I will never forgot the first time I met my dog. He wasn't even my dog...yet. Nor was it my intention for him to EVER be my dog.
I was a first year teacher, crying pretty much daily, and wondering why the hell I had decided to help mold the youth of America. This was too hard. Too tough. Too much work. I was crumbling, and it was only October.
The end of the school day had arrived, and I forced myself into the office, to make yet, another set of 33 copies. As soon as I walked in, the Principal, Mariann, turned to face me with the most adorable, fuzzy, cub bear looking dog, you ever did see. Well, the FLEAS leaping off of his belly, were the first thing I noticed, really.
"Michelle, look at this guy," Mariann gently coaxed. She was known for her animal rescuing gifts, having taken home 3 stray dogs already, as well as her kick-ass approach to disciplining kids with raging hormones. "Just look at him...Michelle, he needs a home."
"No Mariann, look at those fleas. Gross." I tried to walk towards the copy machine, dismissing her. But I swear, it was like a cue from a movie. As Mariann gently layed him down on the carpet, he wrapped his little cub bear puppy paws around feet, and looked up at me. I thought to myself, "Oh shit, this dog is so going home with me."
Did I call my husband, and ask his opinion about bringing a stray dog into our home? No. Was I thinking clearly? Absolutely not. I think I must have been transported to another time, place, and planet, as I drove my '68 Mustang home, with this little flea bag asleep at my feet. Little did I know then, how that dog would save me on so many different levels.
Quietly, I snuck into the house, carrying the small, brown bundle under my arm. As I opened the door to my daughter, Katie's room, I said, "Look what I have!!!!!" She was 9, and I was like, 29. But it so didn't matter, because our reactions were exactly the same! "We have a dooooog, we have a dooooog. Who cares what Dad says? We have a dooooog!"
Just then, Tom walked in through the front door. Deciding to put out the fire, before it really got going, I calmly said, "Honey, guess what?" In fact, looking back now, those were the same exact words I used just a few months ago, when I shared the "surprise" news of our unplanned baby.
"Look what I got," I said, kind of squinting, with tense arms outstretched, holding flea bag, unsure of what his reaction would be.
"Oh my stars," Tom replied. Now, anyone who knows my husband, knows these are his true words of affirmation. Of acceptance. Of giddiness. Of pure awe.
We decided that Bear was part Chocolate Lab or Chesapeake Bay Retriever, mixed with some Golden. A perfect mix for a family dog. After losing several shoes, pieces of furniture, and books to Bear's puppy teeth, he was enrolled in Obedience School.
Bear came everywhere with us. The beach. Our annual Houseboat trip. The grocery store. It was official, this dog was part of our family. Often times, when we would arrive at family functions, people didn't care to give US a hug first. They were looking for Bear, who would leap out of the car, and come bounding towards the group.
Bear developed into a very loving, gentle, and mellow soul. Sure, he jumped off the back of the Houseboat a few times, in the middle of Lake Shasta. Let me assure you, hauling 80 pounds of wet dog back into the houseboat, was not a pretty sight. And yeah, he caught a squirrel with his teeth once, and brought it into the house to show me his trophy. There was even one time when the front gate was left open, and Bear saw an opportunity he just could not pass up: attacking the mailman. Poochie then proceeded to get maced by the mailman. Poor poochie woochie. The post office refused to deliver mail until Tom went down to the post office and signed an oath that said something like, "Your savage dog will never attack our negligent postal worker ever again." But with age, he just mellowed.
While in his prime, Bear was a regular fixture on my daily 4 mile walks, as I pushed the triple stroller. And I swear, every time he saw me with an emerging pregnant belly bump, he thought, "Oh man, here we go again. More little people to climb all over me." But he never nipped. He never growled. He always remained calm, cool and collected, which is more than I can say about my parenting skills.
How do you say good bye to a family member? A dog that has been with us for 14 years? A poochie woochie who once jumped on my chest to lick my face, but now, can't even get up?
