My personality pretty much speaks for itself. I am an optimistic, motivated, overall, pretty darn happy person. Do I get down? For sure. Am I ever a biotch? Hell to the yeah. Do I become Mommy Dearest out in public more than I'd like to admit? You better believe it. I have blogged mostly about positivity thus far.
Now, I want to talk about the things that piss me off. So here goes:
1. Whiners, Complainers, and Excuse-Makers. GET OVER YOURSELF. You are suffocating the rest of us with your negativity. Stop your whinen' and complainen' because frankly, YOU ARE SO ANNOYING!
Example Numero Uno: the glorious sun is out and shining. You know what Wendy the Whiner says? "I can't beeeliiieeeve it's soooo hooooot. I don't even have air conditioning. I can barely mooooove. I'm not even sure how I'll make it out of this alive."
You wanna know what my solution is to a heat wave? Sunscreen, a pool party, and a keg of beer,baby.
On the flip side, when it starts to rain, Wendy whines, "It's soooo cooold and wet out there. I can't find my umbrella. Oh bother...I guess I will just sit in my house in the fetal position until this crazy storm lets up."
My solution to a rain storm is: a blazing fire, a great book, and a bottle of wine.
You know what whiners and complainers? THE REST OF US COULD CARE IF YOU LIVE OR DIE. I, for one, am damn tired of you people trying to put out my brightly shining flame!
2. "At-Home" Moms Who Have a Nanny. I guess I had the wrong job description when I signed up to RAISE my kids. Which in turn, also means, going out to a restaurant 2-3 times a YEAR, camping = vacation, and gladly accepting hand-me-downs. I guess my morals are fucked up. I have to stop myself from naming this person. But I find it comical when she acts "stressed out". What the hell do you have to worry about? You have someone ELSE wiping snotty noses, cleaning poopy diapers, and dishing out Spaghettios, while you're hanging at Santana Row. WTF? NEXT...
3. Closed Minded Folks of the Religious Sort. You guys know who I am referring to. These people come from all religions, but share one similar characteristic: the belief that we, heathens, will burn in the eternal pit fires of hell. Why? Because we don't believe just as they do. Shit, I don't even believe in hell...I wonder what happens to a person who is supposed to be fearful of going to a place that doesn't exist? Many of these religious psychos also believe that God only sent ONE prophet. Only ONE great prophet? I am so down with learning from all great prophets and ascended masters; men, women, hetero, bi, homo, Chinese, Latino, Jewish, Muslim, and Catholic. You name it, I'm open. But according to them, I'm going to hell. Oh well, I guess I'll see you all there.
4. Only a Pour During Wine-Tasting. I HATE this one. I know, I know. We shouldn't be getting loaded while we are simply "tasting" wine. But we have all had that moment while taking a sip, and suddenly, we're transported to another planet. It's then I want a GLASS OF THIS DELICIOUS STUFF. No can do...no buying a glass of wine in the tasting room. It's "against the law". We must buy an entire bottle, which I'm not against, by any means. But sometimes, just sometimes, I go to a happy place in "Michelle World" where I can buy a glass of wine. And drink it through a straw.
5. Parents Who Give Their Little Brats Whatever They Ask For. This is the parent who always seems totally overwhelmed by their child/ren. "Nellie is just sooo much work. She's just a busy body." NO...actually, Nellie is a pain in every one's ass because you NEVER TELL THAT CHILD NO. When Nellie doesn't get what she wants, she creates a scene, and wears you down, ALONG WITH THE REST OF US WHO HAVE TO ENDURE IT. So, hey Clueless, I have an idea: give your kid up for adoption, because you're hopeless.
Whew. Okay, I am done venting. I feel much better. Thank you for sitting on the couch with me for awhile. And please, feel free to share with the rest of us, what chaps YOUR hide!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
My Justice League of M.I.L.F.S.
These days, I'm not quite sure if I am a MILF or a GILF, considering my 23 year old stepdaughter is "with child" also. Strange isn't it? Like some Steve Martin movie we all watched back in the 90's called "Father of The Bride"...except it's no movie this time; it's my life, people. Welcome to the Discovery Channel: The Inside Life of the Procreating Walsh Family.
So again, I pose the question: am I a MILF or a GILF? Perhaps, I'm a Cougar, or maybe a Bobcat? But these standards are always changing, so maybe I'm a Puma?
Or do I fall into some obscure acronym category that has yet to be officially named? Like F.L.F.B.O.A.H.R.M.W.D.A.L.T.M.W.I.W.S.I.C.P., short for: "Fun Loving, Fertile, But Overwhelmed, At-Home Running Mom, Who Drinks A Little Too Much, Which is Why She Is Continually Pregnant".
But here's the truth Ruth: a girl's gotta have her girlfriends! When we tire of our monotonous lives that consist of raising children, buying random birthday gifts for some PUMP IT UP party on the weekend, volunteering at school, and "pleasing" our husbands (my specialty), we need a RELEASE!
And this is where girlfriends come in. Women get women. We can say a thousand words with a gesture. But there are also times we need to verbally vomit AND use gestures...WITHOUT ANYONE TRYING TO FIX IT. Husbands, you dig?
This calls for the Girl's Night Out. A time that we actually shower and apply make-up, drink excessive amounts of alcohol, and usually attempt to dance. In my own mind, I am Beyonce while I'm on the dance floor. Who are you?
As women, it is extremely important to play on each other's strengths. For example, when we hit a bar with a particularly long line, we send the HAWT friend to "talk" to the bouncer. (Tiffeny) If we want free drinks, we get the "fun loudmouth" to step up to the plate.(Ella) I've seen that girl get more free ROUNDS of drinks than anyone I know. If you want to get up onstage with Alan Jackson, make sure you have your FEARLESS friend, and I don't say that lightly. (Erin) If you need a shoulder to cry on, go to the caring ones of the group. (Nikki, Marylynn) If you want to stay out of jail, make sure your probation officer friend has your back. (Alyson) If you need to leap a building in a single bound, get ol' long legs to help you out. (I have no torso, but I do got myself some gams).
Like I was saying before, Girl's Night Out is a release. We remember who we were before we took on these huge responsibilities of "Family" and "Wife". We don't have to serve anyone goldfish, hand out sippy cups, or make anyone dinner. Instead, for a mere few hours, we feel carefree. Supported by our Justice League of MILFS.
It makes us feel ALIVE, even if we feel DEAD when little ones show up at the bedside the next morning with requests for breakfast. Only 25 more weeks til I can get my drink on.
So I got one question: who's planning the Girl's Night for October? Well, maybe November would be a bit more realistic...OR NOT.
So again, I pose the question: am I a MILF or a GILF? Perhaps, I'm a Cougar, or maybe a Bobcat? But these standards are always changing, so maybe I'm a Puma?
Or do I fall into some obscure acronym category that has yet to be officially named? Like F.L.F.B.O.A.H.R.M.W.D.A.L.T.M.W.I.W.S.I.C.P., short for: "Fun Loving, Fertile, But Overwhelmed, At-Home Running Mom, Who Drinks A Little Too Much, Which is Why She Is Continually Pregnant".
But here's the truth Ruth: a girl's gotta have her girlfriends! When we tire of our monotonous lives that consist of raising children, buying random birthday gifts for some PUMP IT UP party on the weekend, volunteering at school, and "pleasing" our husbands (my specialty), we need a RELEASE!
And this is where girlfriends come in. Women get women. We can say a thousand words with a gesture. But there are also times we need to verbally vomit AND use gestures...WITHOUT ANYONE TRYING TO FIX IT. Husbands, you dig?
This calls for the Girl's Night Out. A time that we actually shower and apply make-up, drink excessive amounts of alcohol, and usually attempt to dance. In my own mind, I am Beyonce while I'm on the dance floor. Who are you?
As women, it is extremely important to play on each other's strengths. For example, when we hit a bar with a particularly long line, we send the HAWT friend to "talk" to the bouncer. (Tiffeny) If we want free drinks, we get the "fun loudmouth" to step up to the plate.(Ella) I've seen that girl get more free ROUNDS of drinks than anyone I know. If you want to get up onstage with Alan Jackson, make sure you have your FEARLESS friend, and I don't say that lightly. (Erin) If you need a shoulder to cry on, go to the caring ones of the group. (Nikki, Marylynn) If you want to stay out of jail, make sure your probation officer friend has your back. (Alyson) If you need to leap a building in a single bound, get ol' long legs to help you out. (I have no torso, but I do got myself some gams).
Like I was saying before, Girl's Night Out is a release. We remember who we were before we took on these huge responsibilities of "Family" and "Wife". We don't have to serve anyone goldfish, hand out sippy cups, or make anyone dinner. Instead, for a mere few hours, we feel carefree. Supported by our Justice League of MILFS.
It makes us feel ALIVE, even if we feel DEAD when little ones show up at the bedside the next morning with requests for breakfast. Only 25 more weeks til I can get my drink on.
So I got one question: who's planning the Girl's Night for October? Well, maybe November would be a bit more realistic...OR NOT.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Aging is a Trip
"Mama, why is your face all wrinkled up like that?" asked my precious 7 year old one morning at the breakfast table, before I had even taken my first sip of coffee. I replied simply, "Because of you."
I didn't think anyone else had really noticed some of my undeniable symptoms of aging: sun damaged decolletage, fine lines decorating my face like tinsel dons a lit up Christmas tree, and well, the GRAVITY of lower hanging appendages. Aging hasn't been like the Big Bang Theory in my life or anything...BAM, YOU ARE NOW OLD! Mother Nature has been A BIT gentler than that. But not much.
Up until 30, I felt untouchable. Aging was only something that happened to other people...old people. Not moi. Well, I've been duped. Because 30 is actually the age I believe your body starts to show all the shit that you never did to take care of it in your teens and twenties.
For example: slathering on baby oil with iodine so I could achieve what every 17 year old coveted: a healthy looking tan. Fast forward 20 years, and I don't leave the house now without applying sunscreen. I love Neutrogena cool spray SPF 45. And due to my heritage, I still get a nice color. But I am learning that a lot of sun damage has already been done. I can now, only prevent further damage from happening.
I would like to ask Mother Nature one question though: what the hell is up with the things that are happening to me that I have absolutely NO control over? Like random little hairs appearing...wherever.
As I applied my make up in a hurried rush one morning, I noticed, a hair growing from the bottom of my chinny chin chin, approximately 3 inches long (slight exaggeration, but not much!) WTF? I promptly plucked that mother, like a gardener using a weed whacker. But it left me feeling old. I'm morphing into the school lunch lady, I thought, complete with random hairs growing out of her moles. As a kid, I just wanted to grab some tweezers and take care of that business for the lunch lady. Obviously, she just didn't care, or couldn't see the small blanket that was growing down her cheek. I give permission to any fool that wants to take some tweezers to my chinny chin chin.
Most of you know that I am an avid runner. Here is something that you may not know about me, and probably wish you never found out: I need to empty my bladder LITERALLY right before I start running, and promptly half-way through my run. Why? Because, quite plainly put, I pee myself. I'm not sure if this is aging, or the essence of birthing my kids through you know, "the parts". Whatever the cause, it bites big time! Do you have to think about putting on a diaper before sneezing? Laughing? Doing Tequila shots and then jumping on a trampoline? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Apparently, I am somewhat in denial of my bra size, as well. In my mind, I have and always will be a 36 C. It's a nice size, 36 C. I've grown attached to that size, 36 C. It's comforting to know: 36 C.
After my third daughter turned one, and the "Boobie Cafe" closed, I thought it would be a good idea to get re-measured at Victoria's Secret. I was not ready for the devastation that was about to be cast my way. One
of the busty, young associates, came at me with her measuring tape.
"Okay, we've got you at......(drum roll please)... 34 B," she replied, crushing me like an ant. "WHAT?! That must be wrong. I'm a 36 C. I have always been a 36 C, and I mean, you must have read that wrong." I slowly felt my world crumbling. "No sweetie, you are a 34 B. It's normal for size to change after having babies." Well, God Damnit, I thought to myself. It's not enough that we grow these people like parasites for TEN months, while nursing them for another TWELVE...my children have taken my boobies!
After getting over the initial shock of no longer being a 36 C, I sucked it up, and purchased a really cute padded push up bra. Oh yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about. It makes me look JUST like I have REAL breasts...consumerism, gotta love it.
Recently, a picture of Tom and I popped up on the screen saver that made me stop in my tracks. I was like, "DAMN, I look good in that picture. What's different about me?" I then noticed we were laying down, holding the camera above us. This angle took at least ten years off my face. I want to frame that picture. I think I will make it poster size. Maybe I'll turn it into wallpaper.
In my twenties, I washed my face and put on some lotion...if I remembered. Now it's like a Boot Camp...wash face: check! Spritz toner: check! Apply moisturizer WITH sunscreen: check! End with under eye cream: check! Soldier, you are now ready for battle. The battle of aging, that is. That's like 102 steps, but if it means I'll keep my face from aging any faster, I'll do it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not beating myself up here. Rather, I'm just stating the obvious. I like to look at how my body is changing like different wars I have fought over the years. But I also want to prevent further battles from breaking out, you know what I'm sayin'? Thus, I am a GINORMOUS believer in taking care of myself: whether it be through exercise, taking a relaxing bath, or downing a bottle of wine, by myself, without sharing. Sometimes I even hide in the bathroom so no one can find me. I have also been known to lock my bedroom door when I blog. Some may call that parental negligence. I prefer to call it survival.
I didn't think anyone else had really noticed some of my undeniable symptoms of aging: sun damaged decolletage, fine lines decorating my face like tinsel dons a lit up Christmas tree, and well, the GRAVITY of lower hanging appendages. Aging hasn't been like the Big Bang Theory in my life or anything...BAM, YOU ARE NOW OLD! Mother Nature has been A BIT gentler than that. But not much.
Up until 30, I felt untouchable. Aging was only something that happened to other people...old people. Not moi. Well, I've been duped. Because 30 is actually the age I believe your body starts to show all the shit that you never did to take care of it in your teens and twenties.
For example: slathering on baby oil with iodine so I could achieve what every 17 year old coveted: a healthy looking tan. Fast forward 20 years, and I don't leave the house now without applying sunscreen. I love Neutrogena cool spray SPF 45. And due to my heritage, I still get a nice color. But I am learning that a lot of sun damage has already been done. I can now, only prevent further damage from happening.
I would like to ask Mother Nature one question though: what the hell is up with the things that are happening to me that I have absolutely NO control over? Like random little hairs appearing...wherever.
As I applied my make up in a hurried rush one morning, I noticed, a hair growing from the bottom of my chinny chin chin, approximately 3 inches long (slight exaggeration, but not much!) WTF? I promptly plucked that mother, like a gardener using a weed whacker. But it left me feeling old. I'm morphing into the school lunch lady, I thought, complete with random hairs growing out of her moles. As a kid, I just wanted to grab some tweezers and take care of that business for the lunch lady. Obviously, she just didn't care, or couldn't see the small blanket that was growing down her cheek. I give permission to any fool that wants to take some tweezers to my chinny chin chin.
Most of you know that I am an avid runner. Here is something that you may not know about me, and probably wish you never found out: I need to empty my bladder LITERALLY right before I start running, and promptly half-way through my run. Why? Because, quite plainly put, I pee myself. I'm not sure if this is aging, or the essence of birthing my kids through you know, "the parts". Whatever the cause, it bites big time! Do you have to think about putting on a diaper before sneezing? Laughing? Doing Tequila shots and then jumping on a trampoline? Yeah, I didn't think so.
Apparently, I am somewhat in denial of my bra size, as well. In my mind, I have and always will be a 36 C. It's a nice size, 36 C. I've grown attached to that size, 36 C. It's comforting to know: 36 C.
After my third daughter turned one, and the "Boobie Cafe" closed, I thought it would be a good idea to get re-measured at Victoria's Secret. I was not ready for the devastation that was about to be cast my way. One
of the busty, young associates, came at me with her measuring tape.
"Okay, we've got you at......(drum roll please)... 34 B," she replied, crushing me like an ant. "WHAT?! That must be wrong. I'm a 36 C. I have always been a 36 C, and I mean, you must have read that wrong." I slowly felt my world crumbling. "No sweetie, you are a 34 B. It's normal for size to change after having babies." Well, God Damnit, I thought to myself. It's not enough that we grow these people like parasites for TEN months, while nursing them for another TWELVE...my children have taken my boobies!
After getting over the initial shock of no longer being a 36 C, I sucked it up, and purchased a really cute padded push up bra. Oh yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about. It makes me look JUST like I have REAL breasts...consumerism, gotta love it.
Recently, a picture of Tom and I popped up on the screen saver that made me stop in my tracks. I was like, "DAMN, I look good in that picture. What's different about me?" I then noticed we were laying down, holding the camera above us. This angle took at least ten years off my face. I want to frame that picture. I think I will make it poster size. Maybe I'll turn it into wallpaper.
