreign country's help desk, wherein my issue was resolved in less than 2 minutes. Verifying my account security took longer than the actual resolution to my issue.

*sigh*

upgrade | server | annoyed

MASTERCARD: Food for the Financially Foolish

2008-01-21T10:46:00.000-08:00

Online banking revealed a nasty somn'-somn' last week: the budget is off.

Way off.

Being the stupid fool that I am, what do I do???

I bought ROCK BAND.

ch-ching, thank you Mastercard.

BEST. GAME. EVER.

Rock Band | Mastercard | xbox

Morning...

2008-01-08T15:30:00.000-08:00

Some wonder how it is we get ready in the morning, what with six kids. Truthfully: It's almost the same, no matter how many monkeys we have at home on any given day.

I have been taking the early crew this week, which is comprised of my three kids-- all of whom must be in different places at varying times-- all across town.

As Trev needs to be at school by 8:00, the early crew must leave the house no later than 7:30, which means all 3 of my kids need to be out of bed by 6:45. Which means I need to be out of bed much, much, much sooner. Which means PIC, as the awesome a.m. coffee guy, readies my coffee IV at least 10 minutes before then.

This is a step-by-step guide to early-shift readiness in our household.

~~~
WAKE THE EARLY-SHIFT CHILDREN

Step 1: 6:37 a.m.

Me: Good morning Syd!

(Sydney, her sweet face upturned, she-- so tiny, in her four year-old sleep-- snorts.)

Me: (Ignoring her stinky breath from the snort, I plant little kisses on her softie, sweet cheeks.) Syddie, baby, time to start waking up.

Sydney: (Her sweet baby eyes flutter open, just before the room is filled with voice of Satan.) GO AWAAAYY!!

Me: Honey--
(Baby arms begin to flail as the tiny rattler sinks deeper into her covers. I back away.)

~~~~

Me: (calling from the door) Harry... honey... time to get moving...

(The huge rat's nest-like pile of covers doesn't move. At all.)

Harry?

(Lack of movement makes me question whether he has already retreated to the bathroom. Just as I decide this MUST be the case, I am startled by sudden movement deep within the pile. It stirs minutely, then explodes as lanky, startled arms and legs burst from the covers and a bushy, freaked-out head appears from exactly where I thought his belly was.)