I layed down next to Bear last night, and whispered to him, "You can go Bear. You don't have to stay here anymore. We'll be okay." I know it may sound crazy, but I wanted to give him permission to die peacefully. Let him know that he doesn't have to suffer for our sake anymore.
He actually raised his head, and looked deep into my soul. He understood exactly what I was saying.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Shopping Day
Costco looooves me. Seriously, they adore me. When they see me arrive every Monday like clockwork, the workers yell out to each other, "She's baaaack! The lady who has that damn gaggle to feed, is baaaack! And can you believe she's pregnant AGAIN?! Umhummmmm, she keeps us in business, yes, she do."
You know how there are some people who claim they could never eat that size/portion/amount of food in a week? NOT the Walsh fam. We go through it. Often, when having my receipt checked before I am allowed to go free back into the outside world and beyond, the Costco employee, always wants to make sure s/he has got it right, "TWO breads? THREE apples? TWO bananas? TWO grapes? FOUR kids?"
I mean, where else in the world can you purchase milk, eggs, enough tampons to last a lifetime, car tires, AND a dogbed? Make no mistake about it. Costco is the only way to shop with a brood as big as ours.
My number one rule at Costco is this: stay focused. I hear folks all the time say, "If I even go into that place, I drop 500 bucks." If it ain't on the list, you no buy. I don't care how cute/fuzzy/useful the item may seem at the time. Portable air conditioner...is it on the list? Car mats that come in a variety of colors...are they on the list? A wooden playground the size of a small country...is it on the list? That one rule saves me each week, and ensures that I spend within my budget. Although, sometimes, I will admit, I feel beckoned to the beer/wine/hard alcohol section...just to browse. Really.
I navigate Costco in a very methodical fashion. Before I learned my OCD route, I would get stuck behind the Jewelry Specialty section that was visiting only until Mother's Day. Or a specialty one-size-fits-all Sundress area, where small, medium, large and extra-large women flock, like moths to a flame.
Generally, my shopping experience tends to go smoothly, and the mission is completed within 30-45 minutes.
UNLESS I encounter several assholes in a row who happen to leave their carts in the middle of the fucking aisle. Seriously? RIGHT in the middle? Pick a side...left or right. But no, these shoppers in particular, are clueless, get distracted by the whizzing blender man, and leave their shit right in the middle of the aisle. With no forethought whatsoever, to the GIGANTIC obstacle s/he has created for all of the other Costco members. This selfish act, requires me to leave my 4 year old, unattended, which anyone knows is a dangerous act in and of itself, to move some other member's cart. Next time, I'm stealing a purse. Fuck this, being polite bullshit.
And what's up with thumping the watermelons? At first, I believed it was only specific races who thumped. But I have come to find, that several people believe that thumping will give them the PERFECT melon. You would think people are searching for a million dollars or the cure to cancer. I refuse to thump, just because they DO thump. And you know what? My melons are pretty close to perfection. And my watermelon doesn't taste bad, either.
Although, the handy sample snack people located at the end of each aisle, seem like a good idea. They actually create a bottleneck. You will find new mothers, bolting away from their infant babies, to grab a sample of a fucking begal bite, like it will be the last time they will ever eat. I become especially annoyed by the people who take, like 5 samples at a time. WTF? Leave some for the rest of us. Hold on a minute, aren't you the asshole who left their cart in the middle of the aisle over in the bread section?
When I check out, I feel like I should wear my Weight Watchers badge, so the clerk will stop asking me, "Anything from the food court today?" What I want to say is, "Do you know how many grams of FAT are in your hotdogs? Do I look like I want a piece of pizza the size of my Costco cart? I just spent 200 dollars on FOOD, do I look like I need an ice cream coffee latte that comes in a bucket?"
But after surviving the negligent middle-of-aisle-cart-shoppers, the Jewelry Show, and the Thumpers, I reply, "No thank you." Every. Single. Week. And they nod and smile, knowing that I will be baaaaaack next Monday.