In my twenties, I washed my face and put on some lotion...if I remembered. Now it's like a Boot Camp...wash face: check! Spritz toner: check! Apply moisturizer WITH sunscreen: check! End with under eye cream: check! Soldier, you are now ready for battle. The battle of aging, that is. That's like 102 steps, but if it means I'll keep my face from aging any faster, I'll do it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not beating myself up here. Rather, I'm just stating the obvious. I like to look at how my body is changing like different wars I have fought over the years. But I also want to prevent further battles from breaking out, you know what I'm sayin'? Thus, I am a GINORMOUS believer in taking care of myself: whether it be through exercise, taking a relaxing bath, or downing a bottle of wine, by myself, without sharing. Sometimes I even hide in the bathroom so no one can find me. I have also been known to lock my bedroom door when I blog. Some may call that parental negligence. I prefer to call it survival.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Best Halloween...EVER
Okay, so I know it's not exactly Fall time right now. In fact, we are not even close to dressing up or picking out costumes. But I feel the innate need to share my tale of a Halloween past, 2009. It will be marked forever in my memory as the best, and the most fun Halloween ever.
After much soul searching, my friend Alyson and I decided that our costumes needed to include one necessary accessory: alcohol. And so what better way to REPRESENT than with German beer maidens? I wanted to envelop Helga, become one with her short dress and beer stein, speak her native dialect, yaaaaah? So, while volunteering at school, I hounded one of my daughter's classmates who just happens to be...you guessed it...German! Cute as a second grader can be, I explained to Hugo that I was dressing up like his mom for Halloween...he just smiled with his adorable blue eyes, and his head cocked sideways. I hammered him for information on German phrases. How do I say please? Thank you? More beer?
My husband even donned Lederhosen to keep with our theme...that's a man who's truly in touch with his identity right there. A keeper, indeed.
If you recall, Halloween was on a Saturday this past year. Well, you know what that means...the party starts on Friday...and start it did.
Neglecting to eat dinner that night, we hit it really hard at The Boulevard Tavern where our friends played in a band. And finally staggered in around 2:30 in the morning. Yeah, I don't need to tell you how that ended.
Waking up in a foggy haze, head pounding, bile collecting in my throat, I realized I needed to buck up and focus so I could detox and cleanse my system for the upcoming day's events. It was now Halloween...THE day we had waited for. And we were all hungover. Oh, sweet irony.
After forcing my former bff, Alyson, to go on a hike, and carving half-ass pumpkins with the girls, we began to prep, to yet once again, get our groove on.
As Alyson morphed into "Gretchen" in the bathroom, much like Linda Carter turns into the icon Wonder Woman, I approached her with a bottle of wine. "No, I can't do that right now," she said. "Sorry, what did you say Chico State graduate?" I replied snarkily, already holding a wine goblet of my own. "Okay, but only an inch to start with."
Well, it didn't take more than 30 minutes for that inch to manifest into a tumbler of wine, and Helga and Gretchen were in da house.
Just around that time, a family from school, (which was not Hugo's) arrived at our house so that we could all enjoy the magic of trick or treating together.
Imagine the visual of Gopal, the Indian engineer, super smart, NASA dad, as I walked into the kitchen dressed as Helga, the beer-wench in my micro mini. His exact words were, "Oh wow..." spoken in his distinct accent. Rose-Marie, his engineer NASA wife, was very sweet, but certainly not dressed up. Now these parents had no problem drinking our wine, but I just don't think they were prepared when we took the kids out, and I would stumble up to many of my neighbors, stating, "My stein is empty!" like it was a federal offense. Fulfilling their neighborly duty, however, each would tap us off so we could continue our journey. All the while, Gopal and Rose-Marie stood in the background, not really sure what to do.
Around 9 o'clock we made it back to the house, and put the kiddos to bed. By this point, I'm sure Rose-Marie and Gopal were vowing they would not be having anymore "family time" with the Walsh's in the near future. We bid them adieu and prepared for Chapter 2: a party around the block, who's flier indicated "Competitive Wanted for Beer Pong". Those were the only words I needed to hear, and it was SO on.
Not wanting a repeat bile-vomit session like the night before, Alyson, my niece (who had just turned 21, and had no costume), and I all inhaled some leftovers from the fridge, and away we went. To the neighbors. Who I did not know. To play Beer Pong.
The first party goer I encountered was a rather tall man, standing robustly about 6'2 or so, dressed as the cutest Girl Scout you ever did see. He had a blond wig, with several badges that decorated the sash he wore across his chest. It was clear from the beginning that the Girl Scout took his character role playing seriously, as s/he made sure all the other party-goers knew and fully understood the Beer Pong/Flip Cup rules.
Before I could say, "My stein is empty," I was engaged in a relay style drinking game which involved slamming a beer and flipping a cup upright...only when that happened could my teammate then slam his beer and flip his cup...it's an art really. All the while, your team is racing the team across from you, screaming obscenities and yelling things like, "NOT SO HARD...GENTLY! YOU ARE THE FLIP CUP WHISPERER! YOU'RE TAKING FOREVER!"
Have you ever heard of an ice luge? Well neither had I, and I attended the very prestigious Chico State, for crying out loud. The Flip Cup losers had to line up at this giant block of ice with a path carved into the top of it, and take a shot. Not very HINI savvy, but the Girl Scout was pouring the alcohol, and rules must be enforced.
And so we did what all good, rule following party going folks would do: opened up wide and took a vodka shot that had been marinated in Skittles...yes, the candy. The Girl Scout kept going on and on about this special Skittles concoction like it was a rare, fine wine from the South of France. After my first sip, I was sold.
My niece couldn't seem to get enough of the candy flavored vodka. I tried, with all of my beer wench might, to pry her from the evilness of the luge, to no avail. I knew where this was going, and quick, but decided that as long as she could walk fairly well, it would end up being a "lesson learned" on her part. I kept tabs on her, as she would come and lean on me, while Gretchen and I talked with other partyers.
I appreciated how these other party goers took their persona's to heart as seriously as Gretchen and I had. We encountered Garth from Wayne's World, Brett Michaels (the dude looked EXACTLY like him), Max from Where the Wild Things Are, as well, as a real actual Wild Thing. At 2 am, when my niece could no longer really walk, Superman even walked us home.
When all was said and done, it took me about a week to recover from Halloween 2009. I felt glad and sad to see it finally come to an end. And all of this leaves me thinking one thing: What, oh what, will I dress up as this year?
After much soul searching, my friend Alyson and I decided that our costumes needed to include one necessary accessory: alcohol. And so what better way to REPRESENT than with German beer maidens? I wanted to envelop Helga, become one with her short dress and beer stein, speak her native dialect, yaaaaah? So, while volunteering at school, I hounded one of my daughter's classmates who just happens to be...you guessed it...German! Cute as a second grader can be, I explained to Hugo that I was dressing up like his mom for Halloween...he just smiled with his adorable blue eyes, and his head cocked sideways. I hammered him for information on German phrases. How do I say please? Thank you? More beer?
My husband even donned Lederhosen to keep with our theme...that's a man who's truly in touch with his identity right there. A keeper, indeed.
If you recall, Halloween was on a Saturday this past year. Well, you know what that means...the party starts on Friday...and start it did.
Neglecting to eat dinner that night, we hit it really hard at The Boulevard Tavern where our friends played in a band. And finally staggered in around 2:30 in the morning. Yeah, I don't need to tell you how that ended.
Waking up in a foggy haze, head pounding, bile collecting in my throat, I realized I needed to buck up and focus so I could detox and cleanse my system for the upcoming day's events. It was now Halloween...THE day we had waited for. And we were all hungover. Oh, sweet irony.
After forcing my former bff, Alyson, to go on a hike, and carving half-ass pumpkins with the girls, we began to prep, to yet once again, get our groove on.
As Alyson morphed into "Gretchen" in the bathroom, much like Linda Carter turns into the icon Wonder Woman, I approached her with a bottle of wine. "No, I can't do that right now," she said. "Sorry, what did you say Chico State graduate?" I replied snarkily, already holding a wine goblet of my own. "Okay, but only an inch to start with."
Well, it didn't take more than 30 minutes for that inch to manifest into a tumbler of wine, and Helga and Gretchen were in da house.
Just around that time, a family from school, (which was not Hugo's) arrived at our house so that we could all enjoy the magic of trick or treating together.
Imagine the visual of Gopal, the Indian engineer, super smart, NASA dad, as I walked into the kitchen dressed as Helga, the beer-wench in my micro mini. His exact words were, "Oh wow..." spoken in his distinct accent. Rose-Marie, his engineer NASA wife, was very sweet, but certainly not dressed up. Now these parents had no problem drinking our wine, but I just don't think they were prepared when we took the kids out, and I would stumble up to many of my neighbors, stating, "My stein is empty!" like it was a federal offense. Fulfilling their neighborly duty, however, each would tap us off so we could continue our journey. All the while, Gopal and Rose-Marie stood in the background, not really sure what to do.
Around 9 o'clock we made it back to the house, and put the kiddos to bed. By this point, I'm sure Rose-Marie and Gopal were vowing they would not be having anymore "family time" with the Walsh's in the near future. We bid them adieu and prepared for Chapter 2: a party around the block, who's flier indicated "Competitive Wanted for Beer Pong". Those were the only words I needed to hear, and it was SO on.
Not wanting a repeat bile-vomit session like the night before, Alyson, my niece (who had just turned 21, and had no costume), and I all inhaled some leftovers from the fridge, and away we went. To the neighbors. Who I did not know. To play Beer Pong.
The first party goer I encountered was a rather tall man, standing robustly about 6'2 or so, dressed as the cutest Girl Scout you ever did see. He had a blond wig, with several badges that decorated the sash he wore across his chest. It was clear from the beginning that the Girl Scout took his character role playing seriously, as s/he made sure all the other party-goers knew and fully understood the Beer Pong/Flip Cup rules.
Before I could say, "My stein is empty," I was engaged in a relay style drinking game which involved slamming a beer and flipping a cup upright...only when that happened could my teammate then slam his beer and flip his cup...it's an art really. All the while, your team is racing the team across from you, screaming obscenities and yelling things like, "NOT SO HARD...GENTLY! YOU ARE THE FLIP CUP WHISPERER! YOU'RE TAKING FOREVER!"
Have you ever heard of an ice luge? Well neither had I, and I attended the very prestigious Chico State, for crying out loud. The Flip Cup losers had to line up at this giant block of ice with a path carved into the top of it, and take a shot. Not very HINI savvy, but the Girl Scout was pouring the alcohol, and rules must be enforced.
And so we did what all good, rule following party going folks would do: opened up wide and took a vodka shot that had been marinated in Skittles...yes, the candy. The Girl Scout kept going on and on about this special Skittles concoction like it was a rare, fine wine from the South of France. After my first sip, I was sold.
My niece couldn't seem to get enough of the candy flavored vodka. I tried, with all of my beer wench might, to pry her from the evilness of the luge, to no avail. I knew where this was going, and quick, but decided that as long as she could walk fairly well, it would end up being a "lesson learned" on her part. I kept tabs on her, as she would come and lean on me, while Gretchen and I talked with other partyers.
I appreciated how these other party goers took their persona's to heart as seriously as Gretchen and I had. We encountered Garth from Wayne's World, Brett Michaels (the dude looked EXACTLY like him), Max from Where the Wild Things Are, as well, as a real actual Wild Thing. At 2 am, when my niece could no longer really walk, Superman even walked us home.
When all was said and done, it took me about a week to recover from Halloween 2009. I felt glad and sad to see it finally come to an end. And all of this leaves me thinking one thing: What, oh what, will I dress up as this year?
Monday, April 5, 2010
Burke Williams is My New Best Friend
No, seriously though, Burke is my new bff. Is Burke a male or female? Is Burke living or dead? Real or imaginary? It doesn't even matter, because I can honestly say, I can die happy now. For those of you that have NO idea what I am talking about, google Burke Williams Spa, and go there.now.right now. There are several locations to serve you.
My former best friend, Alyson, came down for a visit this past weekend. She has since been replaced by Burke Williams. At the last minute on Saturday, we booked massages, but the only availability was at 9 PM. Holy Shnikes, I thought to myself, I usually turn into a pumpkin by then. Especially after dancing my sober pregnant ass to Fergie until almost 11 the night before.
But after the nice person on the telephone told us we could have "access to the facilities" prior to our appointments, we were drawn to Burke Williams like moths to a flame...like peanut butter to jelly...like a college kid to a keg party...like a mom who really wanted to get the hell away from her kids, like pronto.
So away we went, not really knowing what to expect, but craving solitude all the same. When we arrived, we were greeted warmly, and our appointments confirmed.
Receptionist: So we have two relaxing massages at 9 pm?
Me: Actually, I'm pregnant, so I need a prego massage.
Receptionist: Ohhhhhh, well, let me offer you a bath in lieu of using the facilities.
Me (realizing she has to offer this due to liability for pregos using hot tubs and saunas) Ummm, no thank you, I can take a bath at home. This is baby number five. I will use my keen mommy senses and not overheat.
Receptionist: Okay, sure. It is just that some pregnant women want to be really cautious.
Me (pointing to my tummy): Yeah, well being careful isn't exactly my "A" game.
As we entered the women's area, serenity oozed out of the walls. After getting undressed, we slipped on Burke's robes and slippers. I stepped into a shower that was as big as the floor plan of the downstairs of my house. As the warm water cascaded down my back, I experimented with the knobs a bit. I could live in here, I thought to myself...with large liters full of yummy smelling body wash, shampoo and conditioner.
As I wrapped a towel around myself, I noticed some younger women walking around gingerly in bathing suits. I made a mental note to myself, thinking, it if I was still in my twenties, I would have probably packed a bathing suit too. But after delivering four babies vaginally, I just really don't care anymore. There is something freeing about getting old and saggy, you know? Embrace it women!
Aly and I ventured to the beautiful, elevated hot tub; which was really the size of a small swimming pool. There was only one other woman in the tub, totally relaxed, and content, who was not wearing a bathing suit. Before I go on, I would like to clarify that I am heterosexual. However, I do love and appreciate women's bodies...what they can do, how strong we are, and frankly, how lovely we are.
As this woman turned to talk to Alyson and I, I could not help but look at her fantastic breasts. I mean, they were PERFECT! Not plastic surgery perfect. I am talking like round, firm, medium sized cantaloupes, ripening in the sun, perfect. My first thought was, she has NOT nursed a baby. My second thought was, if I had breasts like that, I would give up wearing shirts. I had to actually work on making eye contact with her. But the cool thing was, I didn't feel self conscience of my pregnant torpedo boobies; I was just mentally appreciating hers, without appearing to be a stalker. The added bonus was that she was very sweet. When she left, both Aly and I agreed, those were the most beautiful breasts we had ever seen.
Next was the sauna, which had a menthol essence about it. I have a love/hate relationship with the sauna...it's really relaxing, right up til I feel like I am going to suffocate from the steam. It's that part of not being able to see my hand two inches from my face that sort of creeps me out.
And on it went like this for the two hours leading up to our massage. Cascading shower, glorious hot tub, menthol sauna...a little bit at a time, careful not to overheat. I must have used at least 5 towels and 3 washclothes in that time frame. It wasn't my damn laundry. It was Burke's laundry. There was even a quiet room; but anyone who knows me well, understands that Michelle in a quiet room is not exactly a ying and yang relationship.
When my massage therapist arrived, she gently placed her hand on my back, and led me to our room. The massage was just the cherry on top.
My former bff, Alyson, even paid for my massage! I mean, seriously, could the day GET any better? I would only change one thing: next time I go to Burke Williams, I will arrive when the doors open, and leave at closing time. I highly recommend this experience before you pass onto the afterlife. I'm not kidding.
My former best friend, Alyson, came down for a visit this past weekend. She has since been replaced by Burke Williams. At the last minute on Saturday, we booked massages, but the only availability was at 9 PM. Holy Shnikes, I thought to myself, I usually turn into a pumpkin by then. Especially after dancing my sober pregnant ass to Fergie until almost 11 the night before.
But after the nice person on the telephone told us we could have "access to the facilities" prior to our appointments, we were drawn to Burke Williams like moths to a flame...like peanut butter to jelly...like a college kid to a keg party...like a mom who really wanted to get the hell away from her kids, like pronto.
So away we went, not really knowing what to expect, but craving solitude all the same. When we arrived, we were greeted warmly, and our appointments confirmed.
Receptionist: So we have two relaxing massages at 9 pm?
Me: Actually, I'm pregnant, so I need a prego massage.
Receptionist: Ohhhhhh, well, let me offer you a bath in lieu of using the facilities.