Harry: Whha? Huh? yeah, yeah, I'm up, I'm up!! (Cofused Boy Wonder gazes unseeingly about, then flops back onto his pillow, as if yanked back into the depths of sleep by unseen forces.)

~~~

Me: Trevor?... Trev? (Pause. I gasp as wall of teenage-boy-room scent overtakes me. Taking breath of fresh air from hallway, I make second attempt.)

(speaking quickly, with limited air) Trev? Honey? Time to wake up.

Trevor: *grunt* (no visible movement)

(pause. I take another breath.)

Me: Trev?

Trevor: *series of grunts whose rhythm can be interpreted as, 'okay, okay, I will get in the shower.'*

I leave. I return ten minutes later and all 3 are in the same state if dis-awake.

Step 2: 7:00 a.m., REPEAT STEP 1

Step 3: 7:10 a.m., REPEAT STEP 1, THIS TIME WITH SERIOUS LOUD VOICE.
The children actually respond this time, in the same way that molasses responds when you shout at it.

morning | humor | motherhood

New Year's Top Ten

2007-12-31T11:46:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a lot about my New Year's Resolution this year. Like most of the rest of the planet, annually I vow to change some aspect of my life for the better. One year it was complaining. I wanted to reduce how much I bitched about everything. Clearly you can all tell how well THAT one went. Some years involved exercising-- dedication to starting-- or dieting-- or giving up swear (feck that)-- or generally trying to be a better person. That last one worked out well for me, because "better" is entirely subjective.

So far as progress is concerned, the landscape looks like this: I make goof-ups by the end of the first week, but maintain a strong attitude; I develop a convenient memory and strong rationalizing skills by mid-January; and by February, all bets are off.

Or, mostly off.

In recent years, I've taken to making seasonal Top Ten lists. These I like. They are manageable. They are defined. THEY HAVE A REASONABLE DEADLINE.

Hence, instead of my New Year's Resolution-- I extend to you, gentle reader, my

NEW YEAR'S TOP TEN LIST

1) Buy local more. I've been actively trying to make a dent in the world's global situation in my small, fist shaking-screaming -into-the-wind way by paying attention to where my goods come from. I'm not yet a locavore--which I think is incredibly cool-- only because I slightly digress in my opinionry. And also I am sometimes too cheap.

My attitude: If what I am purchasing-- say, cheese, or vegetables--is not from very nearby, then I work concentrically outward. If the package says "California"-- my home state-- I'm cool with that. If I need something and the only available product is from the western states-- I can rationalize.

Where I differ from locavores is that I emotionally can't jump to buying something from a Vermont family farm if there is a similar product made by a larger producer based closer to home. It's the "How much diesel was used to ship that to me" gig. Living in one of the worst air-quality regions of the U.S., I find it part of my responsibility to not feed into that problem for others. I no longer buy produce from Chile, for example.

However, there is that whole, large-producers-ship-larger-quantities-more-often thing, which stabs my myopic view of buying local right in the eye.

I'll work it out.

That said-- I want to extend my local-leanings to non-food products as well. Like clothes. And toys. This will be tough, because I am a gadget geek and beyond Mac, what is there from California? And I have SIX kids, which means EVERYTHING comes from Target which also means EVERYTHING is made in China.

So I'm going to try. Consistently trying and failing is so much better than not caring at all. So I got that going for me. Which is nice.

2) Eat HEALTHFULLY more. This nubbin goes hand in hand with number one; if it ain't local, it should be organic. And not produced by someone who also produced chemicals. Like buying seeds by a Monsanto subsidiary.

Point: My mom is in the process of reading Barbara Kingsolver's latest book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and was telling me some of the many interesting points Kingsolver makes. One being that food produced by certain growers is non-organic. Clear on that. Food grown there uses fertilizers. Check. Some food is grown for seed, so others can grow their own plants. And seeds used from those plants that had fertilizers on them, have fertilizers already in them. So even if you decide to grow your own organic garden, all yummy and protected and natural, and use the wrong seeds, you're SOL.

Beyond wanting to read that book, I want to eat better foods-- yes-- but more importantly FEED MY CHILDREN better foods. And teach them all better eating habits, so they know what is and what isn't really good for them.

3) Feed my brain more. Figuratively. I want to refresh my understanding of Spanish, because I once could almost nearly speak it conversationally maybe but not quite. And I want to learn French. Or enough to read a menu and ask where the restrooms are.

I love Guitar Hero-- seriously, what non-human doesn't??-- but I want to really learn how to play an actual one, and have for the last -oh-my-frigging-GAWD-has-it-really-been- twenty-three years. So I'm just going to do it. BAM.

4) Do physical activities with my kids more. I want to go cycling with them and hiking and skiing-- YES, wonderful skiing. This is the year to introduce Sydney to skiing. I want to run local 2K (or maybe 5K, but NEVER A 10!) races with them and take them surfing. I want to go camping with them and swimming-- I want them to appreciate the last vestiges of the amazing world around us before it all melts, burns and floods away.

5) Write more. See? Already doing it.

6) Read More. I had been steadily reading a book, sometimes two, per week for the last several years. I've slowed. I enjoy my inner fantasy life. Time to get back to it. TIme to get over the end of the Harry Potter series.

7) Love more. It has been increasingly common for me in recent years to pull away from those I've loved and cared about. I get lazy with communication, or choked with resentment, or filled with anger.

It is far too easy for me to cease caring about the world outside my own little one because I hate what BushCo. has done to our ocuntry. Because I am embarrassed sometimes to be an American. Because we spew so much hypocrisy around the globe.

I rather like living a hidden existence, letting my bile rise up until I am so bloated with rage I explode into my partner's sweet face as he tries to comprehend what the hell I'm venting about now.

Gotta give up the anger. Gotta forgive more. Gotta let myself be nice to myself. Simply, gotta love more. Literally and figuratively.

8) Focus on QUALITY time with all the important people in my life, including my pups, more. Call it paying attention. Caring to pay attention. Taking the time to pay QUALITY attention instead of "uh,huh"ing my way through life. And though I love them dearly and have become over time a better owner to my pups than I ever really understood that to be (thank you, Susan)-- I need to spend even more time with them. Because just that bit of time at the end of the day... that doesn't feel like enough.

9) Participate in the world more. I just want to. I would like a more active social life, which, really is to say that I'd like to have one beyond that of my kids. Just a bit.

... and finally, one of the most important things that changes the flavor of life-- as well as the direction of this manifesto-- entirely:

10) Be LESS consumerist. I don't need everything. Neither do my kids. I can do more with less, and I want to choose to do more, with less.

3-MONTH REVIEW: March 31, 2008

6-MONTH REVIEW: June 20, 2008

DEADLINE: December 31, 2008

Happy New Year.

Bummer of a picture, dude

2007-12-27T14:33:00.001-08:00

Seriously. You're all stoked that you performed really well in a sport, and the local paper shows up and snaps your moment of glory, and it appears in print and online for all of posterity.

And this is your shining moment: Someone's butt on your head while you wonder, curiously, what that vrrrrp noise you just heard was.

Totally wants me

2007-12-11T22:03:00.001-08:00

I got another e-mail from Al today. You know, Al Gore.

Yeah. I just got a note from him telling me of his great news- that he won the Nobel Prize. Seriously! I know, I'm totally stoked for him. It's a prize, you know? Prizes are, like, good. I mean, you probably didn't know yet because he didn't e-mail you personally like he did me. So don't feel bad. It's just that he's pretty private. He doesn't share a lot about himself with other people. He's just not a real people person.

But he and I--we're tight like that.

He tells me all kinds of things. Stuff he's working on. Places he's going. Places he's been. He talks a lot about the Earth and global warming, but you guys, seriously and I'm not even kidding-- the subtext is always so strong.

The guy wants me.

Gawd it's so obvious. I mean, like, you know how when a guy writes to you out of the blue and he's all, "ME ME ME" and like, "Oh, I'm single handedly saving the world" and like "Oh, we're the only industrialized nation besides China who didn't sign Kyoto" and like "Oh, I won the Nobel Prize," you KNOW the guy must like you.

Take today's note. It starts out all, "I would like to share with you..." I KNOW!! SERIOUSLY!! I mean, that is so intense! SHARE. So personal. He could have said, "I want to tell you this super important thing" or whatever, but he didn't. He said SHARE. That means something, right? It so does.

It screams I WANT YOU.

And it's cool and all, but it's also kind of sad. I really, really think he's been damaged in his past, like emotionally, because he drops all these hints, you know, like the wanting to SHARE with me thing, but then he doesn't talk a whole lot about personal stuff. Like when I told him about my mom's cancer? Not a peep. Not even a response to my six and a half page e-mail detailing her surgery and her drains and the chemo and stuff. I didn't even mention the hair part. I just think he's so emotionally damaged like from his past, that it was too hard for him to bear. I mean because his sister died of cancer. Or something. I think.

Anyway, the guy totally wants me. You can tell by the way he almost always mentions his wife. Like "Tipper and I want to thank so and so," or "Tipper and I went to blah blah blah." Duh. SOOOOO trying to make me jealous. It's so obvious. And THEN he asks for money for something to like cover up why he is writing and stuff. He might as well just be screaming "BE WITH ME." It's cute and all, but... truthfully? It's getting kind of annoying.

And I so totally have a boyfriend.

Anyway. Al told me he won the Nobel Prize. Thought I should pass it on in case you see him. Tell him congratulations or whatever. Apparently it's like some big deal.

It finally happened.

2007-12-09T22:24:00.001-08:00

I have been overwhelmed-- underwhelmed?-- by a distinct lack of seasonal spirit since the arrival of the "holiday" decorations at my local Walgreen's the day before Halloween. Whatever hopes I had of celebrating the season all cheery and bright died before I even hit the streets with my kids to beg for candy the following night.

Receiving my first holiday card some two days later sealed off my feelings like a jar of poorly canned tomatoes. Anger seeped in and grew like botulism inside me, infecting every sense I had about the holidays.

There is no spark, no element of goodness nor sincerity left in this made for TV production that this season has now become. It's like this year, they sucked the life out of it, tore out the core mythology (remember that cool fat guy in the red suit who gave stuff to people out of goodness??), added shlock, badly written ballads, covered it in cheap decorations and rereleased it as "Christmas 2: Now Made with Splenda." And like every other crappy sequel, we all bought tickets to this event because, in our BUY BUY BUY world, it's what's for sale.

And then... well... and then something happened. Something weird. To me.

It's not like I wanted to be bleak and black and angry. It's not like I wanted to be the dour alcoholic in the corner of the holiday party, insulting the food and telling all the guests to go to hell. So it's really no surprise that it happened, sucker punch that it was.

I baked cookies.

Good cookies.

GINGERBREAD cookies. Dozens and dozens of quite tasty, simple gingerbread cookies. And the kids and I decorated them, and proceeded to eat them with milk (or in my case, a glass of crisp Sonoma Chardonnay).

It was suddenly like seeing "Christmas: The Original" again. The old favorite, where all the gifts were handmade and people got into the spirit of the season AFTER Thanksgiving and one spent more time planning and thinking about what one wanted to give others out of the sheer JOY of giving, rather than the social expectation ("I wasn't planning on getting them anything but noooowww I HAVE to") of it all.

I felt it. That spark of "Let's be NICE to each other! Let's.... let's help the less fortunate! Let's be thankful for what we have, and show the Universe how very grateful we are for all the amazing things that we have."

It was small-- like I said, just a spark-- but with the right kindling, I'm hoping to build on the embers and get them up to a stoke-able fire. I'm working it. And I'm hoping this groovy, for-the-good-of-mankind feeling stays, because the dour, doom-and-gloom Wednesday Adams gig just isn't right for right now.

I have gotta hope there are enough others out there like me, who want the old version of the season returned, and are working toward it, too.

By baking. And, I donno. Smiling. Being kind. And MEANING it.

Hermitage

2007-12-03T21:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think becoming a hermit woud be an awesome thing.

The upside:

Total solitude.

Living in nature.

The downside:

No showers.

Bad dental hygiene.

Bland food.

It could balance out. I draw the line at no pillow.

Back from Vacation

2007-11-26T22:05:00.000-08:00

If parenting six kids has taught me anything, it's that parenting anything under six kids is a flippin' walk in the park.

In our herd, we have just about every flavor monkey you can imagine. We have monkeys with learning differences. Monkeys that are brilliant. Monkeys that are bossy, monkeys that smell (good or bad, we're not particular), monkeys that whine, monkeys that are amazingly kind, monkey that are dour, monkeys that are hilarious and on any given day, monkeys that are all of the above.

No joke.

So when I decided to go as the SOLO parent to Disneyland with all the monkeys that were available-- which turned out to be only the 3 that I birthed-- I was completely undaunted. In fact, so used to the million monkey march am I, that I invited one of my sister's kids to go with us, to make up for the dramatic loss in numbers.

Oh my GAWD, I am so AWESOME.

FACT: I did take 4 kids to Disneyland, and I was the only parent.