You know how there are some people who claim they could never eat that size/portion/amount of food in a week? NOT the Walsh fam. We go through it. Often, when having my receipt checked before I am allowed to go free back into the outside world and beyond, the Costco employee, always wants to make sure s/he has got it right, "TWO breads? THREE apples? TWO bananas? TWO grapes? FOUR kids?"
I mean, where else in the world can you purchase milk, eggs, enough tampons to last a lifetime, car tires, AND a dogbed? Make no mistake about it. Costco is the only way to shop with a brood as big as ours.
My number one rule at Costco is this: stay focused. I hear folks all the time say, "If I even go into that place, I drop 500 bucks." If it ain't on the list, you no buy. I don't care how cute/fuzzy/useful the item may seem at the time. Portable air conditioner...is it on the list? Car mats that come in a variety of colors...are they on the list? A wooden playground the size of a small country...is it on the list? That one rule saves me each week, and ensures that I spend within my budget. Although, sometimes, I will admit, I feel beckoned to the beer/wine/hard alcohol section...just to browse. Really.
I navigate Costco in a very methodical fashion. Before I learned my OCD route, I would get stuck behind the Jewelry Specialty section that was visiting only until Mother's Day. Or a specialty one-size-fits-all Sundress area, where small, medium, large and extra-large women flock, like moths to a flame.
Generally, my shopping experience tends to go smoothly, and the mission is completed within 30-45 minutes.
UNLESS I encounter several assholes in a row who happen to leave their carts in the middle of the fucking aisle. Seriously? RIGHT in the middle? Pick a side...left or right. But no, these shoppers in particular, are clueless, get distracted by the whizzing blender man, and leave their shit right in the middle of the aisle. With no forethought whatsoever, to the GIGANTIC obstacle s/he has created for all of the other Costco members. This selfish act, requires me to leave my 4 year old, unattended, which anyone knows is a dangerous act in and of itself, to move some other member's cart. Next time, I'm stealing a purse. Fuck this, being polite bullshit.
And what's up with thumping the watermelons? At first, I believed it was only specific races who thumped. But I have come to find, that several people believe that thumping will give them the PERFECT melon. You would think people are searching for a million dollars or the cure to cancer. I refuse to thump, just because they DO thump. And you know what? My melons are pretty close to perfection. And my watermelon doesn't taste bad, either.
Although, the handy sample snack people located at the end of each aisle, seem like a good idea. They actually create a bottleneck. You will find new mothers, bolting away from their infant babies, to grab a sample of a fucking begal bite, like it will be the last time they will ever eat. I become especially annoyed by the people who take, like 5 samples at a time. WTF? Leave some for the rest of us. Hold on a minute, aren't you the asshole who left their cart in the middle of the aisle over in the bread section?
When I check out, I feel like I should wear my Weight Watchers badge, so the clerk will stop asking me, "Anything from the food court today?" What I want to say is, "Do you know how many grams of FAT are in your hotdogs? Do I look like I want a piece of pizza the size of my Costco cart? I just spent 200 dollars on FOOD, do I look like I need an ice cream coffee latte that comes in a bucket?"
But after surviving the negligent middle-of-aisle-cart-shoppers, the Jewelry Show, and the Thumpers, I reply, "No thank you." Every. Single. Week. And they nod and smile, knowing that I will be baaaaaack next Monday.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Kids Keep It Real
You never have to actually ask a kid for the truth: they just tell it like it is, pretty or not.
Case in point, my eldest Abby, the other day, pulls me in close and says to me in a hushed tone, "Mom, you're looking kind of O-L-D," Trying not to laugh, and gearing up to hear the whole truth, and nothen but the truth, I said, "Abby, what part of me exactly looks O-L-D?" "Well Mom, you know how young women's boobs are perky and way up here?" she said, motioning to her collarbone. "Well, your boobs are smooshed and sagging way down here," she finished up her explanation, pointing to her belly button. I couldn't argue with her. I mean, it's TRUE. I just can't WAIT to hear what she will say about my boobs when I'm not pregnant anymore and done nursing....YIKES.