Me (realizing she has to offer this due to liability for pregos using hot tubs and saunas) Ummm, no thank you, I can take a bath at home. This is baby number five. I will use my keen mommy senses and not overheat.
Receptionist: Okay, sure. It is just that some pregnant women want to be really cautious.
Me (pointing to my tummy): Yeah, well being careful isn't exactly my "A" game.
As we entered the women's area, serenity oozed out of the walls. After getting undressed, we slipped on Burke's robes and slippers. I stepped into a shower that was as big as the floor plan of the downstairs of my house. As the warm water cascaded down my back, I experimented with the knobs a bit. I could live in here, I thought to myself...with large liters full of yummy smelling body wash, shampoo and conditioner.
As I wrapped a towel around myself, I noticed some younger women walking around gingerly in bathing suits. I made a mental note to myself, thinking, it if I was still in my twenties, I would have probably packed a bathing suit too. But after delivering four babies vaginally, I just really don't care anymore. There is something freeing about getting old and saggy, you know? Embrace it women!
Aly and I ventured to the beautiful, elevated hot tub; which was really the size of a small swimming pool. There was only one other woman in the tub, totally relaxed, and content, who was not wearing a bathing suit. Before I go on, I would like to clarify that I am heterosexual. However, I do love and appreciate women's bodies...what they can do, how strong we are, and frankly, how lovely we are.
As this woman turned to talk to Alyson and I, I could not help but look at her fantastic breasts. I mean, they were PERFECT! Not plastic surgery perfect. I am talking like round, firm, medium sized cantaloupes, ripening in the sun, perfect. My first thought was, she has NOT nursed a baby. My second thought was, if I had breasts like that, I would give up wearing shirts. I had to actually work on making eye contact with her. But the cool thing was, I didn't feel self conscience of my pregnant torpedo boobies; I was just mentally appreciating hers, without appearing to be a stalker. The added bonus was that she was very sweet. When she left, both Aly and I agreed, those were the most beautiful breasts we had ever seen.
Next was the sauna, which had a menthol essence about it. I have a love/hate relationship with the sauna...it's really relaxing, right up til I feel like I am going to suffocate from the steam. It's that part of not being able to see my hand two inches from my face that sort of creeps me out.
And on it went like this for the two hours leading up to our massage. Cascading shower, glorious hot tub, menthol sauna...a little bit at a time, careful not to overheat. I must have used at least 5 towels and 3 washclothes in that time frame. It wasn't my damn laundry. It was Burke's laundry. There was even a quiet room; but anyone who knows me well, understands that Michelle in a quiet room is not exactly a ying and yang relationship.
When my massage therapist arrived, she gently placed her hand on my back, and led me to our room. The massage was just the cherry on top.
My former bff, Alyson, even paid for my massage! I mean, seriously, could the day GET any better? I would only change one thing: next time I go to Burke Williams, I will arrive when the doors open, and leave at closing time. I highly recommend this experience before you pass onto the afterlife. I'm not kidding.
Monday, March 29, 2010
The Hood
I reside in a cute little community of San Jose, called Willow Glen. Envision a million families with 2 - 2.5 kids, a boatload of golden retrievers, and more parks than you could ever shake a stick at, and you've got "The Glen". Lush green lawns, shady side streets named after fruits, and tire swings beckoning any child who walks by to come and play. Yep, this is my town.
As cultish as the Glen is in some ways, (ie: Christmas trees lined up for dozens of streets at a time...will someone PLEASE be original?), I really do love living here. Our neighbors ROCK. They support our Lemonade stands. They endure my girls never-ending high pitched screaming and singing projections from the tip top of our Magnolia tree. And when our fourteen year old dog, Bear, wanders out of our front yard, and forgets where the hell he is due to doggie dementia, they kindly lead him home.
It's the kind of place where on a Friday afternoon, most of us are out front, enjoying the beginning of the weekend, the celebration of no homework, and longer lingering days...and don't forget the wine.
One of my favorite neighbors, Sharon, lives right next door. Sharon is about my age, a total fox, and just happens to be in a wheelchair. This has never stopped my kids from running up to her, and wrapping their little arms around her neck to give a hug, though. I will never forget one day, when we were chatting over the fence, and one of the girls asked Sharon, "Have you tried to walk today?" Sharon replied, "No honey, I can't walk." My daughter continued, "Well you just need to try harder. Try to walk." I wanted to disappear, to melt into the pavement and become one with my driveway. But when I heard Sharon start to laugh out loud, that gave me permission to do the same. Kids...love 'em or kill 'em...it's a fine line.
Our neighbors on the other side, Andrew and Liz, are an extremely cute couple. When they first moved in, we referred to them as the DINKS: Double Income, No Kids. They are in their late 20's, and have since had two little girls. I'm always amazed that their kids are extremely clean, hair styled with cute barrettes or headbands, and dressed in the most stylish of outfits. I guess I was kind of like that too...once. Two additional kids later, and my girls are lucky if they are wearing clean underwear.
I lovingly refer to our neighbor a few doors down as, "Granola". She is a tree-hugging, garden-planting, compost loving, chicken raising, Earth Mama. She had her son, right before I had the twins. I discovered almost immediately that our ways of mothering were similar, but different. Example: if the babies were due for shots, teething, or just plain crabby, my remedy was Infant Tylenol (bought at Costco in a 6 pack). Granola's remedy was an herbal relief remedy from her garden.
One day, while we were hanging out, my girls became fussy because it was time to eat. Granola and I were both nursing at the time, so as I reached for one baby to get her to my breast, Granola reached for my other baby, and started to pull up her shirt. OMG...I thought. She is going to try to nurse my daughter! I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the phrase, "It takes a village..." as much as everyone...IN THEORY.
I tried to speak, but no words came out; I sat in horror watching this shocking event like a train wreck in slow motion. Telepathically, I screamed to Abigail, "DON'T LATCH ON...FOREIGN BOOBIE, DON'T LATCH ON! INTRUDER!!" Thank God, Abby continued to fuss, and that's when Granola handed her to me. Two boobs, two babies; I got this, but thanks for your help, Granola.
On a late afternoon, about a year ago, my family was preparing to go over to a friend's home for a BBQ. Being a glorious spring day, I decided to ride bikes over with the three bigger girls, while my husband would walk over with our youngest, pulling our wagon full of the necessary goods: tortilla chips, and mojitos.
As I mounted my bike, I hollered to my husband that I was leaving, and that Cosette was out front. He mumbled something about "changing a light bulb," but he would see my shortly.
The big girls and I arrived at our friends home, and I sat down, to catch up with my girlfriend and enjoy a much needed cocktail. The BBQ was cranking, the kids were playing, it was all good. Until about thirty minutes later when Tom arrived...without our youngest child. The conversation went as follows:
Me (calmly, but questioning): Honey, where is Cosette?
Tom: I thought you had her.
Me (any sort of sensibility starting to leave my body): WHAT?! She isn't here! I rode my bike, and YOU were supposed to walk over with her.
Tom: Well, when I walked out after changing the light bulb, the wagon was gone and so was Cosette, so I just assumed you had her.
Many (our dear friend, caught in this extremely awkward moment): What's going on guys?
Warning: strong language to follow.
Me (starting to morph into a complete psycho Mama Bear): TOM FUCKING LEFT COSETTE AT OUR HOUSE! WE NEED TO GET IN THE CAR NOW!! I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE MY BABY IS OUT THERE!! YOU LEFT HER TOM...OH MY GOD, IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO HER...WHILE YOU CHANGED A FUCKING LIGHT BULB, OUR BABY DISAPPEARED!"
Manny (remaining totally calm, but seeing that a homicide may ensue shortly) Okay, I will drive, let's go.
While I screamed obscenities at my husband in the car, I tried to comprehend the incomprehensible: my THREE year old had been left behind! She has been by herself for over thirty minutes. Oh my God...what if someone takes her? What if she gets hit by a car? Oh my God...
As Many approached our home, I literally jumped out of the vehicle while it was still moving. I started frantically banging on the neighbors doors, wildly running from one home to the next screaming, "We are missing Cosette! Please look for her! Have you seen Cosette?! We can't find Cosette!"
I entered our home through the front door, praying to God I would find her. Playing with Lego's. Stacking Lincoln Logs. Coloring on the walls with permanent markers. Anything would have been okay, as long as she was safe. Nothing. Quiet filled our home. I started to become totally unglued.
The neighbors had started to gather, and look for her. Unbeknownst to me, during this time, Many had dropped Tom off at the park down the street, while he had driven around the block to look for her. He pulled up. "Michelle, I found her. Your neighbors on the other side have her. She's okay."
I wanted be WITH my daughter in that moment. Many couldn't drive that short distance fast enough. Tom got into the truck, and we pulled up to find a couple sitting with our daughter, along with a police officer standing on their front lawn. I immediately ran up to the woman, and embraced her, as I sobbed like a blubbering idiot, "Thank you so much, thank you so much," I kept repeating.
The officer looked at me, and said, "Soooo, you left your three year out front, huh?" Through clenched teeth, I said, "Talk to him ," pointing to Tom.
It took me about three days to recover from that incident. I have never felt such a mixture of raw emotion in my life, and I NEVER want to endure something like that again.
It took about the same amount of time for me to speak to my husband, without using a four letter word. By the time Sunday approached, we were able to discuss how we would make sure this would NEVER happen again. It wasn't easy, but through loving communication, we were able to each admit our own faults in the situation: me, leaving Cosette out front while he was inside the house. Him, changing a FING light bulb, when it wasn't really necessary. I mean, it IS a two way street.
As tears fell onto a piece of paper, I wrote a letter to Ray and Virgina, the couple who found Cosette. I poured out my gratitude for what they had given back to us. Something that could have so easily been taken away if they hadn't been there. I also gave them a small statue of a child with angel wings, which to me, symbolized how they had protected our daughter. Upon delivering the letter and gift, Virgina, broke into tears as we embraced. Both, Ray and Virgina, admitted they were a bit confused when they had seen this cute little girl walking around the block with a wagon full of mojitos. I explained that I could never repay what they did for us.
"Who are the people in your neighborhood?" Mister Rogers encourages us to find out. And you know what? It is SO worth finding out! As we all go about our busy day, rushing off to work, bringing kids home from school, unloading our groceries, let's take notice of the people who live right next to us. Think good thoughts for them. Try not to curse them when they remodel. And maybe, if you're feeling the love, even say a little prayer for them.
As cultish as the Glen is in some ways, (ie: Christmas trees lined up for dozens of streets at a time...will someone PLEASE be original?), I really do love living here. Our neighbors ROCK. They support our Lemonade stands. They endure my girls never-ending high pitched screaming and singing projections from the tip top of our Magnolia tree. And when our fourteen year old dog, Bear, wanders out of our front yard, and forgets where the hell he is due to doggie dementia, they kindly lead him home.
It's the kind of place where on a Friday afternoon, most of us are out front, enjoying the beginning of the weekend, the celebration of no homework, and longer lingering days...and don't forget the wine.
One of my favorite neighbors, Sharon, lives right next door. Sharon is about my age, a total fox, and just happens to be in a wheelchair. This has never stopped my kids from running up to her, and wrapping their little arms around her neck to give a hug, though. I will never forget one day, when we were chatting over the fence, and one of the girls asked Sharon, "Have you tried to walk today?" Sharon replied, "No honey, I can't walk." My daughter continued, "Well you just need to try harder. Try to walk." I wanted to disappear, to melt into the pavement and become one with my driveway. But when I heard Sharon start to laugh out loud, that gave me permission to do the same. Kids...love 'em or kill 'em...it's a fine line.
Our neighbors on the other side, Andrew and Liz, are an extremely cute couple. When they first moved in, we referred to them as the DINKS: Double Income, No Kids. They are in their late 20's, and have since had two little girls. I'm always amazed that their kids are extremely clean, hair styled with cute barrettes or headbands, and dressed in the most stylish of outfits. I guess I was kind of like that too...once. Two additional kids later, and my girls are lucky if they are wearing clean underwear.
I lovingly refer to our neighbor a few doors down as, "Granola". She is a tree-hugging, garden-planting, compost loving, chicken raising, Earth Mama. She had her son, right before I had the twins. I discovered almost immediately that our ways of mothering were similar, but different. Example: if the babies were due for shots, teething, or just plain crabby, my remedy was Infant Tylenol (bought at Costco in a 6 pack). Granola's remedy was an herbal relief remedy from her garden.
One day, while we were hanging out, my girls became fussy because it was time to eat. Granola and I were both nursing at the time, so as I reached for one baby to get her to my breast, Granola reached for my other baby, and started to pull up her shirt. OMG...I thought. She is going to try to nurse my daughter! I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the phrase, "It takes a village..." as much as everyone...IN THEORY.
I tried to speak, but no words came out; I sat in horror watching this shocking event like a train wreck in slow motion. Telepathically, I screamed to Abigail, "DON'T LATCH ON...FOREIGN BOOBIE, DON'T LATCH ON! INTRUDER!!" Thank God, Abby continued to fuss, and that's when Granola handed her to me. Two boobs, two babies; I got this, but thanks for your help, Granola.
On a late afternoon, about a year ago, my family was preparing to go over to a friend's home for a BBQ. Being a glorious spring day, I decided to ride bikes over with the three bigger girls, while my husband would walk over with our youngest, pulling our wagon full of the necessary goods: tortilla chips, and mojitos.
As I mounted my bike, I hollered to my husband that I was leaving, and that Cosette was out front. He mumbled something about "changing a light bulb," but he would see my shortly.
The big girls and I arrived at our friends home, and I sat down, to catch up with my girlfriend and enjoy a much needed cocktail. The BBQ was cranking, the kids were playing, it was all good. Until about thirty minutes later when Tom arrived...without our youngest child. The conversation went as follows:
Me (calmly, but questioning): Honey, where is Cosette?
Tom: I thought you had her.
Me (any sort of sensibility starting to leave my body): WHAT?! She isn't here! I rode my bike, and YOU were supposed to walk over with her.
Tom: Well, when I walked out after changing the light bulb, the wagon was gone and so was Cosette, so I just assumed you had her.
Many (our dear friend, caught in this extremely awkward moment): What's going on guys?
Warning: strong language to follow.
Me (starting to morph into a complete psycho Mama Bear): TOM FUCKING LEFT COSETTE AT OUR HOUSE! WE NEED TO GET IN THE CAR NOW!! I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE MY BABY IS OUT THERE!! YOU LEFT HER TOM...OH MY GOD, IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO HER...WHILE YOU CHANGED A FUCKING LIGHT BULB, OUR BABY DISAPPEARED!"
Manny (remaining totally calm, but seeing that a homicide may ensue shortly) Okay, I will drive, let's go.
While I screamed obscenities at my husband in the car, I tried to comprehend the incomprehensible: my THREE year old had been left behind! She has been by herself for over thirty minutes. Oh my God...what if someone takes her? What if she gets hit by a car? Oh my God...
As Many approached our home, I literally jumped out of the vehicle while it was still moving. I started frantically banging on the neighbors doors, wildly running from one home to the next screaming, "We are missing Cosette! Please look for her! Have you seen Cosette?! We can't find Cosette!"
I entered our home through the front door, praying to God I would find her. Playing with Lego's. Stacking Lincoln Logs. Coloring on the walls with permanent markers. Anything would have been okay, as long as she was safe. Nothing. Quiet filled our home. I started to become totally unglued.
The neighbors had started to gather, and look for her. Unbeknownst to me, during this time, Many had dropped Tom off at the park down the street, while he had driven around the block to look for her. He pulled up. "Michelle, I found her. Your neighbors on the other side have her. She's okay."
I wanted be WITH my daughter in that moment. Many couldn't drive that short distance fast enough. Tom got into the truck, and we pulled up to find a couple sitting with our daughter, along with a police officer standing on their front lawn. I immediately ran up to the woman, and embraced her, as I sobbed like a blubbering idiot, "Thank you so much, thank you so much," I kept repeating.
The officer looked at me, and said, "Soooo, you left your three year out front, huh?" Through clenched teeth, I said, "Talk to him ," pointing to Tom.
It took me about three days to recover from that incident. I have never felt such a mixture of raw emotion in my life, and I NEVER want to endure something like that again.
It took about the same amount of time for me to speak to my husband, without using a four letter word. By the time Sunday approached, we were able to discuss how we would make sure this would NEVER happen again. It wasn't easy, but through loving communication, we were able to each admit our own faults in the situation: me, leaving Cosette out front while he was inside the house. Him, changing a FING light bulb, when it wasn't really necessary. I mean, it IS a two way street.