FICTION: I am not awesome. My sister's kid is easier to parent than... something really easy to parent. I don't know what that would be. He is compliant, helpful, kind, mannerly, easy to be around, witty, and distinctly likable, at least in a 2 and a half day stint. We didn't get to day 3, so I have no idea if he smells like fish at that point.

But I will say with all the sincerity that I can muster, it was an easy trip. Mostly because my sister's kid, like my oldest, is 14. He is also my oldest son's best friend. And he and my son hung out with my 11-year old, who felt super cool in the company of teenagers (even if it did include his older brother). So my trip to Disneyland as the solo parent largely consisted of me entertaining my four-year old.

Which if parenting six kids has taught me anything, it's that parenting my four-year old is the hardest thing EVER in human existence... but generally only when she is hungry or tired. Or breathing.

FACT: Hanging out with a four-year old in Disneyland just might be the best way to experience the wonder of that place.

No Fiction.

It was a great trip.

Harry Gets Braces!!

2007-11-15T14:45:00.001-08:00

The process:
The product:

Whaddayacallit?

2007-11-13T06:45:00.001-08:00

Last Thursday, one of the sunshiniest people I know got her tonsils removed. Gabby, my eight- year old stepdaughter --

--wait. Is that the right word, if I'm not married to her father, but rather, actively choosing instead to have a life-partnership sans fluffy white dress, bad hair and overlong ceremony?

Call it my subtle protest against the people who are against gay marriage.

Call it my even-more subtle way of flipping the bird at "the man."

Call it living in delicious, wrongful sin-- if sin can be delicious while you're busy conscientiously building a life and family for six kids, two dogs and a cat in the process. (I believe it can.)

HERE'S MY ISSUE (well, an issue) : What are the names for things if you have no ring? What do I call wonderful Gabby, if in fact my Parter In Crime (hence, PIC) and I are not formally tied?

Okay and ANOTHER issue: A car loan, three bank accounts and our lease pretty much effing TIE us, I would think. So why can we not be considered domestic partners? (My office won't consider us as such until we've been one-full year in our current living arrangement. DETAILS.)

And then PIC himself. I am a WOMAN. A thirty-seven year old WOMAN. Children have passed through the hallowed halls of my birth canal. Further, PIC is a MAN. A man who "discovered the wheel and built the Eiffel Tower out of metal and brawn!" I REFUSE TO CALL HIM MY BOYFRIEND.

...ahem.

That said... I want a relationship word for the three monkeys I coparent, whom I happen to care about greatly and-- dare I say it-- LOVE and for whom I have similar dreams and hopes and desires as my biological monkeys: that they grow into happy, functioning adults.

My three whaddayacallems.

Bad mommy

2007-11-11T20:11:00.000-08:00

I heard a small voice shouting at me from across the house, and I actually sank lower into my chair. In some kind of ridiculous way, I was attempting to hide even more quietly in my room, while at my computer. I got all still-like, similar to a mouse who's trying to go undetected. The problem is, I'm mommy -- which is EXACTLY like being a brown mouse hiding quietly against a white background. Or like a horn blaring through the silence. Or like a searchlight existing on a dark night. Or... you get the idea.

No worky.

What makes my shrinking particularly silly is that I was entirely alone, behind a closed door in my bedroom, working quietly at my computer which FACES A WALL. I was actually trying to hide what would technically be IN FRONT of my computer, thus remaining in plain sight.

It makes no sense. I know that now.

Seconds later, my brilliant secret lair was infiltrated. A four-year old burst through the door, her hyena-like chatter filling the room with a barky, non-stop patois laced with too many pronouns to follow logically.

POINT: If I lived in the wild, I would be hyena food right now. WORST HIDER EVER.

Post Game Analysis: Week Six

2007-11-10T20:54:00.000-08:00

The week started with a delicious blessing -- PIC and I had the WHOLE WEEKEND to ourselves, sans children. We are occasionally blessed with such unfettered time, and we luxuriated over it. we slept in on Saturday, read the paper, lazed about, and then went car shopping.

Apparently that killed the day right there.

Is there anything more exhausting than shopping for a flipping CAR?? (Well, duh. Don't answer that.) I had forgotten that the whole process takes many, many, many hours,even though we picked out what we wanted right away. and the woman who helped us with our contract.... we are somewhat convinced she's a meth addict. A rare meth addict with all her teeth, but still...

Sunday we went for a lovely bike ride, a 26-miler, whereupon PIC's front wheel went ballistic and busted out two spokes at the same time. The front tire was so out of balance, the wheel couldn't even rotate. that was at mile 12. I jammed home and returned with our new pride and joy (aka new car).

When we got home, my sunny and relaxed demeanor was replaced with aches and sniffles, and WHAM! Full-blown sinus infection (no pun intended). YES, for the LOVE OF GAWD, I will STOP writing about my ILLNESS.

For me that was week six. All of it. I was incapacitated for several days, and finally just now am surviving. and PIC's kids have returned back home. We are a blended family once again, with two (currently) whole coparents.

They're ALL somebody's children

2007-11-10T20:38:00.000-08:00

The war in Iraq is horrific. I am not a fan of war, period, and I don't know anyone who is. The people that fight -- on all sides -- all of them are somebody's children.

I feel some sense of justice knowing that the very man who guided us into this morass has faced the consequences of his decision. And in doing so, hopefully now knows deep sorrow. (And perhaps some intense insomnia to go with it.)

Hey Moms: Cool Find

2007-11-08T16:28:00.001-08:00

I didn't need to see Michael Moore's "Sicko" to know that America's health care system leaves something to be desired. But half my battle is getting my busy rump to the doctor's office in the first place, simply so I can go on to complain about the expensive, shabby service later on.

And then, by the time I DO make an appointment, I am forced to spend too much on the copay or the deductible; spend too much for the prescription (if the doctor deigns to give me something); spend too much time taking antibiotics (with that lovely yeast infection side affect); and eventually spend way too much of my life in the whole sick/avoiding-what-needs-to-be-done/finally-taking-care-of-it process.

And sometimes, when one of my many monkeys wakes at 3 a.m. with an earache-- well, what's a mom to do? I hate the do-I/don't-I go to the emergency room dance.

Found EarthClinic.com today, offering a slew of tried and true remedies for various ailments RIGHT THERE in my very own kitchen.

So next time, while I am avoiding the doctor, I can try to help myself. Which, hopefully, will save me time and money in the end.

Nasal Irrigation with an Apple Cider Vinegar Chaser

2007-11-08T06:57:00.001-08:00

This morning as I applied water to my sandpaper-like mouth, I finally succumbed to partaking of an old homeopathic remedy for a sinus infection. Why I waited I don't know... I mean, other than it is really kind of gross and not something anyone should allow others to view.