In my mind, I guess I don't equate myself with my age. I mean, who says a 38 year old can't wear glitter and rock a push up bra?! I will fight for my right to sparkle and stay perky, god dammit!
In fact, just the other day while hiking up Harwood, I saw a young girl, with a bounce in her step coming towards me, wearing of ALL things: a Chico State shirt. The shirt, in and of itself, immediately bonded us to each other. Well, maybe she didn't feel exactly bonded to ME. Perhaps, stalked would be a better descriptive verb. But you know that feeling you get, when a cute young thang is wearing proof of where you spent the best days of your life?
I blurted out, "You go to Chico?" practically accosting her. She replied, "Yeah." I still can't believe I had this slip of the tongue, but I said, "I GO to Chico State." HELLO, Michelle? You WENT to Chico State... 15 years ago! But it was such a great, free, and independent time in my life, in my mind, I'm still living in Chico. Going to the Bear. Swimming at one mile. Drinking Coors lite on the porch.
If you would have told me 15 years ago, at this point in my life, I would have 4 kids and pregnant with my 5th, I would have told you to jump off a bridge, as I took a hit off my bong.
Indeed, my girls, constantly remind me, that I am aging. Thank goodness, I am confident enough to not the truth totally crush me. Just this morning at the breakfast table, Bella asked, "Mom, are you getting your hair colored, like soon?" My other 3 girls, just looked at me, their heads sympathetically nodding sideways, silently agreeing with Bella. "Why, am I turning gray up here in my temples?" (the first place to show). "Oh Mom, you're turning gray EVERYwhere!" I mean, what can I say to that? It's true!
Case in point, my eldest Abby, the other day, pulls me in close and says to me in a hushed tone, "Mom, you're looking kind of O-L-D," Trying not to laugh, and gearing up to hear the whole truth, and nothen but the truth, I said, "Abby, what part of me exactly looks O-L-D?" "Well Mom, you know how young women's boobs are perky and way up here?" she said, motioning to her collarbone. "Well, your boobs are smooshed and sagging way down here," she finished up her explanation, pointing to her belly button. I couldn't argue with her. I mean, it's TRUE. I just can't WAIT to hear what she will say about my boobs when I'm not pregnant anymore and done nursing....YIKES.
In my mind, I guess I don't equate myself with my age. I mean, who says a 38 year old can't wear glitter and rock a push up bra?! I will fight for my right to sparkle and stay perky, god dammit!
In fact, just the other day while hiking up Harwood, I saw a young girl, with a bounce in her step coming towards me, wearing of ALL things: a Chico State shirt. The shirt, in and of itself, immediately bonded us to each other. Well, maybe she didn't feel exactly bonded to ME. Perhaps, stalked would be a better descriptive verb. But you know that feeling you get, when a cute young thang is wearing proof of where you spent the best days of your life?
I blurted out, "You go to Chico?" practically accosting her. She replied, "Yeah." I still can't believe I had this slip of the tongue, but I said, "I GO to Chico State." HELLO, Michelle? You WENT to Chico State... 15 years ago! But it was such a great, free, and independent time in my life, in my mind, I'm still living in Chico. Going to the Bear. Swimming at one mile. Drinking Coors lite on the porch.
If you would have told me 15 years ago, at this point in my life, I would have 4 kids and pregnant with my 5th, I would have told you to jump off a bridge, as I took a hit off my bong.
Indeed, my girls, constantly remind me, that I am aging. Thank goodness, I am confident enough to not the truth totally crush me. Just this morning at the breakfast table, Bella asked, "Mom, are you getting your hair colored, like soon?" My other 3 girls, just looked at me, their heads sympathetically nodding sideways, silently agreeing with Bella. "Why, am I turning gray up here in my temples?" (the first place to show). "Oh Mom, you're turning gray EVERYwhere!" I mean, what can I say to that? It's true!