As tears fell onto a piece of paper, I wrote a letter to Ray and Virgina, the couple who found Cosette. I poured out my gratitude for what they had given back to us. Something that could have so easily been taken away if they hadn't been there. I also gave them a small statue of a child with angel wings, which to me, symbolized how they had protected our daughter. Upon delivering the letter and gift, Virgina, broke into tears as we embraced. Both, Ray and Virgina, admitted they were a bit confused when they had seen this cute little girl walking around the block with a wagon full of mojitos. I explained that I could never repay what they did for us.
"Who are the people in your neighborhood?" Mister Rogers encourages us to find out. And you know what? It is SO worth finding out! As we all go about our busy day, rushing off to work, bringing kids home from school, unloading our groceries, let's take notice of the people who live right next to us. Think good thoughts for them. Try not to curse them when they remodel. And maybe, if you're feeling the love, even say a little prayer for them.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Knocked Up
Pregnant women put out. I mean, there is no denying it...the proof is RIGHT there in the pudding, so to speak. As I gaze upon the beautiful growing belly of a glowing pregnant woman, I often think to myself, I know exactly how you got yourself into that predicament sister. Been there, done that, have the postcard.
My husband and I didn't know if we could even get pregnant. The Readers Digest version is: he had a vasectomy with his first wife, and then had it reversed for Chapter two with me. We prayed that things would work out the way God intended. Shortly afterwards, I peed on a stick to see the coveted PLUS sign!
At 16 weeks along, I was scheduled for my first ultrasound. My excitement was BURSTING at the seams. I just couldn't wait to actually see this little nugget that was growing inside of me.
The ultrasound technician slapped some cold jelly on my belly, and proceeded with her special tool. "Ohhhhh, let's see how many little people are in here," she said.
Huh?! She actually sees something? I don't see JACK! It looks like amoebas swimming in a dark pool of water.
She continued, "Ohhhh, I see we have twins here." WTF? What the hell did you just say? What?!!! ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?! What? What? WHAT????????
My husband was hooting and hollering like the Niners had just scored a touchdown, while I lay on the table, crying, asking the technician if everything was okay. Does everyone have their fingers? Their toes? Their eyelids?
It was at this moment I had a huge epiphany, a defining moment in my life, really. As much as I think I am in control here, I am SO not in control. God has a plan, and most times, I just wish I knew what the hell it was.
Immediately after the ultrasound, I grabbed my "What to Expect When You're Expecting", searching for solace, yearning for the author to tell me, "Michelle, you will be okay." Instead, all I found were all of the risks that come with a multiple pregnancy. And criteria that I did not meet to even conceive twins!
Do twins run in your family? No. Are you 35 or over? Nope. Are you African American? A blond haired blue eyed black person...um, no, although some family members may beg to differ that point.
I truly believe pregnancy is one of the most amazing times in a woman's life. Sure, we pack on the pounds like a football player doing double days, and yes, our ankles resemble the trunks of trees, while our faces morph into shapes that kind of resemble what we normally look like without retaining 50 pounds of water weight. With all of that being said, it really is a pretty amazing journey. However, there are some misconceptions about pregnancy, and I would like to address these before I continue:
1. We are NOT pregnant for 9 months. It is 40 weeks, people. 40 weeks divided by 4 weeks per month = 10. TEN, TEN, TEN months! Not 9. And whether you are carrying one baby, or 5 babies, those last 4 weeks totally count towards our raging bitterness and anger.
2. Pregnant women should cut out alcohol (okay), smoking (ewwww), and caffeine (Really?). Seriously...I can't have a cup of Joe in the morning? But when I am in labor, the nurse asks me if I want narcotics to "take the edge off"? Okay, I don't know if they are narcotics, but whatever she gave me straight knocked me out! The doctor was waking me up to push. Helllloooo? No coffee, but hard core drugs? Really? I have decided from now on, I'll cry like a baby at 2cm, to ensure I will get my epidural by the time I'm actually at 5cm, thank you very much.
3. Nursing is easy. Okaay, riiiiight. Determined to tandem nurse the twins, I had a lactation consultant come into my room. While she manhandled my breasts, she instructed, "It is imperative to get a good latch on. Make sure the baby has your entire nipple in their mouth," she said as she quickly shoved Abby's head toward my chest. I'm looking at her thinking, well lady, my nipple is as big as her whole head, so this should be interesting...
It still totally amazes me that one minute, you can have two people in your family, and then the next, there are three (or in our case, four). I mean that right there, is an entirely different picture on the Christmas card.
It sounds simple, this human anatomy thing. But when you really think about it...two people who love each other can unite and actually make another little person? WOW. And I get the opportunity to grow that person? Double WOW.
Swollen ankles and water retention be damned...nothing compares to holding new life that you have created with someone that you love deeply. Nothing at all...except maybe watching that little nugget sleep, not knowing exactly what the future holds, but knowing without a doubt, this little person is absolutely supposed to be part of your life...to teach us, to humble us, and at times, bring us to our knees.
My husband and I didn't know if we could even get pregnant. The Readers Digest version is: he had a vasectomy with his first wife, and then had it reversed for Chapter two with me. We prayed that things would work out the way God intended. Shortly afterwards, I peed on a stick to see the coveted PLUS sign!
At 16 weeks along, I was scheduled for my first ultrasound. My excitement was BURSTING at the seams. I just couldn't wait to actually see this little nugget that was growing inside of me.
The ultrasound technician slapped some cold jelly on my belly, and proceeded with her special tool. "Ohhhhh, let's see how many little people are in here," she said.
Huh?! She actually sees something? I don't see JACK! It looks like amoebas swimming in a dark pool of water.
She continued, "Ohhhh, I see we have twins here." WTF? What the hell did you just say? What?!!! ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?! What? What? WHAT????????
My husband was hooting and hollering like the Niners had just scored a touchdown, while I lay on the table, crying, asking the technician if everything was okay. Does everyone have their fingers? Their toes? Their eyelids?
It was at this moment I had a huge epiphany, a defining moment in my life, really. As much as I think I am in control here, I am SO not in control. God has a plan, and most times, I just wish I knew what the hell it was.
Immediately after the ultrasound, I grabbed my "What to Expect When You're Expecting", searching for solace, yearning for the author to tell me, "Michelle, you will be okay." Instead, all I found were all of the risks that come with a multiple pregnancy. And criteria that I did not meet to even conceive twins!
Do twins run in your family? No. Are you 35 or over? Nope. Are you African American? A blond haired blue eyed black person...um, no, although some family members may beg to differ that point.
I truly believe pregnancy is one of the most amazing times in a woman's life. Sure, we pack on the pounds like a football player doing double days, and yes, our ankles resemble the trunks of trees, while our faces morph into shapes that kind of resemble what we normally look like without retaining 50 pounds of water weight. With all of that being said, it really is a pretty amazing journey. However, there are some misconceptions about pregnancy, and I would like to address these before I continue:
1. We are NOT pregnant for 9 months. It is 40 weeks, people. 40 weeks divided by 4 weeks per month = 10. TEN, TEN, TEN months! Not 9. And whether you are carrying one baby, or 5 babies, those last 4 weeks totally count towards our raging bitterness and anger.
2. Pregnant women should cut out alcohol (okay), smoking (ewwww), and caffeine (Really?). Seriously...I can't have a cup of Joe in the morning? But when I am in labor, the nurse asks me if I want narcotics to "take the edge off"? Okay, I don't know if they are narcotics, but whatever she gave me straight knocked me out! The doctor was waking me up to push. Helllloooo? No coffee, but hard core drugs? Really? I have decided from now on, I'll cry like a baby at 2cm, to ensure I will get my epidural by the time I'm actually at 5cm, thank you very much.
3. Nursing is easy. Okaay, riiiiight. Determined to tandem nurse the twins, I had a lactation consultant come into my room. While she manhandled my breasts, she instructed, "It is imperative to get a good latch on. Make sure the baby has your entire nipple in their mouth," she said as she quickly shoved Abby's head toward my chest. I'm looking at her thinking, well lady, my nipple is as big as her whole head, so this should be interesting...
It still totally amazes me that one minute, you can have two people in your family, and then the next, there are three (or in our case, four). I mean that right there, is an entirely different picture on the Christmas card.
It sounds simple, this human anatomy thing. But when you really think about it...two people who love each other can unite and actually make another little person? WOW. And I get the opportunity to grow that person? Double WOW.
Swollen ankles and water retention be damned...nothing compares to holding new life that you have created with someone that you love deeply. Nothing at all...except maybe watching that little nugget sleep, not knowing exactly what the future holds, but knowing without a doubt, this little person is absolutely supposed to be part of your life...to teach us, to humble us, and at times, bring us to our knees.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Being "IN" The Moment
"Be in the moment." "Slow down and smell the flowers." "Quiet your mind." How often have we heard these words? Well, this is what I want to know: why the hell is something that sounds so simple, seem so insurmountably difficult for me?
My wheels are constantly spinning, from the moment my feet hit the floor in the morning, til they hit the bed at night. Get up, make breakfast, clean up the dirty dishes while supervising 4 kids that are supposed to be: eating the breakfast I made them, getting dressed, brushing teeth and hair, making lunches, making their beds before bolting, taking vitamins, and packing their backpacks (not necessarily in this order). They all load into the car for school, and suddenly I have a random thought: IS Cosette wearing underwear? Cosette "forgot" to put on panties one day and wore a skirt to preschool. So it's like flashbacks from 'Nam sometimes.
I mean, seriously, these are the things I think about. And on it goes...While they're at school: I run, go grocery shopping, pay bills, prepare for work, with the slight possibility of getting a shower in on a good day.
Come home from school, unload, and start the grueling process of homework, helping where need be. Supervise putting of homework away into the backpack, while starting dinner. Eat dinner, clean up dishes, supervise showers, quiet reading time, brushing of teeth, and saying prayers before the lights go out.
How the hell am I supposed to be "in" the moment when I am so freaking busy? I can't even have a BM without an audience.
I took the girls to the "re-opening" of Happy Hollow last week. We arrived at 2:00 and pulled up to the parking cashier. "No fee, today?" I asked, hopefully. "No, we close at 2:00 today," he cheerfully replied. In unison, my girls groaned from the back seat loudly. "Ok, thanks a lot Dream Smasher," I said. He laughed. I didn't.
NOW WHAT?!!!! We have been waaaaaaiting to see Danny the Damn Dragon for what seems like an eternity. And now you're denying me access not only to Danny, but to the lemurs, and Guinea Pig Island? I had a fleeting moment of breaking into Happy Hollow after hours...
Not wanting to totally abandon the situation, we meandered our way over to the Japanese Friendship Gardens, where all the fish had died from algae manifestation. I still tried to remain calm and hopeful that we would make the best of it.
And you know what? We did. I laid on the grass and blabbed with my aunt, shockingly enough, uninterrupted. My girls rolled down lush green hills giggling, and went on adventures. It was a PERFECT day. It was 75 degrees in March, and we were off of school. I thought for a second, maybe, THIS is what people are talking about when they say, "Be in the moment".
I was in the tub the other night, when Emma wandered into the bathroom. "Mama, why do you make your bath so hot?" she asked. "It helps me relax," I said. She was quiet for a moment, and then her eyes became as big as dinner plates, as if having a revelation. "Ohhhhh, I understand. I like to sing and climb the Magnolia tree...that helps ME relax."
I looked at my 7 year old, and thought in amazement, she knows how to be in the moment! Maybe, just maybe, some of it will rub off onto me.
My wheels are constantly spinning, from the moment my feet hit the floor in the morning, til they hit the bed at night. Get up, make breakfast, clean up the dirty dishes while supervising 4 kids that are supposed to be: eating the breakfast I made them, getting dressed, brushing teeth and hair, making lunches, making their beds before bolting, taking vitamins, and packing their backpacks (not necessarily in this order). They all load into the car for school, and suddenly I have a random thought: IS Cosette wearing underwear? Cosette "forgot" to put on panties one day and wore a skirt to preschool. So it's like flashbacks from 'Nam sometimes.
I mean, seriously, these are the things I think about. And on it goes...While they're at school: I run, go grocery shopping, pay bills, prepare for work, with the slight possibility of getting a shower in on a good day.
Come home from school, unload, and start the grueling process of homework, helping where need be. Supervise putting of homework away into the backpack, while starting dinner. Eat dinner, clean up dishes, supervise showers, quiet reading time, brushing of teeth, and saying prayers before the lights go out.
How the hell am I supposed to be "in" the moment when I am so freaking busy? I can't even have a BM without an audience.
I took the girls to the "re-opening" of Happy Hollow last week. We arrived at 2:00 and pulled up to the parking cashier. "No fee, today?" I asked, hopefully. "No, we close at 2:00 today," he cheerfully replied. In unison, my girls groaned from the back seat loudly. "Ok, thanks a lot Dream Smasher," I said. He laughed. I didn't.
NOW WHAT?!!!! We have been waaaaaaiting to see Danny the Damn Dragon for what seems like an eternity. And now you're denying me access not only to Danny, but to the lemurs, and Guinea Pig Island? I had a fleeting moment of breaking into Happy Hollow after hours...
Not wanting to totally abandon the situation, we meandered our way over to the Japanese Friendship Gardens, where all the fish had died from algae manifestation. I still tried to remain calm and hopeful that we would make the best of it.
And you know what? We did. I laid on the grass and blabbed with my aunt, shockingly enough, uninterrupted. My girls rolled down lush green hills giggling, and went on adventures. It was a PERFECT day. It was 75 degrees in March, and we were off of school. I thought for a second, maybe, THIS is what people are talking about when they say, "Be in the moment".
I was in the tub the other night, when Emma wandered into the bathroom. "Mama, why do you make your bath so hot?" she asked. "It helps me relax," I said. She was quiet for a moment, and then her eyes became as big as dinner plates, as if having a revelation. "Ohhhhh, I understand. I like to sing and climb the Magnolia tree...that helps ME relax."
I looked at my 7 year old, and thought in amazement, she knows how to be in the moment! Maybe, just maybe, some of it will rub off onto me.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Ahhh, The Teenage Years
I can't believe my parents let me live out my teen years. Before I tell you all of the misdemeanors I have committed, let me briefly explain my family background.
My dad, Tom, was a butcher by trade. My dad rose up at 3:30 AM so he could be done with his work day early enough to see my brothers and I after school. My dad worked extra hours on Saturdays, and worked through vacation time to support our family.
My mom, Carol, was a homemaker. You can call her Carol. Or you can call her "The Silver Fox", a nickname she has endearingly earned due to premature graying. I just call her "Foxy". Foxy was an at home mom like no other. She was a coffee drinking, cigarette smoking, cleaning machine! My mom prepared a home-cooked meal every single night. And we sat down as a family to eat it every. single. night.
I can't stress enough, how hard my parents worked to raise us right, and earn enough money to give us something neither of them had: a college education.
Now, if you will, think back to high school. Identify the worst trouble maker you could imagine...you know, the kid who slammed boxed wine in the locker room after running the mile and 1/2 in PE? The kid who was smoking a big fat doobie out in the school parking lot? The kid who ditched school, not for a day, but for a week at a time, to drink boxed wine and smoke doobies? Name ring a bell?
Well, that WAS NOT me. Yes, I got into a little mischief here and there. But compared to both of my academically gifted brothers, I'm sure my parents were convinced at times, I was the spawn of Satan. I was on my own bus and consequences just didn't mean a damn thing.
I was about 19 when I came home to a horrid discovery: my mom had "cleaned out" my closet. How DARE she?!! Anyone who is between the ages of 13-19 KNOWS, your closet is one place that keep all of the "stuff" you are hiding from your parents. Instead of becoming fearful of what she had found, I was livid that she had violated MY privacy (in HER home)!
Now that I'm a parent, I'd be on the sidelines cheering for my Mom, "Find the goods Carol. Use your keen Foxy senses, like a bloodhound. Smoke em out. Nothing can stop you, Silver Fox!"
Silver Fox (SF): "Michellllle, I cleaned out your closet today."
Me: (unfazed) "Uh-huh."
SF: "Michelllllle, do you know what I found?"
Me: (looking rather annoyed): "I have no idea Mom."
SF: "A bottle of Southern Comfort, a six pack of beer, and some Boone's wine."
Me: "I'm holding those for a friend."
SF: "Well, Michelllle, I found something else. It upsets me. I found a pregnancy test. Are you holding this for a friend?" holding the test out in my direction.
Me: (grabbing it from her) "Nope, that's mine."
OMG... I think back to that day and just cringe. My poor mom. Poor Foxy, I probably took like 22 years off of her life, with one sentence.
My narcissistic/"the world revolves around me" attitude, led me to pursue endeavors my brothers would never partake in (or at least, get caught doing). For example, how to sneak out at night.
Curfew at Midnight? No problem. I would come home, be LOUD enough so my parents knew that I had come home (slam the front door, run the water, flush the toilet). Then I would proceed to creep back out through the kitchen, go through the garage door, and exit through the side gate.