On the upside, if you desire breathing again, it works.

SINUS IRRIGATION:
Dissolve approximately 1/2 tsp. salt in 1/2 c. of lukewarm water. The salt to water ratio only matters if you don't want to endure PAIN during the process. too much salt, and you will experience discomfort. Too little, and it will be worse. Same goes with water temperature-- make sure the temperature is as close to your body temperature as possible.

Using a clean baby nose syringe, tilt your head back, and squirt the saline solution into one nostril. Snort it through, and spit it out.

Usually this step make me sputter and cough when the solution hits my throat. Hence the prettiness. It's amazing what you find has made it's way up your nose. Ick.

I decided to Google Sinus Infection, because while this amazing little homeopathic remedy does not cure the infection, per se, it does make breathing entirely possible.

In my result, I read huge support for the consumption of apple cider vinegar as an actual cure to the infection, along with other useful tidbits (Grapefruit Seed Extract, anyone?).

I'm trying all of it. Well, maybe not snorting the cayenne pepper.

Icky.

2007-11-07T07:43:00.000-08:00

"I feel icky.
Oh so icky.
I feel icky
and yucky
and
gaaayyy!!!"

I could sooo be a songwriter. Unfortunately I'm too busy trying to see past the searing pain of my sinuses to care. Four days of this. It's gotta end at some point. Right?

I mean... right?

uy.

Guitar Hero III

2007-11-06T21:29:00.000-08:00

Addiction is a small word that speaks volumes. I am struggling to live the dreams of my youth as I rock out with PIC to my favorite songs.

But having played, and realizing my middle and ring fingers are FAR too close together, methinks that maybe my true calling was the base. Seriously.

All I know is, my game character looks sweet in her tight jeans with "ELECTRIC" tattooed across her flat abs.

I sit in my sweats and grungy t-shirt ("Team Building Exercise '99!"), hair crumpled up in a make-shift ponytail... Eyes drooping, glands swollen, sinuses stuffed, throat scratchy and at times, dizziness overtaking me-- I proceed to somehow jam through AFI's "Miss Murder". I do my best to compete at the EASY level on BASE, missing half the notes and forging on simply because... in my mind: I AM that sexy guitar hero.

I coulda been a contenduh.

Post Game Analysis: Week Five

2007-11-03T21:19:00.000-07:00

Down one (off at camp) and still it was the Hardest Week Yet.

Offhand, I would say we are dealing with the following issues:

* Teenage-ism: Also known as "I know all, parents are so out of it"-ism.
* Aspergers Syndrome: Both diagnosed, and the Suspected-yet-Undiagnosed. In life, in general, sometimes there are no explanations for why certain things bother certain people. We all have our peccadilloes, it's true. The difference is, with most people, you can anticipate EXACTLY what those peccadilloes might be. With Aspbies, it might just be the way you say "maybe" combined with the light levels in the room.
* Toddlerism: They own the world. Why even try?
* Depression: I think it lurks, loudly, like the zebra crapping endlessly in the living room that everyone sees and pointedly doesn't duscuss. Help is needed. But first, doctor's need to return PHONE CALLS so APPOINTMENTS can be made.
* Bossiness: Six kids. Duh.
* Grumpiness: That's me when low on caffeine.
* Lonliness: Even when the room is full, some people still feel off-put.

It's a great big household. THANK GAWD PIC and i have the weekend sans kids.
:^)

Merry Commercialism Season

2007-11-02T16:08:00.001-07:00

Thank you, severely blond neighborhood real estate lady, for that wonderful holiday card/calendar/refrigerator magnet you left on my doorstep. It was so thoughtful of you to be the very FIRST to remind me of the importance of the holiday season by simultaneously wishing me "Holiday Blessings" and also informing me of the many services you provide neighbors such as myself. I was not only amazed by your prompt delivery of your card -- NOVEMBER 1! -- but impressed by its ability to multitask.

Your card/calendar/magnet makes me want to shout thanks to the heavens for all those hard-working people in third world countries who made it possible for me to receive such an amazing thing, so useful, so almost personalized.

In fact, thank you third-world people for working so hard so I can decorate my home with a truckload of plastic crap. You all know what I mean-- the largely-unrealistic, highly-cheap decorator items I get at TargetWalgreensCostcoRiteAidEnterNameOfChainStoreHere, the items that popped out on display on the morning of October 31 so I would know that the official start of the holiday season officially started a month earlier than last year. Officially.

No sooner did I remove the Styrofoam gravestones, synthetic skeletons, and polyurethane pumpkins from my yard, than was I greeted with all kinds of kitschy, colorful doo-dads to announce that the season of peace and goodwill toward humankind was underway-- just right down the aisle from the "Support Our Troops" car magnets, wouldn't you know.

Yes, thank you China -- and all you other third world countries whose names are not important enough for me to commit to memory -- for trading your clean water and clean air and stunting your children's futures so that my family and I might enjoy the freon and lead-based pine tree in our living room, or the ozone depleting, life-sized snow globe in my neighbor's front yard... ESPECIALLY since I live in an arid region and likely wouldn't be able to fully grasp the concept of the holiday season without these man-made nature-knock-offs...

Moreover, thank you big business for helping me truly see this vast, gaping hole in my life and producing everything any individual could possibly imagine, just so I could fill it. And all for a very reasonable price.

Post Game Analysis: Week Four

2007-10-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

Unpacking.

Still.

Sucking the life out of me.

We have set up the bedrooms, but Ms. Sydney has an issue with... sharing. Four year olds: apparently VERY picky. And competitive. And jealous of other people their same age, or gender.

Sydney wants her pictures and things where she wants HER things. she has no concept of "Gabby will want to hang pictures, too."

Also, the defensiveness for our OWN kids has set in. Endless discussions about parenting, how to parent best, talking in endless euphemisms, endless attempts at making room for the other person and their processes.

Others are learning of our cohabitation and are less enthusiastic. I have heard "Oh, like the Brady Bunch" more times than I can count. People think we're: a) crazy; b) selfish; c) misguided; d) overly hopeful; or e) all of the above.

I just keep wishing for moments of normalcy. And then I remember, in a blended family, EVERYTHING is normalcy.

Home Sweet Almost Home

2007-10-25T14:52:00.000-07:00

Unpacking. It is the bane of my moving existence.

I don't mind throwing it all together into boxes, the cleaning, the driving of the truck. I dislike the lifting and moving of said boxes, and the placement thereof into a moving van. But unpacking-- moving the boxes to a particular area, and then opening the box, removing items, finding homes for everything within... Just thinking about the whole process exhausts me.