Monday, May 24, 2010
Summatime, Summatime, Sum, Sum, Summatime!
Sweet, red, ripe watermelon...juicy fingers not wanting to miss one single drop. Melon the color of honey comb. Grapes the size of small planets. And MOJITOS...just the right mix of rum, lime, mint, and more run. Longer days with no rush to "be" someplace. Summertime is just upon us. I can taste it...
Summertime as a kid, meant playing Hide-N-Go-Seek with the neighborhood kids; it got to be really fun AFTER it was dark. The anxiety of being caught...well, that was just about enough to make me wet my pants. I guess not much has changed.
Sweltering days were spent in the shady creek, behind Meredy-Bell's house, catching polliwogs. We were little scientists that would watch them transform into frogs, IF we didn't decide to perform some sort or experiment on the poor creatures. Meredy-Bell and I also made exquisite "perfume" from the abundance of California State Poppy's that grew nearby...oh yeah, we were ALL that. We had no idea we were breaking the law, by picking those flowers. But looking back, it seems fitting that I was lured to the dark side at such a young age.
Popsicles in every shade of the rainbow that stained my tongue and lips bright red, so I looked like a movie star. My bare feet on hot cement...I quickly learned to run quickly to the shady spots that would provide temporary relief, before running to the next one. My blond hair, dyed a deep, dark green from swimming, and Foxy cursing it all, pouring tomato paste, or catchup on my noggin with abundance to remove the chlorine. Nothing worked, but I didn't dare say so. Door bell ditching, making prank phone calls, doing drive-by's of boys houses I had crushes on, working at Y-Camp. The summers of my youth rocked.
Summer is like this amazing time that represents renewal, relaxation, and well, more alcohol consumption. As I've gotten older, I have started my own little traditions with my girls.
We "camp" at Big Basin in tent cabins. If you think I'm gonna do my job in the dirt, with no roof of any sort over my head, you're sorely mistaken. But I'm not a total diva; I refuse to shower. Brush my teeth? Yes. Shower? Hell no! I like to get that greasy grime between the tooties after hiking all day. It is a representation of an amazing day spent in nature...AND that it's time for wine.
As the girls get older, I DO want them to experience REAL camping: in the dirt, sleeping on the ground under the stars...just as long as mama has an aerobed. I always felt an intense feeling of survival after I made it out of one of those trips alive. Especially backpacking. It never ceased to amaze me that the world continued to turn, while I was out in the wilderness, roughing it, eating trail mix like nobody's business. Away from any 7-11, Jack in the Box, or I don't know, liquor store.
Beach days are a necessity now. The twins just got wetsuits this last summer, and I can't keep them out of the water. I, on the other hand, have no problem observing them from the beach. Normally, Daddy will get in the ocean with them. But during the week when Tom is working, we go to Crow's Nest Beach with folks from Booksin. My friend, Matt Beasley, who is an at-home mom/dad, gets in that freezing ass cold water with the kids. You are a bigger woman than I, Matt. I must remain focused on the really important stuff: my tan.
Summer concerts in downtown Willow Glen are always a kick-ass outing. By the time it's over, 4 bottles of wine have been polished off between friends, and it is in that moment, we decide collectively, THE PARTY MUST GO ON! And so 2 or 3 families rally, and end up at some one's house, where kids watch a show and pass out on a couch. And the adults...well, the adults end up WALKING home.
The summer would not be complete without a trip to "Uncle Ron's" cabin in Arnold. Since his passing, the cabin actually now belongs to my cousin, Angela, who is cool enough to let us visit now and again. Day trips to Lake Alpine, Big Trees State Park, and Colombia eagerly await us. We pack in a lunch, make a day out of wherever we're going, come home happily exhausted, to eat dinner and shower. What follows is my favorite time of day: cocktail hour(s)! We poor ourselves a frosty, cold tumbler, and proceed to make the 2 mile walk around the golf course. Screaming at the kids, who are on scooters, the entire time, "STAY TO YOUR RIGHT!" By the time we get back to the cabin, it's beddy-bye for the kiddos, and party time for the big kiddos. Playing cards late into the night, screaming obscenities at each other. Ahhh, good times.