All the while, my girlfriend, who shall remain nameless because her kids are almost old enough to read and comprehend this, would wait...in the dark, in her ultra cool Bronco truck...for me. So that we could go back to our delinquent ways of cruising the El Camino or eating at Denny's.
And so it went like this for a long time: come home at curfew, sneak back out, come back home again after my dad left for work, but before my mom woke up. We're talking about a 30 minute window here. It was all working out better than I had ever dreamed...until one fateful night, or should I say, morning?
I snuck back through the side gate, into the garage, and finally arrived at the kitchen. The only light on was the kitchen stove top. Okay, nothing out of the ordinary.
JUST as I was about to make my way to the hallway, something happened that still haunts me today. Out of the darkness, in the corner of the family room, the Lazy Boy chair slowly swiveled to face me, but I could see no one. I could see nothing...except the dark, crimson embers of the end of Foxy's cigarette. BUSTED!
I don't have to tell you how that ended. Can you say, grounded for life?!
Mom, I just want to take this opportunity to say I am sorry. I was an inconsiderate, selfish, and uncaring butthead. I'm sorry for any angst or worry or frustration that I caused you, 'cause I'm thinking it was a lot. I know payback is a bitch, Mom. That's why God gave me four daughters, huh, Mom? Isn't it? (sobbing like a baby in the fetal position).
Silver Fox (unfazed): "Uh-huh."
My dad, Tom, was a butcher by trade. My dad rose up at 3:30 AM so he could be done with his work day early enough to see my brothers and I after school. My dad worked extra hours on Saturdays, and worked through vacation time to support our family.
My mom, Carol, was a homemaker. You can call her Carol. Or you can call her "The Silver Fox", a nickname she has endearingly earned due to premature graying. I just call her "Foxy". Foxy was an at home mom like no other. She was a coffee drinking, cigarette smoking, cleaning machine! My mom prepared a home-cooked meal every single night. And we sat down as a family to eat it every. single. night.
I can't stress enough, how hard my parents worked to raise us right, and earn enough money to give us something neither of them had: a college education.
Now, if you will, think back to high school. Identify the worst trouble maker you could imagine...you know, the kid who slammed boxed wine in the locker room after running the mile and 1/2 in PE? The kid who was smoking a big fat doobie out in the school parking lot? The kid who ditched school, not for a day, but for a week at a time, to drink boxed wine and smoke doobies? Name ring a bell?
Well, that WAS NOT me. Yes, I got into a little mischief here and there. But compared to both of my academically gifted brothers, I'm sure my parents were convinced at times, I was the spawn of Satan. I was on my own bus and consequences just didn't mean a damn thing.
I was about 19 when I came home to a horrid discovery: my mom had "cleaned out" my closet. How DARE she?!! Anyone who is between the ages of 13-19 KNOWS, your closet is one place that keep all of the "stuff" you are hiding from your parents. Instead of becoming fearful of what she had found, I was livid that she had violated MY privacy (in HER home)!
Now that I'm a parent, I'd be on the sidelines cheering for my Mom, "Find the goods Carol. Use your keen Foxy senses, like a bloodhound. Smoke em out. Nothing can stop you, Silver Fox!"
Silver Fox (SF): "Michellllle, I cleaned out your closet today."
Me: (unfazed) "Uh-huh."
SF: "Michelllllle, do you know what I found?"
Me: (looking rather annoyed): "I have no idea Mom."
SF: "A bottle of Southern Comfort, a six pack of beer, and some Boone's wine."
Me: "I'm holding those for a friend."
SF: "Well, Michelllle, I found something else. It upsets me. I found a pregnancy test. Are you holding this for a friend?" holding the test out in my direction.
Me: (grabbing it from her) "Nope, that's mine."
OMG... I think back to that day and just cringe. My poor mom. Poor Foxy, I probably took like 22 years off of her life, with one sentence.
My narcissistic/"the world revolves around me" attitude, led me to pursue endeavors my brothers would never partake in (or at least, get caught doing). For example, how to sneak out at night.
Curfew at Midnight? No problem. I would come home, be LOUD enough so my parents knew that I had come home (slam the front door, run the water, flush the toilet). Then I would proceed to creep back out through the kitchen, go through the garage door, and exit through the side gate.
All the while, my girlfriend, who shall remain nameless because her kids are almost old enough to read and comprehend this, would wait...in the dark, in her ultra cool Bronco truck...for me. So that we could go back to our delinquent ways of cruising the El Camino or eating at Denny's.
And so it went like this for a long time: come home at curfew, sneak back out, come back home again after my dad left for work, but before my mom woke up. We're talking about a 30 minute window here. It was all working out better than I had ever dreamed...until one fateful night, or should I say, morning?
I snuck back through the side gate, into the garage, and finally arrived at the kitchen. The only light on was the kitchen stove top. Okay, nothing out of the ordinary.
JUST as I was about to make my way to the hallway, something happened that still haunts me today. Out of the darkness, in the corner of the family room, the Lazy Boy chair slowly swiveled to face me, but I could see no one. I could see nothing...except the dark, crimson embers of the end of Foxy's cigarette. BUSTED!
I don't have to tell you how that ended. Can you say, grounded for life?!
Mom, I just want to take this opportunity to say I am sorry. I was an inconsiderate, selfish, and uncaring butthead. I'm sorry for any angst or worry or frustration that I caused you, 'cause I'm thinking it was a lot. I know payback is a bitch, Mom. That's why God gave me four daughters, huh, Mom? Isn't it? (sobbing like a baby in the fetal position).
Silver Fox (unfazed): "Uh-huh."
Monday, March 15, 2010
Bribery
In no way, shape, or form, am I beyond bribing my kids teachers on the first day of school. I need to set the precedent for a good year, you know?
You wouldn't believe how much mileage a Bath and Body works hand soap, in finely wrapped tissue and matching ribbon will give you! I'm not beyond it. And I will gladly say the word bribe loudly: BRIBE! BRIBE the damn teachers, I say!
But why stop there? BRIBE the office staff! How about the Principal? She's fair game! And don't forget the Assistant Principal. I can't say I buy Christmas gifts for all of my family members, but THESE people are NEVER forgotten.
Why, you may ask, do I feel the need to do this? Simply put, I trust these people with my most prized possessions, on a daily basis. From their teachers, to the school librarian, to Mr.Johnny, the custodian, each one has the power to impact my girls in one of two ways: positively...or not.
And so walking into my daughter's 504 evaluation, with warm muffins from my oven, sends a message loud and clear: "I am at your service. I appreciate all that you do. I understand that you are working hard, and I am doing my best to support you at home. I get that the assholes from the School District are threatening to take your job because of test scores." ACK! This is right around the time when I also say I would have brought red wine instead of muffins, but...
I'm not talking anything extravagant. Because that is not really the point at all. Whether it's brownies, or hand soap, or muffins, I just want to make sure I check off that box, you know?
I may be mistaken, but I like to think it makes a little, tiny difference. If I can make that path just a bit more smooth for my kids, why shouldn't I? And if I can show the teachers that I have their back, why shouldn't I?
Do you think bribery is a Mortal sin or a Venial sin? I'll ask Father John the next time I see him. But for now, who cares?! How can something that feels so good, be wrong?
You wouldn't believe how much mileage a Bath and Body works hand soap, in finely wrapped tissue and matching ribbon will give you! I'm not beyond it. And I will gladly say the word bribe loudly: BRIBE! BRIBE the damn teachers, I say!
But why stop there? BRIBE the office staff! How about the Principal? She's fair game! And don't forget the Assistant Principal. I can't say I buy Christmas gifts for all of my family members, but THESE people are NEVER forgotten.
Why, you may ask, do I feel the need to do this? Simply put, I trust these people with my most prized possessions, on a daily basis. From their teachers, to the school librarian, to Mr.Johnny, the custodian, each one has the power to impact my girls in one of two ways: positively...or not.
And so walking into my daughter's 504 evaluation, with warm muffins from my oven, sends a message loud and clear: "I am at your service. I appreciate all that you do. I understand that you are working hard, and I am doing my best to support you at home. I get that the assholes from the School District are threatening to take your job because of test scores." ACK! This is right around the time when I also say I would have brought red wine instead of muffins, but...
I'm not talking anything extravagant. Because that is not really the point at all. Whether it's brownies, or hand soap, or muffins, I just want to make sure I check off that box, you know?
I may be mistaken, but I like to think it makes a little, tiny difference. If I can make that path just a bit more smooth for my kids, why shouldn't I? And if I can show the teachers that I have their back, why shouldn't I?
Do you think bribery is a Mortal sin or a Venial sin? I'll ask Father John the next time I see him. But for now, who cares?! How can something that feels so good, be wrong?
Princesses and Polly Pockets
Polly Pockets are the work of SATAN. Seriously, have you seen these things? The dolls themselves, are smaller than, let's say, your index finger. And so of course, the clothes they wear are even teenier and tinier. When my 4 year old asks for help dressing her Polly Pocket, I have to do one of two things: pretend like I didn't hear her, or start drinking earlier than usual that day.
Having four girls in my house has been, well, interesting. You think, being one of the species myself, I would get this whole Pink/Princess/Polly Pocket obsession. But, in actuality, I'm kind of a Tom Boy at heart.
As a kid, I played with Barbie, but then I would go climb a tree. I doted on my dolls, but then frolicked in the creek catching tadpoles. I was "in touch" with my feminine side, but then played in the mud.
Unlike my girls, I also loved sports from a young age. Imagine my horror, when after signing up the the twins for soccer, I looked on to see them doing Broadway show moves in the backfield, completely oblivious to where the ball was, or gasp, what they would do if the soccer ball actually came towards them.
I guess I just never thought having girls would be... quite like this. My friends who have boys, swear I have it easy. "My boys are so violent. They just GO for each other."
But I beg to differ. Let me tell you what I have to endure on a daily basis, and YOU be the judge.
Dress Up: it starts as early as age 2, and initially, seems quite innocent, even sweeeet. But when your daughter will only answer to the name Cinderella, and refuses to exchange her glass slippers for Crocs to go to the Trader Joe's, THAT is where I draw the line. Not to mention the fact, my kid was just fully clothed 2 seconds ago, but now that the dress up is out, it's like a scene from Girls Gone Wild... underwear optional!
Pink, Purple, OR ANY HUE of those 2 colors: I AM SICK OF THESE COLORS. I want to paint my girls rooms BLACK and BROWN. How bout a Raider's theme? Sounds good! How about WW Wrestling theme? (I don't even know if I spelled that right) YES, sign me up. Anything, anything, ANY color that emanates dirt, and grime.
Drama reenactments, accompanied by full singing recitals: if I have to endure watching my girls act out ONE more scene from the "Barbie the Princess Diamond" or "Barbie and Fairytopia", or "Barbie the Island Princess", I'm gonna jump off the bridge, man. The most important roles (ie: Barbie) usually go to the older girls, of course. While the youngest ends up being the dog or cloud or tree in the scene. I wouldn't mind it so much, if my kids weren't so freaking LOUD. AND if the pink and purple dress up didn't come out! Sometimes they even make invitations for their show, and without my knowledge, INVITE THE NEIGHBORS!
See how rough I have it? I know, it doesn't sound that bad, but seriously, it's like Chinese Water Torture. I'm craving VIOLENCE... I'm jonesing for some rough housing, black eyes, karate chopping, and like my husband did to his 2 brothers, dropping bricks onto their heads just to "see what would happen".
Okay, wait a minute, that might be a bit more than I bargained for. Maybe I should reconsider... But I swear to God, as my witness, as I type this very blog entry, there is a drama reenactment going on down the hallway from "The Sound of Music".
SAVE ME!
Having four girls in my house has been, well, interesting. You think, being one of the species myself, I would get this whole Pink/Princess/Polly Pocket obsession. But, in actuality, I'm kind of a Tom Boy at heart.
As a kid, I played with Barbie, but then I would go climb a tree. I doted on my dolls, but then frolicked in the creek catching tadpoles. I was "in touch" with my feminine side, but then played in the mud.
Unlike my girls, I also loved sports from a young age. Imagine my horror, when after signing up the the twins for soccer, I looked on to see them doing Broadway show moves in the backfield, completely oblivious to where the ball was, or gasp, what they would do if the soccer ball actually came towards them.
I guess I just never thought having girls would be... quite like this. My friends who have boys, swear I have it easy. "My boys are so violent. They just GO for each other."
But I beg to differ. Let me tell you what I have to endure on a daily basis, and YOU be the judge.
Dress Up: it starts as early as age 2, and initially, seems quite innocent, even sweeeet. But when your daughter will only answer to the name Cinderella, and refuses to exchange her glass slippers for Crocs to go to the Trader Joe's, THAT is where I draw the line. Not to mention the fact, my kid was just fully clothed 2 seconds ago, but now that the dress up is out, it's like a scene from Girls Gone Wild... underwear optional!
Pink, Purple, OR ANY HUE of those 2 colors: I AM SICK OF THESE COLORS. I want to paint my girls rooms BLACK and BROWN. How bout a Raider's theme? Sounds good! How about WW Wrestling theme? (I don't even know if I spelled that right) YES, sign me up. Anything, anything, ANY color that emanates dirt, and grime.
Drama reenactments, accompanied by full singing recitals: if I have to endure watching my girls act out ONE more scene from the "Barbie the Princess Diamond" or "Barbie and Fairytopia", or "Barbie the Island Princess", I'm gonna jump off the bridge, man. The most important roles (ie: Barbie) usually go to the older girls, of course. While the youngest ends up being the dog or cloud or tree in the scene. I wouldn't mind it so much, if my kids weren't so freaking LOUD. AND if the pink and purple dress up didn't come out! Sometimes they even make invitations for their show, and without my knowledge, INVITE THE NEIGHBORS!
See how rough I have it? I know, it doesn't sound that bad, but seriously, it's like Chinese Water Torture. I'm craving VIOLENCE... I'm jonesing for some rough housing, black eyes, karate chopping, and like my husband did to his 2 brothers, dropping bricks onto their heads just to "see what would happen".
Okay, wait a minute, that might be a bit more than I bargained for. Maybe I should reconsider... But I swear to God, as my witness, as I type this very blog entry, there is a drama reenactment going on down the hallway from "The Sound of Music".
SAVE ME!
Friday, March 12, 2010
I'm an Angry Catholic
No, that title doesn't sound quite right. I'm a questioning Catholic. And Lordy, Lordy, have I got a lot of them! In fact, our priest calls me "The Interrogator".
You know you are in a Catholic home, when there's a cross over every doorway, and a picture of Jesus, Joseph, Mary, The Pope, or Mother Theresa in every room.
My parents gave all three of us kids a strong Catholic foundation: going to mass every week, dropping a few bucks in the collection plate, enduring the eternal, and never ending boredom of CCD, celebrating the sacraments, etc. Honestly, I find comfort in a lot of the symbolism in my faith: the two Mary's (who totally rocked it back then), the angels and Archangels, and of course, JC, himself.
I grew up a "Cradle Catholic", and received the Sacraments on a pretty timely basis: got baptized as a babe (thanks Mom and Dad), had my First Confession at age 8 (SERIOUSLY, sins at age 8?), went through Confirmation at age 15 (when you actually declare you WANT to be a Catholic, VS going to mass at gunpoint, with your family...KIDDING Mom and Dad), and finally, was married in the Catholic Church.
I learned the rote prayers growing up: The Our Father, The Hail Mary. But I was never really taught HOW to talk to God. You know, just like, have a conversation with the Big Man. "Hey God, I'm feeling really overwhelmed down here right now. Do you think you could possibly hook me up with more alcohol, less children, or possibly both?"
I knew I was in over my head, when after deciding to give our girls the same Catholic foundation my husband and I grew up with, I started to question my faith BIGtime. As a child, I just blindly followed the religion.
But now as a parent, I started having all of these questions. Right before the twins were about to make their first confession, I set up a special meeting to talk to our Priest, Father John (think Thorn Birds). Our conversation went as follows:
Me: John, (contrary to popular belief, you can call a priest by his first name... cool, huh?) I'm not exactly down with the whole Confession thing. WHY do we have to come confess to YOU, instead of just going to God?
Father John: Gives full explanation which I won't bore you with here.
Me: Okay John, well, do you know the LAST time I went to Confession? About THIRTY years ago, when I made MY First (and last) Confession! I mean, what could I possibly have to confess? (notice the golden halo above my head)
Father John: (handing me a list of Mortal/Venial sins to help me refresh the ways that I have sinned for the last 3 decades) Here, this should help.
Me: Okay, I've done #2,7,9,33. Okay, but #41? Masturbation, John? Come on John! Come on! Seriously, John? MASTURBATION is a SIN?!!!
Father John: It's a VENIAL sin, not a mortal sin.
Me: Thanks for the clarification...you're killing me here, John.