Last night we got down to about 4 or 5 boxes. With correct positioning and a large enough table cloth, my troubles would be over. Alas, I will open the beastly things and find places for all the myriad crap stashed in them. One small step for my lazy ass, one giant leap toward a cohesive, organized household.

Tonight we have grand plans of finishing this unpacking, to be followed by one of my favorite-ist things ever: DECORATING for the Halloween party. Can't wait!

Office Sanctuary: Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenoceros

2007-10-23T16:25:00.001-07:00

Today is Tuesday but it feels like Monday, since I was out on Monday. I offer this cheerful sanctuary from work. Or home, for that matter. Whatever. ENJOY!

Post Game Analysis: Week Three.

2007-10-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

Reality has sunk in.

The apparent kid perspective: These people are not going to leave, but instead-- like fish or friends who have overstayed their welcome-- they got old after 3 days. GAAAWD! We're STUCK with these people for time to come (whoever "these people" may be at any given moment).

My children are sarcastic and loud.

His kids don't understand sarcasm and are sound sensitive.

My kids are hilarious.

His kids are pretty dang funny, as well.

All the children are bossy. Or kind. Or lazy. Or creative. Or rebellious. Or mindful.

OHMYGAWD these children are ALL INDIVIDUALS!!!! Who knew they came in so many different flavors?

AT ANY GIVEN MOMENT: These two get along really well until this one comes in, then no one gets along. Then suddenly this one and those two are total buddies until that other comes by, then the first two are not getting along AT ALL, the last two aren't getting along AT ALL, but somehow teams have formed and everyone is actually, somehow, getting along. Sassiness. Giddiness. Grumpiness. Bossiness. Tears. Laughter. Jokiness.

Silence? Never.

The moral of the week: Everyone is fine. At least until everyone is not fine.

Secret winning move

2007-10-16T09:13:00.002-07:00

I will never lose again. You can also buy the shirt.

My brain hurts.

2007-10-15T14:50:00.000-07:00

I realize I haven't written in awhile, and the first thing I mention -- AFTER the brain eating amoeba -- is how my brain hurts.

It's true. It really kind of does.

The weekend was nice; it was long yet simultaneously too short. It is possible.

Long on whiners and complainers. Long on people feeling like victims and martyrs. Short on time and short on getting organized.

I understand the "poor me" concept, and I have tried for a really, really long time not to be a "poor me" person. Oh don't get me wrong-- I complain really, really well, I just try to not do so in the "poor me" way. Mostly in a "good mother of GAWD, son-of-a-" kind of way.

That's why I have such a hard time with phrases like "WHY ME?" They stick in my craw and I obsess on how that blather rather bothers. Thus, I've decided -- instead of ruminating on my frustrations -- to just aire what I wanted to say when I had the chance and instead let it all fester inside my cluttered brain. Hence, I shall stop feeding the amoeba, and vent herein.

____________

1) "Why me?" Because it was your turn. On the bright side, eventually it becomes someone else's turn, and then won't it be fun to gloat over their misery?

2)"Yeah but why do I have to (do that)?" So I can gloat over your misery. (Re-visit number one.)

3) "I don't like any of this stuff (food)." Yeah, but if I don't make it, I don't get to hear you say that in your annoyed, grunty voice. And bonus: It makes your eyes go all wide with exasperation.

4) "NOOOO!!!!I don't wanna take a nap!!!" Okay. The alternative is me breaking your arm off and beating you with it. Toooootally up to you.

5)"*grunt*...*groan*...*scoff*... *pfft*" This is not English. This is more like constipation.

6) "Mom, (he's) following me." Very good, Mr. Observant. How about some other insights for me, like, "The sky is blue," you know, or, "You're being MEAN."

7) "What about ME?" Excellent question. And since you're so busy thinking about you, looks like you've got you covered.

Ahhhhhh..... I feel better now.

Post Game Analysis: Week Two

2007-10-12T09:10:00.000-07:00

Partner in Crime's kids were at their mom's house this week, which means my crew was flying "solo" (so to speak) in the gargantuan house. Halo 3 reigned supreme.

The house is covered in boxes still, which means the exhaustion is ever-present. I have begun to tire of pre-made dinners, and the confusion over which closet or cabinet I want to store the towels/sheets/phone book in.

Sydney is having a reeeeally difficult time with the fact that her room is still not unpacked, and she asks about her things almost constantly.

The good news is, we still have a couple weekends until the Halloween party, which should be a snap.

Rrriiighht.

Seriously.

2007-10-09T15:18:00.000-07:00

This is no joke, my friend. It is so serious, a local television news station CREATED A GRAPHIC FOR IT, with an actual approximation of a human brain. I tell you what, my internal paranoia meter just went off the charts.

How big does the amoeba get post-feast? How long before someone appears on House getting one removed?

(SIDE NOTE: Google search results on "house" list the show first, and the United States House of Representatives, 110th Congress, 1st Session, second.

Notes from the day

2007-10-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

Momologue is building an ad for a funeral home. The funeral home wants to use a picture of wheat stalks.

[14:59] Momologue: what is with wheat and death?
[15:00] girlmonkey: celiac disease
[15:00] Momologue: huh?
[15:00] Momologue: sorry i mean wheat and funerals
[15:00] girlmonkey: my answer is the same
[15:02] Momologue: Sunday 5. On the fifth Sunday we commemorated Christ's death. This time the symbol was drawn from Jesus' parable of the stalk of wheat whose grains must be placed in the ground and decay before they can bring forth an abundant harvest. John 12:24 states, "Unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds." Christ is that grain of wheat. However, we also, through the Imitatio Christi, are like grains of wheat that must die to ourselves before the rich harvest of the kingdom of God can take place in our lives.
[15:02] Momologue: there, found the reference
[15:03] Momologue: i was thinking if you were gonna push something up, daisies was more appropriate

Post Game Analysis: Week One

2007-10-06T08:56:00.000-07:00

A giddy insanity envelopes the entire family. It's like this intense sugar high: Everyone is happy, everyone is communicating well, everyone is extending themselves beyond their comfort zones, EVERYONE is truly attempting to get along.

The house is a universal hit. A house that felt insanely large to my single mother of three eyes is actually *just big enough* for our GIGANTIC family of eight. We quickly came to the realization that the kids LOVE space, and the freedom of movement. We love the roominess and the ability to hide, even if it is just to fornicate in our AMAZING WALK-IN CLOSET!

Watching the kids also helps us see that certain kids have very serious spacial needs. Over the course of the week sharing gets more difficult, and "tantrums" in older children actually occur as a result of too much noise or crowing.

This causes us to question our foray into cohousing, a space almost half the size. We decide by the end of the week that we really cannot exist in a smaller place.

Cohousing was MY idea, so why do I feel relieved?