I love summer. I am convinced that the reason I appreciate it so much, is because it only happens one season a year. Only 3 months, and then, just as quickly as it came upon us, it fades into fall. Summer never disappoints. And it always leaves me wanting just a little bit more...With my anti-gravity chair in tow, I'm feeling like it may be the best one yet!
Summertime as a kid, meant playing Hide-N-Go-Seek with the neighborhood kids; it got to be really fun AFTER it was dark. The anxiety of being caught...well, that was just about enough to make me wet my pants. I guess not much has changed.
Sweltering days were spent in the shady creek, behind Meredy-Bell's house, catching polliwogs. We were little scientists that would watch them transform into frogs, IF we didn't decide to perform some sort or experiment on the poor creatures. Meredy-Bell and I also made exquisite "perfume" from the abundance of California State Poppy's that grew nearby...oh yeah, we were ALL that. We had no idea we were breaking the law, by picking those flowers. But looking back, it seems fitting that I was lured to the dark side at such a young age.
Popsicles in every shade of the rainbow that stained my tongue and lips bright red, so I looked like a movie star. My bare feet on hot cement...I quickly learned to run quickly to the shady spots that would provide temporary relief, before running to the next one. My blond hair, dyed a deep, dark green from swimming, and Foxy cursing it all, pouring tomato paste, or catchup on my noggin with abundance to remove the chlorine. Nothing worked, but I didn't dare say so. Door bell ditching, making prank phone calls, doing drive-by's of boys houses I had crushes on, working at Y-Camp. The summers of my youth rocked.
Summer is like this amazing time that represents renewal, relaxation, and well, more alcohol consumption. As I've gotten older, I have started my own little traditions with my girls.
We "camp" at Big Basin in tent cabins. If you think I'm gonna do my job in the dirt, with no roof of any sort over my head, you're sorely mistaken. But I'm not a total diva; I refuse to shower. Brush my teeth? Yes. Shower? Hell no! I like to get that greasy grime between the tooties after hiking all day. It is a representation of an amazing day spent in nature...AND that it's time for wine.
As the girls get older, I DO want them to experience REAL camping: in the dirt, sleeping on the ground under the stars...just as long as mama has an aerobed. I always felt an intense feeling of survival after I made it out of one of those trips alive. Especially backpacking. It never ceased to amaze me that the world continued to turn, while I was out in the wilderness, roughing it, eating trail mix like nobody's business. Away from any 7-11, Jack in the Box, or I don't know, liquor store.
Beach days are a necessity now. The twins just got wetsuits this last summer, and I can't keep them out of the water. I, on the other hand, have no problem observing them from the beach. Normally, Daddy will get in the ocean with them. But during the week when Tom is working, we go to Crow's Nest Beach with folks from Booksin. My friend, Matt Beasley, who is an at-home mom/dad, gets in that freezing ass cold water with the kids. You are a bigger woman than I, Matt. I must remain focused on the really important stuff: my tan.
Summer concerts in downtown Willow Glen are always a kick-ass outing. By the time it's over, 4 bottles of wine have been polished off between friends, and it is in that moment, we decide collectively, THE PARTY MUST GO ON! And so 2 or 3 families rally, and end up at some one's house, where kids watch a show and pass out on a couch. And the adults...well, the adults end up WALKING home.
The summer would not be complete without a trip to "Uncle Ron's" cabin in Arnold. Since his passing, the cabin actually now belongs to my cousin, Angela, who is cool enough to let us visit now and again. Day trips to Lake Alpine, Big Trees State Park, and Colombia eagerly await us. We pack in a lunch, make a day out of wherever we're going, come home happily exhausted, to eat dinner and shower. What follows is my favorite time of day: cocktail hour(s)! We poor ourselves a frosty, cold tumbler, and proceed to make the 2 mile walk around the golf course. Screaming at the kids, who are on scooters, the entire time, "STAY TO YOUR RIGHT!" By the time we get back to the cabin, it's beddy-bye for the kiddos, and party time for the big kiddos. Playing cards late into the night, screaming obscenities at each other. Ahhh, good times.