After Father John talked me off my high horse, I began to realize that yes, I have most definitely sinned...A LOT. So I bit the bullet. I humbled myself, and had the second confession of my life right there in his office.
Not in some little dark room, with a curtain covering my face in shame. I guess after screaming out the word MASTURBATION at least 3 times, it was safe to assume, we might have well just do the deed face to face.
Poor Father John. I still think back to that day, wondering how I didn't scare the hell out of him. But I think he actually liked it. He liked my passion, and my brutal honesty, and he liked my questions. I am still not totally convinced about Confession, but I try to remain "open" to the possibility of an act that may make me a better person, ya dig?
As my third daughter prepares to go make her First Confession, I've come to a place in my life, where I feel at peace. I like to think of myself as 10% Catholic, and 90% Spiritual. What does that mean, you ask? I am open to all religions...to the teachings of all Ascended Masters... to what works to bring peace and harmony for everyone, everywhere, around the planet.
JC is the dude for me, but if Buddha works for you, I am totally down with that. What upsets me off beyond words, are the "Christians" who condemn others by declaring, "If you don't believe in the Lord, Jesus Christ, as your personal savior, you will burn in the eternal pits of Hell!"
Or what about if, GASP, here I go, I'm gonna say it...you are a HOMESEXUAL?! Well, then, that's just a no stops, guarantee that you will be meeting Satan face to face.
Really? Seriously? Self-righteous, FEARFUL, "Christians", you really believe that? It's at this point, I have to physically hold back from throttling these hypocrites around the neck...don't think my main man, Jesus, would approve of THAT behavior.
You know what I believe? A loving God (or energy, or higher power, or whatever you choose to call it) doesn't judge, and loves unconditionally. Even when we mess up. Even when we aren't loving. Even when we are struggling to make the right decisions.
In the end, this is the God I believe in. And whether he's Catholic, or Christian, or Buddhist, really doesn't matter one lick! It's who I am as a person, and what I do while I am here, that REALLY matters.
So I try, but I struggle, And I question. But I'm okay with it. Because I have felt the presence of God. I see God everyday when I look at my precious girls. And I feel God everyday when my husband loves me unconditionally, with all of my countless flaws. I have experienced the miracles of God on so many levels.
We are ALL worthy of love. And so I try to "check myself" pretty regularly: Am I loving myself right now? As much as I should? As much as God does? Are the words I say about myself and others the same words the Big Man would use? Am I loving others openly? Completely? Vulnerably? I strive for it...but am far from perfection.
You know you are in a Catholic home, when there's a cross over every doorway, and a picture of Jesus, Joseph, Mary, The Pope, or Mother Theresa in every room.
My parents gave all three of us kids a strong Catholic foundation: going to mass every week, dropping a few bucks in the collection plate, enduring the eternal, and never ending boredom of CCD, celebrating the sacraments, etc. Honestly, I find comfort in a lot of the symbolism in my faith: the two Mary's (who totally rocked it back then), the angels and Archangels, and of course, JC, himself.
I grew up a "Cradle Catholic", and received the Sacraments on a pretty timely basis: got baptized as a babe (thanks Mom and Dad), had my First Confession at age 8 (SERIOUSLY, sins at age 8?), went through Confirmation at age 15 (when you actually declare you WANT to be a Catholic, VS going to mass at gunpoint, with your family...KIDDING Mom and Dad), and finally, was married in the Catholic Church.
I learned the rote prayers growing up: The Our Father, The Hail Mary. But I was never really taught HOW to talk to God. You know, just like, have a conversation with the Big Man. "Hey God, I'm feeling really overwhelmed down here right now. Do you think you could possibly hook me up with more alcohol, less children, or possibly both?"
I knew I was in over my head, when after deciding to give our girls the same Catholic foundation my husband and I grew up with, I started to question my faith BIGtime. As a child, I just blindly followed the religion.
But now as a parent, I started having all of these questions. Right before the twins were about to make their first confession, I set up a special meeting to talk to our Priest, Father John (think Thorn Birds). Our conversation went as follows:
Me: John, (contrary to popular belief, you can call a priest by his first name... cool, huh?) I'm not exactly down with the whole Confession thing. WHY do we have to come confess to YOU, instead of just going to God?
Father John: Gives full explanation which I won't bore you with here.
Me: Okay John, well, do you know the LAST time I went to Confession? About THIRTY years ago, when I made MY First (and last) Confession! I mean, what could I possibly have to confess? (notice the golden halo above my head)
Father John: (handing me a list of Mortal/Venial sins to help me refresh the ways that I have sinned for the last 3 decades) Here, this should help.
Me: Okay, I've done #2,7,9,33. Okay, but #41? Masturbation, John? Come on John! Come on! Seriously, John? MASTURBATION is a SIN?!!!
Father John: It's a VENIAL sin, not a mortal sin.
Me: Thanks for the clarification...you're killing me here, John.
After Father John talked me off my high horse, I began to realize that yes, I have most definitely sinned...A LOT. So I bit the bullet. I humbled myself, and had the second confession of my life right there in his office.
Not in some little dark room, with a curtain covering my face in shame. I guess after screaming out the word MASTURBATION at least 3 times, it was safe to assume, we might have well just do the deed face to face.
Poor Father John. I still think back to that day, wondering how I didn't scare the hell out of him. But I think he actually liked it. He liked my passion, and my brutal honesty, and he liked my questions. I am still not totally convinced about Confession, but I try to remain "open" to the possibility of an act that may make me a better person, ya dig?
As my third daughter prepares to go make her First Confession, I've come to a place in my life, where I feel at peace. I like to think of myself as 10% Catholic, and 90% Spiritual. What does that mean, you ask? I am open to all religions...to the teachings of all Ascended Masters... to what works to bring peace and harmony for everyone, everywhere, around the planet.
JC is the dude for me, but if Buddha works for you, I am totally down with that. What upsets me off beyond words, are the "Christians" who condemn others by declaring, "If you don't believe in the Lord, Jesus Christ, as your personal savior, you will burn in the eternal pits of Hell!"
Or what about if, GASP, here I go, I'm gonna say it...you are a HOMESEXUAL?! Well, then, that's just a no stops, guarantee that you will be meeting Satan face to face.
Really? Seriously? Self-righteous, FEARFUL, "Christians", you really believe that? It's at this point, I have to physically hold back from throttling these hypocrites around the neck...don't think my main man, Jesus, would approve of THAT behavior.
You know what I believe? A loving God (or energy, or higher power, or whatever you choose to call it) doesn't judge, and loves unconditionally. Even when we mess up. Even when we aren't loving. Even when we are struggling to make the right decisions.
In the end, this is the God I believe in. And whether he's Catholic, or Christian, or Buddhist, really doesn't matter one lick! It's who I am as a person, and what I do while I am here, that REALLY matters.
So I try, but I struggle, And I question. But I'm okay with it. Because I have felt the presence of God. I see God everyday when I look at my precious girls. And I feel God everyday when my husband loves me unconditionally, with all of my countless flaws. I have experienced the miracles of God on so many levels.
We are ALL worthy of love. And so I try to "check myself" pretty regularly: Am I loving myself right now? As much as I should? As much as God does? Are the words I say about myself and others the same words the Big Man would use? Am I loving others openly? Completely? Vulnerably? I strive for it...but am far from perfection.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Dope Smoke and Concerts Go Hand in Hand
Oh, the joy of paying way too much money to see a musical artist that you love. We've all done it. In our younger years, late teens to early 20's, we sat on the lawn at Shoreline...with all the other dope smokers. Or high up in the nosebleed sections... with all the other dope smokers. Now, being older, and just plain stupid, we pay more money for a seat, so we can view the artist on the Jumbo Tron, a bit closer than if we were sitting farther away.
When the smell of dope drifts to our "better" seats, we look back at the potheads with the longing and yearning of our youth. Now, it's just a few cold Coors Lites, and we're, yaaawn, on our way home to go beddy bye after the show. Gone are the irresponsible days of dope smoken'. Not that I EVER engaged, or as Bill so eloquently stated, "inhaled".
I've been to some kick-ass concerts in my 37 years on this planet. Some very memorable, some, not so much. In chronological order, they go as follows:
First concert ever in her prime: Whitney Houston. How should I Knoooow if he really loves me? If his name isn't Bobby.
Milli Vanilli: WTF? These two yahoos won a Grammy, and then uh-oh, we all found out they were not singing at all! (Auntie...rebuttal?)
B-52's: Bang, bang, bang, on the door ba-by!
Genesis: when Phil Collins still had hair.
James Taylor: grew up listening to him because both my dad and bro played guitar. So I have a weird attraction / comforting feeling towards this folk-singer rock star.
John Denver: at 16 years old, without a doubt, I was the youngest paying concert goer in the stadium... Rocky Mountain High, hiiiiii, Coloradooooo. Even though he has passed, I still absolutely LOVE this man! He totally rocked "Grandma's Feather Bed".
Tom Petty: I have NEVER in all my life, seen, smelled or experienced so much marijuana in one place... Greek Theater in Berkeley, 'nuff said. Stevie Nicks joined him half way through the show...
Dixie Chicks: almost got in a fight, when a rather stupid, drunk woman, (not me) put her hands on my shoulders, because I was (gasp) dancing. She yelled "SIT DOWN, YOU TALL ASS BITCH." My daughter, Katie, recalls me going all "Tyra Banks" on her... let's suffice it to say that my 5 inch stilettos stayed on my feet, and were not used as weapons. Way to stay in control, Michelle.
Huey Lewis AND the News: why, oh why, are we convinced that singers who rocked it in the 80's, will still be as hot, like now? It's Hip to Be Square.
Rascal Flatts: SUCKED!
Aerosmith: saw these guys twice, don't remember much of either show.
Keith Urban with Carrie Underwood: This Aussie man just knows how to make me swooooon. Move over Nicole, your husband is SO my boyfriend.
Toby Keith: the epitome of an America lovin', cowboy hat wearin', scruffy country boy. He was good, at least what I remember.
Alan Jackson: This concert stands out for 2 reasons: First, after being approached by one of AJ's "people", my girlfriend, Erin and I, were comped FRONT ROW TICKETS...note to self, short miniskirt really does work to my benefit. Secondly, after having several cocktails, Erin was just convinced that she NEEDED to get up on that stage with AJ... and so being a loyal friend, I alley-ooped her ass up there. THAT SIGHT WAS AWESOME...until I realized we were both probably going to jail. Nope, after Erin helped AJ sing a bit, security escorted her BACK TO HER SEAT!!!! How cool is that? No cuffs, no reprimands, just "Enjoy the rest of the show ma'm". HELL YEAH, that's what I'm talken' about.
And finally, the moment you've all been waiting for. My most recent concert that I enjoyed, (partially enjoyed, rather), was put on by the ONE, the ONLY, the very ANGRY... PINK! Let me clarify, by saying that I did not get arrested, simply, removed from the venue. An entire blog will be devoted to my girl at a later time.
Hope you did some concert reminiscing yourself. Feel free to share your favorite show that you have ever been to / gotten kicked out of!
When the smell of dope drifts to our "better" seats, we look back at the potheads with the longing and yearning of our youth. Now, it's just a few cold Coors Lites, and we're, yaaawn, on our way home to go beddy bye after the show. Gone are the irresponsible days of dope smoken'. Not that I EVER engaged, or as Bill so eloquently stated, "inhaled".
I've been to some kick-ass concerts in my 37 years on this planet. Some very memorable, some, not so much. In chronological order, they go as follows:
First concert ever in her prime: Whitney Houston. How should I Knoooow if he really loves me? If his name isn't Bobby.
Milli Vanilli: WTF? These two yahoos won a Grammy, and then uh-oh, we all found out they were not singing at all! (Auntie...rebuttal?)
B-52's: Bang, bang, bang, on the door ba-by!
Genesis: when Phil Collins still had hair.
James Taylor: grew up listening to him because both my dad and bro played guitar. So I have a weird attraction / comforting feeling towards this folk-singer rock star.
John Denver: at 16 years old, without a doubt, I was the youngest paying concert goer in the stadium... Rocky Mountain High, hiiiiii, Coloradooooo. Even though he has passed, I still absolutely LOVE this man! He totally rocked "Grandma's Feather Bed".
Tom Petty: I have NEVER in all my life, seen, smelled or experienced so much marijuana in one place... Greek Theater in Berkeley, 'nuff said. Stevie Nicks joined him half way through the show...
Dixie Chicks: almost got in a fight, when a rather stupid, drunk woman, (not me) put her hands on my shoulders, because I was (gasp) dancing. She yelled "SIT DOWN, YOU TALL ASS BITCH." My daughter, Katie, recalls me going all "Tyra Banks" on her... let's suffice it to say that my 5 inch stilettos stayed on my feet, and were not used as weapons. Way to stay in control, Michelle.
Huey Lewis AND the News: why, oh why, are we convinced that singers who rocked it in the 80's, will still be as hot, like now? It's Hip to Be Square.
Rascal Flatts: SUCKED!
Aerosmith: saw these guys twice, don't remember much of either show.
Keith Urban with Carrie Underwood: This Aussie man just knows how to make me swooooon. Move over Nicole, your husband is SO my boyfriend.
Toby Keith: the epitome of an America lovin', cowboy hat wearin', scruffy country boy. He was good, at least what I remember.
Alan Jackson: This concert stands out for 2 reasons: First, after being approached by one of AJ's "people", my girlfriend, Erin and I, were comped FRONT ROW TICKETS...note to self, short miniskirt really does work to my benefit. Secondly, after having several cocktails, Erin was just convinced that she NEEDED to get up on that stage with AJ... and so being a loyal friend, I alley-ooped her ass up there. THAT SIGHT WAS AWESOME...until I realized we were both probably going to jail. Nope, after Erin helped AJ sing a bit, security escorted her BACK TO HER SEAT!!!! How cool is that? No cuffs, no reprimands, just "Enjoy the rest of the show ma'm". HELL YEAH, that's what I'm talken' about.
And finally, the moment you've all been waiting for. My most recent concert that I enjoyed, (partially enjoyed, rather), was put on by the ONE, the ONLY, the very ANGRY... PINK! Let me clarify, by saying that I did not get arrested, simply, removed from the venue. An entire blog will be devoted to my girl at a later time.
Hope you did some concert reminiscing yourself. Feel free to share your favorite show that you have ever been to / gotten kicked out of!
Monday, March 8, 2010
It's the Little Things
I am a rather simple creature. Yes, I may have a potty mouth, and often, will tell you my opinion, even if you didn't ask for it. But all in all, probably just like you, it's the little things in life that bring me the most joy. For example:
Ulta catalogs that come in the mail, and have a $3.50 coupon off of $10.00 purchase. Sweeeet Jesus. If you haven't heard of Ulta, I'll sum it up by saying it's a mix of a high end Rite-Aid, and Sephora, all rolled into one. I can buy my Oil of Olay, AND my Bare Minerals all in one place. Throw a coupon in there, and it's SO on.
The slightly, slimy, gritty, feeling after a full day at the beach. It's a smelly combination of salty sea air, ocean water, and pure body odor. My hubby loves it, and so do I frankly, because no make up is needed, due to my rosy (sunburned) glow.
OPI nail polish. My fav right now is "Mad As A Hatter", because it's my right to sparkle god dammit.
Purchasing my Saucony running shoes in size 12 for 50 bucks! I used to have to "special order" my Sasquatch skis from a "special" running store, and it would run me 120 bones. FYI "special order" is code for: small elves in a faraway land will be making those shoes just as soon as we gather about 10,000,000 of them in one place, cause your feet are FING HUGE!!!!! They may be ready in one week, or one year... we just don't know. Off Broadway Shoes at The Plant has my enormous size 12 Saucony's anytime I want...I likey.
New music on my shuffle. Nothing like a little Lady GaGa to inspire me "I'm kinda busy.. kinda busy. Sorry can't text ya with a drink in my hand, hand." I don't even really know if those are the lyrics or not...but is that really important?
Speaking of music, the new Carrie Underwood song, titled, "Temporary Home". The part about the old man, about to die, and he says he sees God's face, gets me balling like a baby every time. I'm surprised I haven't crashed my car into a side rail yet...
Going to work at Weight Watchers. You think I'm kidding? Come to my meeting and check out the amazing people that I am so blessed to "lead". The fact that I'm called the leader is a joke, because really, they are leading ME. It's a disco ball/keg party type of atmosphere, (without the disco ball, or keg, sadly). But FUN all the same.
Snoozing children, with creased pillow case marks on their foreheads, and drool running down their chin.
Snugly children that caress my neck and arms gently as I wake up in the morning, right before they yell into my face, "WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST??? GET UP!"
Appreciative children who shower me with comments like, "Thanks mom, for making us dinner. Thanks Mom for going grocery shopping. Thanks mom for not getting arrested at the Pink concert."