The kids love that we have two big televisions, both of which make me feel sickeningly decadent and snobbishly superior (is that possible?). Further, they love that we got an Xbox 360. Of course we didn't want it for ourselves; we merely purchased it as a move-in gift to buy the kids love and affection. That's not all that bad. Right?

Murderer in the Woods Part 2

2007-10-05T11:58:00.001-07:00

The kids made this amazing horror film in Tahoe last weekend. Here is part 2-- the scarier half. ENJOY!

Empty Spleen: All Vented.

2007-10-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

Sore arms, sore legs, sore arse-- I have bruises on top of my bruises from moving in. Add varicose veins, two missing toenails and cellulite and you got yourself some pretty nice gams.

We are not all moved in. We have days and days ahead of us-- more to move, so much more to do before we can even attempt to call ourselves "settled."

We love the house. We love how comfortable we are, how much room we have and the luxury of having storage space. I cannot, for the life of me, even think about moving again next year. I am so not ready to contemplate that notion.

So when I got a call from the woman representing the "OHMYGAWD SIX KIDS" landlord, saying that they *might* be interested in renting to us now-- you know, in this tight renter's market with virtually NO ONE knocking on her door-- I put on my pleasant voice, and let it rip.

"Thank you so much for thinking of us, but we've already found another place. And I wanted to let you be aware, if you could perhaps mention this to (the landlord) I would really appreciate it. I know she had some real reservations about renting to us because of the size of our family. It's such a beautiful house and she was so nice, but I came away with some concern about some of the things she said in our conversation. Particularly, because we have six kids, she wanted to double our security deposit. She also mentioned inspecting our homes prior to accepting our application. I don't think she is aware that requesting these things breaks the anti-discrimination and fair housing laws in the State of California. She is really a nice woman and I would hate for someone to take her remarks in the extreme or out of context."

Let's face it: her comments WERE extreme and there IS no other context. I just needed to politely register my incredulity with someone who would speak to her and let her know how effing inappropriate (and, oh-- ILLEGAL) it is to NOT rent to someone solely based on their family size.

Ahhh, I feel better.

dove onslaught

2007-10-03T13:46:00.001-07:00

This video breaks my heart.

And now for something completely different...

2007-09-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

We spent the last several days in Tahoe celebrating my partner's 40th birthday and participating in the Lake Tahoe Triathlon.

Unlike a typical triathlon, the Lake Tahoe Tri takes place over three consecutive days. Participants choose whether to run a marathon each day, or any mixture of water, cycling and running events.

For day one's event my partner and I chose the 2-person 10-mile kayak, paddling what later appeared to be a large slab of concrete. Symmetry, agility and precision are not three words that I would use to describe our team effort. Simply put, the event began with a shot-gun start, closely followed by us gracefully ramming into a parked jet ski. We glided into the finish line almost 3 hours later to the astonished exclamations of the event staff. ("Wow, we thought you guys had dropped out!") Enough said.

Day two was the 35-mile bike race, which followed the lake's edge around the north shore and was quite awesome. Cycling is by far my partner and my strongest event (which is to say "something I have actually done before and feel comfortable doing"). The air was brisk, the circuit was gorgeous, and the event marked the first time I'd witnessed a cyclist get nailed by a Winnebago (or vehicle of any kind, for that matter). Side note: The rider was hurt, but generally okay. Marred though it was by this careless and accidental splash of violence, the event was still pretty amazing. (Should I feel bad for enjoying it anyway? hmm)

And we rounded out the triathlon by "running" in the 10k event on day three. Okay, I hobble and he tries to slow down enough to keep pace with me until he is intermittently forced to lapse into a sort of feigned jog-walk. Snow cover from the night before lined our route. It was the first time in eleven years that snow had fallen during the three day event.

SO: jet-ski collision, Winnebago crash, and snow fall.

Our non-athletic hours were spent entertaining many, many children in a confined space.
It was the second vacation we've spent with all our many, many kids and overall, the weekend went great.

There were a few interesting points. Like, when you get in close quarters, flatulence happens. I was wondering how I would handle my own scented perfection, only to realize that kids don't really care so much about the bombs they drop. They forget that simply silencing the cannon does not prevent the effects of the explosion, if you know what I mean.

Also, teenagers have opinions and insist upon sharing them. Often. About everything. And while it is entertaining and fantastic to have such titillating conversations, whoa unto thee that is the topic of said opinion, as ye shall never hear the end of it.

Also also, eleven-year olds are naturally verbose. All of them. And they like to discuss video games and favorite movies and relive Family guy episodes and talk about the merits of Xbox 360 over Nintendo Wii [One: Halo 3; Two: Better graphics; Three: See Number One.]

And finally, while pride may cometh before the fall for some, it swells passionately in the hearts of little girls. They tell tales of their accomplishments with sincerity and only the slightest embellishments. Naturally, they reserve the right to extend the tale on for as long as is humanly possible, which includes coming back to continue their tales at any given time, without preamble nor reference to the original subject.

That said, it was an amazing, fun-filled week. And tomorrow-- October 1-- marks the first day of our foray into cohabitation. I *think* we're ready, emotionally speaking. Or so it seems right now at this exact moment.

It's a hit.

2007-09-24T10:44:00.000-07:00

By Wednesday night I'd all but given up. We had scoured the internet, cold called homes that were for sale, contacted every property management place in two towns and memorized every listing on craigslist going back 3 months.

Nada.

Home number three in the area had a beautiful posting on craigslist that delved into loving details of the most amazingly beautiful home so far. Hidden in the post was the line, "Accepting no pets of any kind so don't even ask."

The kids had all reached the deliriously-happy-borderline-frenetic point, asking at different times about different things-- rules, timing, can-we-gets, you name it-- and my internal meter was set firmly between I-must-make-everyone-happy-I-cannot-fail, and PMS. This is not a good mix for a gal who suffers from chronic anxiety, nor for a guy who is planning on living with a gal who suffers from chronic anxiety.

We couldn't find a place.

It's not so much that we weren't wanted, but rather... oh wait-- yeah. That's right. We weren't wanted.

My partner was subtextually hinting at life-sans-pets, that there is so much more out there to choose from if we didn't have... but one look at four-year old Sydney laughing as Wallace licked her ice-cream chin while Trevor hand fed Gromit popcorn, and really that became the unutterable thought.