I love summer. I am convinced that the reason I appreciate it so much, is because it only happens one season a year. Only 3 months, and then, just as quickly as it came upon us, it fades into fall. Summer never disappoints. And it always leaves me wanting just a little bit more...With my anti-gravity chair in tow, I'm feeling like it may be the best one yet!
Monday, May 17, 2010
Mama Bear Anger
My dad taught me a lot of important lessons growing up. But there is one that I have gone back to, time and time again, throughout my life. This advice has never changed. It has always remained constant. It is my truth.
My dad, a man that I admire greatly, knelt down, took my shoulders in his hands, looked straight into my 7 year old eyes, and said these prolific words, "Michelle, if someone ever pushes you around, ever lays a hand on you, take them out. As long as they touch you first, you stand up for yourself." I could hear my mom in the background, yelling out, "Toooom, don't teach her thaaaat!"
See, my older brothers had gotten the same talk from my dad. And on more than one occasion, one brother, (who shall remain nameless, but who's initials are P.F.), had been expelled from school for this "lesson".
I vividly remember the first time I really stood up for someone. I was 8 years old, and I played on a soccer team with my best friend, Margie. Before going on, you need to understand one thing about my friend Margie: she is the sweetest, most loving person on the planet. She would never hurt ANYone.
Imagine my duress, when during a game one day, I noticed she was crying. "Marge, what's wrong?" She wept, "It's that girl on the other team, she is being too rough. She's pushing me around." That was all I needed to hear, and it was SO on.
The next time that little bully worked her way down the field, I straight slide tackled her from behind. She didn't even have the ball. It didn't matter. My message was clear: you mess with my sweet and sensitive friend, you will get my wrath.
Throughout my childhood, I tried my hand at all kinds of sports: soccer, swimming, basketball, softball, volleyball, and karate. But what I found out in almost every single case was the same: I excelled in sports that involved contact. Body on body. Moving people around. I loved it! And standing at 5'11, most times, it worked out to my benefit.
The first time my husband ever saw me play ANY sport, was at the Hoop It Up, 3 on 3 basketball tournament in downtown San Jose. Street ball at its best. Black concrete and no refs. No refs meant the other team called your fouls. Or not. If you were matched with women who wanted to PLAY, and weren't worried about breaking a damn nail, things got physical, and quick.
I was playing with my girls from De Anza: Trish, standing solid at 6 foot 3. Tamie, our guard, who was just as fierce as she was feisty. And little ol' me.
Right from the start, there kind of has to be a mutual understanding with the person you are matched up defending from the other team. "Let me play my game, and I'll let you play yours. Don't call me on all of my fouls, and I won't call you on yours."
However, there was no mutual understanding in that first game. It was just plain ugly, sloppy and violent. So having taken JUST about ENOUGH from this woman on the other team, I was forced to make a decision: let her elbows continue to fly, or put a screeching and abrupt halt to it. I chose the later, and basically, threw her down on the concrete.
Tom sat there, watching, mouth open, not believing what he was taking in. You could almost hear him thinking out loud, "But aren't girls sugar and spice and everything nice?" No, we're not. Welcome to my world.
I quickly learned, if need be, I could defend myself without a problem. Without becoming emotional about it. I just took care of business.
But when it came to OTHER people..."underdogs" being picked on by a bully, I just plain saw RED. When my Mama Bear instinct kicks in, it IS emotional. And that's not always a good thing for all concerned.
I was at a concert with my step-daughter, Katie, when I woman touched the top of my head, and yelled, "Sit down, you tall ass bitch." Without going into specifics, let just say I handled myself...without being kicked out. I don't even want to THINK about what could have happened if she would have put her hands on Katie. One thing is for certain: I would have gone to jail for homicide. Is it normal to feel that much RAGE?!