The Santa Cruz Redwoods... the sweet smell of earth, banana slugs, colorful mushrooms, flowing water...and the protective feeling I get from those trees, some thousands of years old. It's unexplainable. I feel safe, comforted, and like I have a teeny, tiny glimpse of what God sees on a daily basis.
Sometimes, I find myself getting caught up in the daily grind...homework (eww), going to Costco (again?), making dinner (ugh)...I start to feel overwhelmed and unappreciated, like a teapot about to boil over. So I'm working really hard on remembering to be "in the moment", and appreciate the countless blessings that are RIGHT in my life.
And if the $3.50 Ulta coupon does it for me, then so be it! Carpe Diem, baby.
Ulta catalogs that come in the mail, and have a $3.50 coupon off of $10.00 purchase. Sweeeet Jesus. If you haven't heard of Ulta, I'll sum it up by saying it's a mix of a high end Rite-Aid, and Sephora, all rolled into one. I can buy my Oil of Olay, AND my Bare Minerals all in one place. Throw a coupon in there, and it's SO on.
The slightly, slimy, gritty, feeling after a full day at the beach. It's a smelly combination of salty sea air, ocean water, and pure body odor. My hubby loves it, and so do I frankly, because no make up is needed, due to my rosy (sunburned) glow.
OPI nail polish. My fav right now is "Mad As A Hatter", because it's my right to sparkle god dammit.
Purchasing my Saucony running shoes in size 12 for 50 bucks! I used to have to "special order" my Sasquatch skis from a "special" running store, and it would run me 120 bones. FYI "special order" is code for: small elves in a faraway land will be making those shoes just as soon as we gather about 10,000,000 of them in one place, cause your feet are FING HUGE!!!!! They may be ready in one week, or one year... we just don't know. Off Broadway Shoes at The Plant has my enormous size 12 Saucony's anytime I want...I likey.
New music on my shuffle. Nothing like a little Lady GaGa to inspire me "I'm kinda busy.. kinda busy. Sorry can't text ya with a drink in my hand, hand." I don't even really know if those are the lyrics or not...but is that really important?
Speaking of music, the new Carrie Underwood song, titled, "Temporary Home". The part about the old man, about to die, and he says he sees God's face, gets me balling like a baby every time. I'm surprised I haven't crashed my car into a side rail yet...
Going to work at Weight Watchers. You think I'm kidding? Come to my meeting and check out the amazing people that I am so blessed to "lead". The fact that I'm called the leader is a joke, because really, they are leading ME. It's a disco ball/keg party type of atmosphere, (without the disco ball, or keg, sadly). But FUN all the same.
Snoozing children, with creased pillow case marks on their foreheads, and drool running down their chin.
Snugly children that caress my neck and arms gently as I wake up in the morning, right before they yell into my face, "WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST??? GET UP!"
Appreciative children who shower me with comments like, "Thanks mom, for making us dinner. Thanks Mom for going grocery shopping. Thanks mom for not getting arrested at the Pink concert."
The Santa Cruz Redwoods... the sweet smell of earth, banana slugs, colorful mushrooms, flowing water...and the protective feeling I get from those trees, some thousands of years old. It's unexplainable. I feel safe, comforted, and like I have a teeny, tiny glimpse of what God sees on a daily basis.
Sometimes, I find myself getting caught up in the daily grind...homework (eww), going to Costco (again?), making dinner (ugh)...I start to feel overwhelmed and unappreciated, like a teapot about to boil over. So I'm working really hard on remembering to be "in the moment", and appreciate the countless blessings that are RIGHT in my life.
And if the $3.50 Ulta coupon does it for me, then so be it! Carpe Diem, baby.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Parenthood: Pure, Hard Core Survival Skills
My mom chased me around the house and smacked my butt with a wooden spoon, and I turned out all right. I'll never forget the day when that wooden spoon broke on my ass, and I started laughing, thinking that was just heeeelarious: she straight went for the METAL spoon, and I ran like the wind.
Anyone who has kids knows it's US against THEM. I am certainly not promoting the "Children are to be seen, and not heard" motto. Although, most days that sounds really appealing. I'm just stating the truth. When you have kids, it's all about survival.
Life was waaaay different BK (Before Kids) For example:
BK - Problem: All milk in the home has been consumed. Solution: Go to Safeway and take your leisurely ass time getting there. Maybe even stop to have the car washed and detailed. Get to the grocery, put some milk in your cart, check out the items on special, and actually compare prices to save money. Finally, stop to read People magazine, so that you can be up to date on REALLY important current events: Like how Bobby hit Whitney, and she just ain't having it.
AK (After Kids). Problem: All milk in the home has been consumed. Solution: That is just too damn bad. Everyone is gonna have to drink water, or V-8 juice, or Vodka... ANYthing, so you don't have to pack them all up to go to the grocery store.
Being the blessed mama of 4 girls, I have come up with the following list of parenting guidelines to ensure that life runs as smoothly as possible. (ha,ha,ha)
1. Children WILL behave while out in public. Not because I bribe them with an Avatar action figure, Snickers bar, or trip to Disneyland when we're done grocery shopping. The precedent is simply this: my girls will behave while we're out. I'm not saying that my girls are angels... no way. But I refuse to bribe them with a material object so that they will "behave". That realm of thinking is SO putting the child in control. And anyone who knows me, understands that there is only room for ONE control freak in my house, thank you very much.
2. Before yelling, or chasing, or smacking your kids with a wooden spoon, CLOSE ALL OF YOUR WINDOWS. This will ensure that your neighbors won't call CPS on you.
3. Happy Hour begins any damn time I feel like it will help me be a better parent. Sometimes it starts at 6pm, but some days it starts at 3pm. I'm okay with it; aren't you?
4. Look at each of your children as individuals. Just because each child has the same up-bringing, doesn't mean that the consequences/disciplinary strategies that worked with #1, will work with #2, #3, or #4. Example: Cosette, my fourth child, has been given the nickname of "No Boundaries", because seriously, she has NONE. You would think that by the time you get to #4, I would have this whole parenting thing down, huh? Wrong-a-mondo. Each child that comes into our lives, is here to teach us something different. Cosette has taught me FEAR.
5. Be active WITH your children. I don't mean just watching them participate in a sport, but actually DO an activity with them. Our Saturday mornings usually go like this:
Girls: "Mom, what are we doing today?"
Me: "We're going on a really cool hike."
Girls: (collectively and really loudly) "Ohhhhh Mom, we don't WANT to go on a hike!"
Me: (shutting the window): "DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE THAT YOU HAVE A MOM THAT WANTS TO TAKE YOU ON A HIKE? DO YOU? DO YOU? DOOOO YOOOOOUUUU?!!!"
Most of the time, my girls will fight me on this. But always, we are ALL so much better after we get out, and move our bodies together. I want my girls to realize and own how STRONG they are. It is my hope, one day they will thank me for it... but I'm not holding my breath.
6. Unless you are bleeding profusely, do not ask me for a band-aid.
7. It's okay to say NO. Having four, I just automatically learned to say no. "Mom, can I just have one cupcake?"..."NO". "Mom, can I go see the neighbors with the chickens who are down the street, out of your eyesight?"..."NO". "Mom, can I trade you a People magazine for a bag of marshmellows?"..."Maybe." Remember, always allow for flexibility.
8. Let your kids be problem solvers. You know the scene: one of your kids has viciously snatched Barbie from the hands of another, and the screaming and ranting begins. "MOOOOOOOMMMMM!!! She......." In a monotone, unemotional voice, I say, "Work it out." Then I go back to drinking my glass of wine and reading People. I DO NOT get involved, partly because I'm just too lazy, but mostly because I want my girls to be able to solve their own problems.
9. Remember to snuggle. This one speaks for itself.
10. Gently remind yourself each day, that you ARE doing a good job of parenting.
Hey man, this job doesn't come with a handbook. Some days I feel confident in my parenting ability. But other days, I'm just convinced that twenty years from now, my girls will be sitting on some counselor's couch because I messed them up. However it plays out, I feel blessed beyond words that God has given me the opportunity to be their mama. I am humbled daily that I get to help mold these little people so that one day, they too, will go out and make their mark on the world.
Anyone who has kids knows it's US against THEM. I am certainly not promoting the "Children are to be seen, and not heard" motto. Although, most days that sounds really appealing. I'm just stating the truth. When you have kids, it's all about survival.
Life was waaaay different BK (Before Kids) For example:
BK - Problem: All milk in the home has been consumed. Solution: Go to Safeway and take your leisurely ass time getting there. Maybe even stop to have the car washed and detailed. Get to the grocery, put some milk in your cart, check out the items on special, and actually compare prices to save money. Finally, stop to read People magazine, so that you can be up to date on REALLY important current events: Like how Bobby hit Whitney, and she just ain't having it.
AK (After Kids). Problem: All milk in the home has been consumed. Solution: That is just too damn bad. Everyone is gonna have to drink water, or V-8 juice, or Vodka... ANYthing, so you don't have to pack them all up to go to the grocery store.
Being the blessed mama of 4 girls, I have come up with the following list of parenting guidelines to ensure that life runs as smoothly as possible. (ha,ha,ha)
1. Children WILL behave while out in public. Not because I bribe them with an Avatar action figure, Snickers bar, or trip to Disneyland when we're done grocery shopping. The precedent is simply this: my girls will behave while we're out. I'm not saying that my girls are angels... no way. But I refuse to bribe them with a material object so that they will "behave". That realm of thinking is SO putting the child in control. And anyone who knows me, understands that there is only room for ONE control freak in my house, thank you very much.
2. Before yelling, or chasing, or smacking your kids with a wooden spoon, CLOSE ALL OF YOUR WINDOWS. This will ensure that your neighbors won't call CPS on you.
3. Happy Hour begins any damn time I feel like it will help me be a better parent. Sometimes it starts at 6pm, but some days it starts at 3pm. I'm okay with it; aren't you?
4. Look at each of your children as individuals. Just because each child has the same up-bringing, doesn't mean that the consequences/disciplinary strategies that worked with #1, will work with #2, #3, or #4. Example: Cosette, my fourth child, has been given the nickname of "No Boundaries", because seriously, she has NONE. You would think that by the time you get to #4, I would have this whole parenting thing down, huh? Wrong-a-mondo. Each child that comes into our lives, is here to teach us something different. Cosette has taught me FEAR.
5. Be active WITH your children. I don't mean just watching them participate in a sport, but actually DO an activity with them. Our Saturday mornings usually go like this:
Girls: "Mom, what are we doing today?"
Me: "We're going on a really cool hike."
Girls: (collectively and really loudly) "Ohhhhh Mom, we don't WANT to go on a hike!"
Me: (shutting the window): "DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE THAT YOU HAVE A MOM THAT WANTS TO TAKE YOU ON A HIKE? DO YOU? DO YOU? DOOOO YOOOOOUUUU?!!!"
Most of the time, my girls will fight me on this. But always, we are ALL so much better after we get out, and move our bodies together. I want my girls to realize and own how STRONG they are. It is my hope, one day they will thank me for it... but I'm not holding my breath.
6. Unless you are bleeding profusely, do not ask me for a band-aid.
7. It's okay to say NO. Having four, I just automatically learned to say no. "Mom, can I just have one cupcake?"..."NO". "Mom, can I go see the neighbors with the chickens who are down the street, out of your eyesight?"..."NO". "Mom, can I trade you a People magazine for a bag of marshmellows?"..."Maybe." Remember, always allow for flexibility.
8. Let your kids be problem solvers. You know the scene: one of your kids has viciously snatched Barbie from the hands of another, and the screaming and ranting begins. "MOOOOOOOMMMMM!!! She......." In a monotone, unemotional voice, I say, "Work it out." Then I go back to drinking my glass of wine and reading People. I DO NOT get involved, partly because I'm just too lazy, but mostly because I want my girls to be able to solve their own problems.
9. Remember to snuggle. This one speaks for itself.
10. Gently remind yourself each day, that you ARE doing a good job of parenting.
Hey man, this job doesn't come with a handbook. Some days I feel confident in my parenting ability. But other days, I'm just convinced that twenty years from now, my girls will be sitting on some counselor's couch because I messed them up. However it plays out, I feel blessed beyond words that God has given me the opportunity to be their mama. I am humbled daily that I get to help mold these little people so that one day, they too, will go out and make their mark on the world.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Therapy 101
My motto is "If you're not in therapy, there's something wrong with you."
I understand this is not the "norm", but I'm all about growth people, digging deep, and living large. What is the point in this journey we call life, if we're not living it with the full intention to be our best while we are here? What's up with "just going through the motions"? I'm not saying that I wake up everyday, springing out of bed, singing to the heavens...but I'm just sayen.
My journey with therapy began after I lost over 110 pounds. I was 30 years old, with 3 healthy, beautiful little girls, an amazing husband, and yet, something was off. I wasn't truly happy. I had lost all this weight, I had this amazing life... now what? Why aren't I happy? Aren't I supposed to be happy? Well, I'm not happy dammit, so what the hell is wrong with me?
Almost immediately,I became distinctly aware of something huge. Oprah would call this an "A-HA" moment. In our society, we are constantly bombarded with body objectification. It comes in all forms: toys, magazines, radio, movies, and TV. And it starts young. Exhibit A: Barbie. That damn whore. She's the one who put me IN therapy. Even now, I have a hard time, handing Barbies to my girls, because my internal mind is saying, "Here you go honey. Play with Barbie. An unobtainable image of something you could NEVER look like. Go ahead, have fun now."
I mean, haven't you ever been mindlessly flipping through the TV, when suddenly, you stop dead in your tracks, because you think you've stumbled upon the adult porn channel? Remembering you don't pay for that channel, you realize it's just a commercial for KFC, with a woman's luscious, red lips devouring a drumstick, while she licks her mouth, and moans? She has no body, she has no head, she's a MOUTH. She's a mouth eating a drumstick in a very sexual manner. They are not selling drumsticks; they are selling SEX.
Or how about a magazine ad "selling a purse." It may look kind of like this: a woman's body, with her legs spread, in some sexual position, with no head, no face, NO WORTH. Just legs, and breasts, and if you look REALLY hard, the purse will be in the ad somewhere... maybe. If you don't believe me, the next time you're in line at the grocery store, pull down a Cosmo, and check it out. SCARY!!!
As young girls, tweens, and teens, we are bombarded with it...constantly. "Must look a certain way to be accepted." Forget that the model you're looking at is 6 feet tall, weighs 115 pounds, and is photo-shopped beyond belief. She doesn't exist because she isn't REAL. And with YouTube, the Internet, and Facebook, young teens have the ability to bully others on a level that my generation never had to worry about. But my daughters will.
I'm going out on a ledge here when I say, I believe it affects boys differently. They grow up thinking, women are sexual dynamos, who should and will be ready at all times, to get it on. Or at least, LOOK like they're ready to get it on.
How did I handle my own insecurities growing up? I dove into sports, and school activities with wild abandon because that made me "feel good." But when that wasn't enough anymore, and my self-esteem began to plummet, I thought bulimia was a better option. I am appalled when I think back to that time in my life... I really believed that sticking my finger down my throat was a better option than accepting myself.
Well, let me tell you something: learning to love myself completely took A LOT of time, patience, and thousands of dollars in counseling :) But I have vowed to NEVER go back.
I am done beating myself up. I am done with thinking I'm not good enough. I am done thinking all people need to like me...I'm not saying there still aren't days that I struggle, because I do.
I'm saying that celebrating my body for what it can DO, and not solely for what it LOOKS like
is FREEING!
The saggy little boobies that I have now? Hey, those boobies breast fed four amazing babies. The muffin top that is lined with silver stretchmarks, reaching from my buttocks to my neck? Hey man, I worked hard for those. I don't want some plastic surgeon to "erase" what I've accomplished.
The most important nugget of "self-discovery" that I have learned in this therapeutic process is this: accepting myself for all of my natural gifts is really easy. But loving and accepting myself for all of my flaws and imperfections is MUCH harder, but SO worth it!
We are ALL perfectly flawed.
I understand this is not the "norm", but I'm all about growth people, digging deep, and living large. What is the point in this journey we call life, if we're not living it with the full intention to be our best while we are here? What's up with "just going through the motions"? I'm not saying that I wake up everyday, springing out of bed, singing to the heavens...but I'm just sayen.
My journey with therapy began after I lost over 110 pounds. I was 30 years old, with 3 healthy, beautiful little girls, an amazing husband, and yet, something was off. I wasn't truly happy. I had lost all this weight, I had this amazing life... now what? Why aren't I happy? Aren't I supposed to be happy? Well, I'm not happy dammit, so what the hell is wrong with me?