Good thing I'd already given notice to my rental company. Good thing I'd already told everyone, my family, my kids; good thing father time was bearing down on us like a big thing that bears down. On, you know. People.

I picked up Sydney, who was just rising from her nap, from my mom's place. She was in a "I hate you go away I don't want you leave me alone" mood, which added to my general sense of self-loathing. The sounds of her melodious wailing in the background, my partner in crime (PIC) calls, and tells me he has maybe some news.

"It's really beautiful, located on the other side of the planet,"
"Did you ask about pets??" I intterupt.
"It's got 5 bedrooms, 3 full bathrooms, huge kitchen, family room, living room,"
"Isn't that the same one from craigslist?"
"It is the same one from craigslist."
"They don't take pets."
"Granite countertops, huge bathtub in the master bedroom--"
"I saw the pictures. It's gorgeous. But it doesn't matter. Pets. They don't take--"
"And he'll take pets. Outside only."
"WHAT? You talked them into pets?"
"Outside only."
"What about kids?" Pause.
"I mentioned the kids. Three of them. We'll update him after we sign the lease."

Location-shmocation. They took pets. And kids-- some of them anyway. And if this place was true to its pictures, there were enough closets to hide the rest. Think AIRHOLES.

Looks like we found a home.

Strike two.

2007-09-21T10:07:00.000-07:00

Dejected, I entered Tuesday wondering if we were being overly ambitious. What was I thinking? Who would possibly rent to the mish-mash that is us?

Our first try out of the gate and we were declined on the basis of the very point of getting together. We are two families, trying to be one very large, largely-happy family. It was easier trying to get pets into that place than our kids. Of course, showing up to view the house with four kids wearing medieval armor was probably a bad thing. I see that now.

Stiffening my upper lip (but allowing the lower one to quiver ridiculously) I decided to keep-on keeping on. This couldn't have been the only home in the Fresno area to house our brood. Another perusal of craigslist told me that I was right-- the PERFECT house that declined us was one of 3 houses available in the Fresno-Clovis area.

THREE WHOLE HOUSES. Such variety. On to house two.

Honesty is an important and vital value, one of the core values that build character (according to some camp my kids went to last summer). After suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, we decided to promptly DROP that value on its arse. Okay, sure we're married. Yes, we had 3 kids. (Each.. shh!) Yes, we have a pet. SINGULAR.

House number two was big and lovely-- a little dark, what with the formal window coverings made by the stay-at-home mom who home schooled her kids there. Each room was carefully painted with edging that would make a professional envious. The backyard had a gorgeous pool with that pebbly-stuff on the bottom. Next to that was a mini basketball court. The yard did back up to a busy street, but hell-- the kitchen was granite, stainless steel and had double ovens. Who the flippin' cares about traffic noise when you got double ovens?

There was an interesting museum-like quality to the place. Perhaps it was the dank scent. Or maybe it was all the Jesus paintings that gave me that impression. Not sure, but I think he was a direct relation or something because he was everywhere. In fact, he was all that was there. Instead of family photos, nature prints, or even a calendar, there was Jesus and his mom, when he was an infant; one of him a little older, single guy, on his own, glowing heart kinda-thing; and then some extended family paintings of Mary in her waning years, Mary praying, and an action shot of Jesus preaching.

I tried to imagine the best spot for put my liqueur-swilling monkey print... and maybe where they had the painting of them in front of the giant tabernacle of some sort would be the perfect spot for my Marie Laveau voodoo pen and ink.

On the way to seeing the place, my partner in crime's car was rear ended by a truck. He called with severe whiplash saying he might be a bit late.

Truthfully, I was really relieved to learn the landlords didn't accept pets. Dark, close to traffic noise and the car collision should have been enough to dissuade my interest. Plus, in the end, the no pets gig made it so much easier than explaining to the uber-Christians that I was about to live in dirty, filthy sin in their amazing house.

Strike One

2007-09-20T11:33:00.000-07:00

Pretty much immediately after deciding that we wanted to combine our two families into one giant mish-mash of kids, pets, empty juice boxes and dirty laundry, we did what every normal couple would be expected to do in our situation. So after the Percoset and a few shots of tequila, we combed craigslist.

On Sunday, the gods were smiling upon us, feeding us cake on a golden platter. We found the perfect house in the perfect location at the perfect price. AND they took pets. It was, how shall we say... perfect? Yes.

On Monday, however, the gods decided meh, no cake for you. The pets weren't a problem at all. Two dogs? Phhht, who cares? Throw a cat in. And a goat. Whatever. No. The issue was that they didn't take KIDS. And despite that it breaks an anti-discrimination renter's rights law, the wife had no problem informing me of that. And the way I was informed... She wasn't merely kicking at the law to see if it would scuff, or throwing a little dirt on it.

This was like a back-street, baseball-bat, old-fashioned law beating.

From the tentative: "I am nervous about the kids...

To the bold: "Six kids? Are you crazy?"

To the outright illegal:"What if we increased the deposit to cover the children?"

To the just-plain-weird: "A friend of mine suggested that I come and see your houses, you know, to inspect them, to see how, you know, things are. Would that be alright with you?"

Needless to say, her husband called later to tell us we didn't get the house. They decided not to rent quite yet. Seems that despite being on the market for the last month and dropping the price by $400 per month, still, somehow, they weren't ready.

And so we wait.

It's Business Time

2007-09-20T09:23:00.001-07:00

Exactly like that... except without that Alice

2007-09-19T07:48:00.000-07:00

After much discussion, planning, fretting, processing, excitement and outright zeal, my boyfriend and I decided to take the plunge: no marriage. Not yet. Not sure where that stands on my horizon, or even if it is on my horizon. I do know I have a horizon, and that is a start.

No.

The intense deliberations and planning surrounded our decision to co-habitate. Live in sin, if you will.

Realize this has been a long time in what now feels like endless discussion. Realize, also, that we're both older-- I'm 37, he'll be 40 next week-- we've been dating for just about two years and we're both divorcees. Clearly, we're mature enough to arrive at this reasonable decision.

Oh, yeah-- and also realize that I have three kids. That adds some spice to the discussion.

And he has three kids. The spice now becomes heady flavoring.

Thus, utilizing the powers of mathematics, our combined powers means six kids. And two parents. Three girls, three boys, the youngest one in curls. Seriously, a Brady Bunch family... only no Alice. We'll have to work on that last one there.