Almost immediately,I became distinctly aware of something huge. Oprah would call this an "A-HA" moment. In our society, we are constantly bombarded with body objectification. It comes in all forms: toys, magazines, radio, movies, and TV. And it starts young. Exhibit A: Barbie. That damn whore. She's the one who put me IN therapy. Even now, I have a hard time, handing Barbies to my girls, because my internal mind is saying, "Here you go honey. Play with Barbie. An unobtainable image of something you could NEVER look like. Go ahead, have fun now."
I mean, haven't you ever been mindlessly flipping through the TV, when suddenly, you stop dead in your tracks, because you think you've stumbled upon the adult porn channel? Remembering you don't pay for that channel, you realize it's just a commercial for KFC, with a woman's luscious, red lips devouring a drumstick, while she licks her mouth, and moans? She has no body, she has no head, she's a MOUTH. She's a mouth eating a drumstick in a very sexual manner. They are not selling drumsticks; they are selling SEX.
Or how about a magazine ad "selling a purse." It may look kind of like this: a woman's body, with her legs spread, in some sexual position, with no head, no face, NO WORTH. Just legs, and breasts, and if you look REALLY hard, the purse will be in the ad somewhere... maybe. If you don't believe me, the next time you're in line at the grocery store, pull down a Cosmo, and check it out. SCARY!!!
As young girls, tweens, and teens, we are bombarded with it...constantly. "Must look a certain way to be accepted." Forget that the model you're looking at is 6 feet tall, weighs 115 pounds, and is photo-shopped beyond belief. She doesn't exist because she isn't REAL. And with YouTube, the Internet, and Facebook, young teens have the ability to bully others on a level that my generation never had to worry about. But my daughters will.
I'm going out on a ledge here when I say, I believe it affects boys differently. They grow up thinking, women are sexual dynamos, who should and will be ready at all times, to get it on. Or at least, LOOK like they're ready to get it on.
How did I handle my own insecurities growing up? I dove into sports, and school activities with wild abandon because that made me "feel good." But when that wasn't enough anymore, and my self-esteem began to plummet, I thought bulimia was a better option. I am appalled when I think back to that time in my life... I really believed that sticking my finger down my throat was a better option than accepting myself.
Well, let me tell you something: learning to love myself completely took A LOT of time, patience, and thousands of dollars in counseling :) But I have vowed to NEVER go back.
I am done beating myself up. I am done with thinking I'm not good enough. I am done thinking all people need to like me...I'm not saying there still aren't days that I struggle, because I do.
I'm saying that celebrating my body for what it can DO, and not solely for what it LOOKS like
is FREEING!
The saggy little boobies that I have now? Hey, those boobies breast fed four amazing babies. The muffin top that is lined with silver stretchmarks, reaching from my buttocks to my neck? Hey man, I worked hard for those. I don't want some plastic surgeon to "erase" what I've accomplished.
The most important nugget of "self-discovery" that I have learned in this therapeutic process is this: accepting myself for all of my natural gifts is really easy. But loving and accepting myself for all of my flaws and imperfections is MUCH harder, but SO worth it!
We are ALL perfectly flawed.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
"Education" at Chico State
Do you know what your college mascot is? Chico's mascot, is Willy the Wildcat, who's holding a nice, frosty, cold one in his left paw. At least, he USED to be holding a nice, frosty,cold one, until the damn PC people got hold of him, and changed him into a kinder, gentler, non-alcoholic Wildcat. Old Willy is the ESSENCE of Chico, baby. BE the Wildcat.
I transferred to Chico State from De Anza JC, at the ripe age of 19... I couldn't even drink legally...yet. Being naive, and just plain stupid, I signed up for 8 o'clock classes... I know, I know, WTH? I will never forget my first St.Patrick's Day experience in this little college town. Little did I know, that the bars, on this very festive occasion, open at 6 AM. Yup, you read that right, people.
We had a midterm on this particular day. And several students, having been AT the bars for 2 hours already, but still in their right minds enough not to MISS the midterm, stumbled into the classroom and proceeded to fill in the bubbles. I watched, in awe, as each drunk would stand up, swagger up to the professor, drop off the scan tron, and make a beeline for the door. Each one, leaving our terrific educational institution, on a mission to finish what they had started...getting loaded. I was left thinking one thing: "Wow! I want to be just like them when I grow up."
And so my journey in Chico began. I lived on Arcadian Avenue with 3 guys. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, but it was SO NOT like that. These guys, were more like brothers. They studied hard and played hard... so did I. They drank Coors Lite... so did I. They chewed tobacco... ewwwwwwwwwww.
And each one had a nickname. There was Darren, aka, "One Ring". The dude had no friends, and so he never let the phone ring more than once, in hopes, that maybe, just maybe, THIS time, the call was for him. That call never came.
Curt, a really nice guy, was dating a rather, interesting girl with dyslexia, named Tracy. Not being able to read well, Tracy thought my last name, FRANCOIS, was pronounced, F-A-R-C-A. How the hell do you get FARCA from FRANCOIS? Often times, while walking through campus, I would hear my roomies lovingly calling me "Faaarrcaaa", as I would quickly duck into the nearest building to avoid humiliation.
Last of the three amigos, was "Geology Jeff". Jeff loved rocks. I mean, Jeff was a 23 year old grown man, who had a rock collection in his room, along with topography maps as "decorations" on his wall. We would all be hungover as shit on a Sunday morning, and Jeff would INSIST that we should go on a hike... so he could tell us all about rocks! I'm a Liberal Studies major, dammit, not a rock scientist. I have a vivid memory of the one and ONLY time, we gave Jeff money to go to the video store and pick out some fun flicks. Do you know what he came home with? 3 National Geographic videos on ROCKS... I'm still pissed about that. I want my 2 bucks back, Jeff.
Yes, Chico was one of the best experiences of my life. There is something so simple, yet so perfect, about going to college, working part time, riding your bike everywhere, and drinking beer on the porch. I can honestly say, that my best friends were made in that small, college, podunk town.
We bonded drinking beer at The Bear, enjoying Long Island Teas at Panamas, sunbathing at Bidwell Park, hanging at Salmon Hole, jumping off the Roost, and tubing down the mighty Sacramento River, only to end at Wash Out.
Ahhhh, good times, good times.
I transferred to Chico State from De Anza JC, at the ripe age of 19... I couldn't even drink legally...yet. Being naive, and just plain stupid, I signed up for 8 o'clock classes... I know, I know, WTH? I will never forget my first St.Patrick's Day experience in this little college town. Little did I know, that the bars, on this very festive occasion, open at 6 AM. Yup, you read that right, people.
We had a midterm on this particular day. And several students, having been AT the bars for 2 hours already, but still in their right minds enough not to MISS the midterm, stumbled into the classroom and proceeded to fill in the bubbles. I watched, in awe, as each drunk would stand up, swagger up to the professor, drop off the scan tron, and make a beeline for the door. Each one, leaving our terrific educational institution, on a mission to finish what they had started...getting loaded. I was left thinking one thing: "Wow! I want to be just like them when I grow up."
And so my journey in Chico began. I lived on Arcadian Avenue with 3 guys. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, but it was SO NOT like that. These guys, were more like brothers. They studied hard and played hard... so did I. They drank Coors Lite... so did I. They chewed tobacco... ewwwwwwwwwww.
And each one had a nickname. There was Darren, aka, "One Ring". The dude had no friends, and so he never let the phone ring more than once, in hopes, that maybe, just maybe, THIS time, the call was for him. That call never came.
Curt, a really nice guy, was dating a rather, interesting girl with dyslexia, named Tracy. Not being able to read well, Tracy thought my last name, FRANCOIS, was pronounced, F-A-R-C-A. How the hell do you get FARCA from FRANCOIS? Often times, while walking through campus, I would hear my roomies lovingly calling me "Faaarrcaaa", as I would quickly duck into the nearest building to avoid humiliation.
Last of the three amigos, was "Geology Jeff". Jeff loved rocks. I mean, Jeff was a 23 year old grown man, who had a rock collection in his room, along with topography maps as "decorations" on his wall. We would all be hungover as shit on a Sunday morning, and Jeff would INSIST that we should go on a hike... so he could tell us all about rocks! I'm a Liberal Studies major, dammit, not a rock scientist. I have a vivid memory of the one and ONLY time, we gave Jeff money to go to the video store and pick out some fun flicks. Do you know what he came home with? 3 National Geographic videos on ROCKS... I'm still pissed about that. I want my 2 bucks back, Jeff.
Yes, Chico was one of the best experiences of my life. There is something so simple, yet so perfect, about going to college, working part time, riding your bike everywhere, and drinking beer on the porch. I can honestly say, that my best friends were made in that small, college, podunk town.
We bonded drinking beer at The Bear, enjoying Long Island Teas at Panamas, sunbathing at Bidwell Park, hanging at Salmon Hole, jumping off the Roost, and tubing down the mighty Sacramento River, only to end at Wash Out.
Ahhhh, good times, good times.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Box Tops and Walk A Thons
Three of my four lovely girls are attending a high achieving academic elementary school that shall remain nameless. Let's just call it "The Cult", for reader purposes, shall we? "The Cult" is TERRIFIC for self-starters, engineer-types, fit- the-mold kids. But if you, like me, have got twins with learning disabilities, you are screwed... more on this later.
School stuff makes me CRAZY! Library days, sharing days, book reports on a different genre each month, along with a diarama depicting a scene from the book in a shoebox, collecting Box Tops, and walking an insane amount of miles in the annual Walk-A-Thon each year, are just some of the dates/forms/activities, as parents, we are supposed to "remember".
Let me tell you how I have learned to cope with all of this mumbo jumbo. PUT THE DAMN KIDS IN CHARGE OF REMEMBERING, 'cause after I pushed out twins, I can't recall what I ate for breakfast this morning. It seems to be working out okay, except on the few mornings when I get the frantic, teary phone call that goes, "Moooom, do you see my, my, my library book(sniff, sniff)about horses (sniff)on the counter?" "Yes, I do. But you forgot it, so you'll have to tell your teacher that you can't check out a book this week." Harsh? Noooooo. Lesson learned. One thing I DO NOT want to be as a parent, is an enabler. I much prefer the Mommy Dearest role.
As far as the annual, ALL DAY event, known as the Walk-A-Thon? I pack in a flask, a cooler full of beer, a blanket, and some face paint. But everything comes at a price. If the kids want their faces painted, little ones need to walk 5 miles, and big ones, need to tally at least 10 miles. I like to inspire them, and by that time, I also have a nice buzz going. I even had some kids walk up with five dollar bills, asking, "How much does this cost?" I should have said, "Go back to your mom and ask for five more dollars."
Let me explain my position a bit. I was a Sixth Grade teacher. I GET kids, I GET teachers. I GET the school system, and all of the political BS that comes along with it. I GET fundraisers, and selling insane amounts of cookie dough at an overpriced cost, so that a fifth grader can go to Science Camp. Although I may gripe and complain, I am completely supportive of my girls education.
What I DON'T get, is how we are failing to meet our kids halfway academically. Not every child is an academic genius...but it doesn't mean they are not talented, or gifted, or amazing! The problem is the school just can't measure their "amazingness" because they don't fit the mold. And so my frustration is this...
Back to School Night at "The Cult", last year went something kind of like this:
Teacher: "Your 3rd grader needs to have their multiplication facts MEMORIZED in 2 months time, so your child can SUCCEEEEEED in third grade. I should be able to call your house at 2am, and ask your child, what is 8x7?"
Me: "You're fucking kidding, right? I don't even know what 8x7 is."
I have come to some really important realizations through this process. Parent-teacher communication is HUGE. I need to feel okay to let my daughter's teacher know, that 2 hours into HW, my daughter turned into a pumpkin, and so it's not "complete". The teacher needs to be on board, and accepting of this fact. And I, the Doer/List Maker/Checker Offer, have learned that it's okay not to have it all done, also. It's humbling really.
Because, at the end of the day, with all my heart, and soul, and being, this is what I believe: we are raising our girls to be caring, sensitive, genuine, lovely little people, and THAT is a lot more important than 8x7.
School stuff makes me CRAZY! Library days, sharing days, book reports on a different genre each month, along with a diarama depicting a scene from the book in a shoebox, collecting Box Tops, and walking an insane amount of miles in the annual Walk-A-Thon each year, are just some of the dates/forms/activities, as parents, we are supposed to "remember".
Let me tell you how I have learned to cope with all of this mumbo jumbo. PUT THE DAMN KIDS IN CHARGE OF REMEMBERING, 'cause after I pushed out twins, I can't recall what I ate for breakfast this morning. It seems to be working out okay, except on the few mornings when I get the frantic, teary phone call that goes, "Moooom, do you see my, my, my library book(sniff, sniff)about horses (sniff)on the counter?" "Yes, I do. But you forgot it, so you'll have to tell your teacher that you can't check out a book this week." Harsh? Noooooo. Lesson learned. One thing I DO NOT want to be as a parent, is an enabler. I much prefer the Mommy Dearest role.
As far as the annual, ALL DAY event, known as the Walk-A-Thon? I pack in a flask, a cooler full of beer, a blanket, and some face paint. But everything comes at a price. If the kids want their faces painted, little ones need to walk 5 miles, and big ones, need to tally at least 10 miles. I like to inspire them, and by that time, I also have a nice buzz going. I even had some kids walk up with five dollar bills, asking, "How much does this cost?" I should have said, "Go back to your mom and ask for five more dollars."
Let me explain my position a bit. I was a Sixth Grade teacher. I GET kids, I GET teachers. I GET the school system, and all of the political BS that comes along with it. I GET fundraisers, and selling insane amounts of cookie dough at an overpriced cost, so that a fifth grader can go to Science Camp. Although I may gripe and complain, I am completely supportive of my girls education.
What I DON'T get, is how we are failing to meet our kids halfway academically. Not every child is an academic genius...but it doesn't mean they are not talented, or gifted, or amazing! The problem is the school just can't measure their "amazingness" because they don't fit the mold. And so my frustration is this...
Back to School Night at "The Cult", last year went something kind of like this:
Teacher: "Your 3rd grader needs to have their multiplication facts MEMORIZED in 2 months time, so your child can SUCCEEEEEED in third grade. I should be able to call your house at 2am, and ask your child, what is 8x7?"
Me: "You're fucking kidding, right? I don't even know what 8x7 is."
I have come to some really important realizations through this process. Parent-teacher communication is HUGE. I need to feel okay to let my daughter's teacher know, that 2 hours into HW, my daughter turned into a pumpkin, and so it's not "complete". The teacher needs to be on board, and accepting of this fact. And I, the Doer/List Maker/Checker Offer, have learned that it's okay not to have it all done, also. It's humbling really.
Because, at the end of the day, with all my heart, and soul, and being, this is what I believe: we are raising our girls to be caring, sensitive, genuine, lovely little people, and THAT is a lot more important than 8x7.
Finally, I Have Created a Blog!
Well, this was loooooooong overdue. I have been thinking about it. I have been talking about it. I have told people that no one was safe because I would be writing about you. And now, it has all come to fruition. I have finally got my lazy ass to set up a blog... well, it's about time already!
What shall I blog about? So many random thoughts, so little time. I feel like I need one of those small tape recorders to catch the moments that happen right before my eyes.... with my girls, with my husband, by myself... so I remember all of the precious nuggets that I encounter on a daily basis.
I feel like, if it's not my facebook status, away it goes with the other cobwebs in my head. But, I'm telling you, this is my start. I'm gonna be talking about all the shit that no one else wants to call out.
Like the Volunteer Mom of the Year, at my kids school who is the head of EVERY committee... when in reality, she REALLY needs to get a life... or maybe just discipline her own damn kids, and stop worrying about everyone else's. Or what about the Cougar nights out on the town, when I think it's "so funny" to wrap my sequined scarf around the lead singer in the band at Bowell's? Poor guy. And yes, let's not forget, the episode of getting kicked out of the PINK concert.
This is just a teaser. Oh yeah baby, it's SO on!!!!!!!
What shall I blog about? So many random thoughts, so little time. I feel like I need one of those small tape recorders to catch the moments that happen right before my eyes.... with my girls, with my husband, by myself... so I remember all of the precious nuggets that I encounter on a daily basis.
I feel like, if it's not my facebook status, away it goes with the other cobwebs in my head. But, I'm telling you, this is my start. I'm gonna be talking about all the shit that no one else wants to call out.
Like the Volunteer Mom of the Year, at my kids school who is the head of EVERY committee... when in reality, she REALLY needs to get a life... or maybe just discipline her own damn kids, and stop worrying about everyone else's. Or what about the Cougar nights out on the town, when I think it's "so funny" to wrap my sequined scarf around the lead singer in the band at Bowell's? Poor guy. And yes, let's not forget, the episode of getting kicked out of the PINK concert.
This is just a teaser. Oh yeah baby, it's SO on!!!!!!!
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