After school one day, my daughter, Bella, was explaining to me that she was being bullied by a much bigger classmate. For reader purposes, I will call this girl bully, Satan. I felt myself burning with anger. "Bella, you have to stand up for yourself." I found myself giving my daughter the SAME speech my dad gave me! "If she EVER touches you, if she EVER lays a hand on you, or ANY of your sisters, take her down." Bella, looking worried, said, "But hoooow Mom? How do I act mean?"
Hmmmm, good question. This can't be taught. Aggression comes from deep within. I should know.
The next time I went to school to volunteer in Bella's class, I asked another student, "Where does Satan sit?" He answered, "Right here, at my group." Satan had heard her name, and looked up. She was huge, almost as big as me. Satan looked old enough to drive her own self to school.
I looked Satan square in her little beady eyes, sending my message, without saying a word. "I know what you're doing to my daughter you little bitch. It better stop NOW. That's right, Satan, I'm watching you."
Once again, I'm questioning, is this amount of anger normal? Please don't be scared of me. Just remember one thing: you want me on YOUR team!
My dad, a man that I admire greatly, knelt down, took my shoulders in his hands, looked straight into my 7 year old eyes, and said these prolific words, "Michelle, if someone ever pushes you around, ever lays a hand on you, take them out. As long as they touch you first, you stand up for yourself." I could hear my mom in the background, yelling out, "Toooom, don't teach her thaaaat!"
See, my older brothers had gotten the same talk from my dad. And on more than one occasion, one brother, (who shall remain nameless, but who's initials are P.F.), had been expelled from school for this "lesson".
I vividly remember the first time I really stood up for someone. I was 8 years old, and I played on a soccer team with my best friend, Margie. Before going on, you need to understand one thing about my friend Margie: she is the sweetest, most loving person on the planet. She would never hurt ANYone.
Imagine my duress, when during a game one day, I noticed she was crying. "Marge, what's wrong?" She wept, "It's that girl on the other team, she is being too rough. She's pushing me around." That was all I needed to hear, and it was SO on.
The next time that little bully worked her way down the field, I straight slide tackled her from behind. She didn't even have the ball. It didn't matter. My message was clear: you mess with my sweet and sensitive friend, you will get my wrath.
Throughout my childhood, I tried my hand at all kinds of sports: soccer, swimming, basketball, softball, volleyball, and karate. But what I found out in almost every single case was the same: I excelled in sports that involved contact. Body on body. Moving people around. I loved it! And standing at 5'11, most times, it worked out to my benefit.
The first time my husband ever saw me play ANY sport, was at the Hoop It Up, 3 on 3 basketball tournament in downtown San Jose. Street ball at its best. Black concrete and no refs. No refs meant the other team called your fouls. Or not. If you were matched with women who wanted to PLAY, and weren't worried about breaking a damn nail, things got physical, and quick.
I was playing with my girls from De Anza: Trish, standing solid at 6 foot 3. Tamie, our guard, who was just as fierce as she was feisty. And little ol' me.
Right from the start, there kind of has to be a mutual understanding with the person you are matched up defending from the other team. "Let me play my game, and I'll let you play yours. Don't call me on all of my fouls, and I won't call you on yours."
However, there was no mutual understanding in that first game. It was just plain ugly, sloppy and violent. So having taken JUST about ENOUGH from this woman on the other team, I was forced to make a decision: let her elbows continue to fly, or put a screeching and abrupt halt to it. I chose the later, and basically, threw her down on the concrete.
Tom sat there, watching, mouth open, not believing what he was taking in. You could almost hear him thinking out loud, "But aren't girls sugar and spice and everything nice?" No, we're not. Welcome to my world.
I quickly learned, if need be, I could defend myself without a problem. Without becoming emotional about it. I just took care of business.
But when it came to OTHER people..."underdogs" being picked on by a bully, I just plain saw RED. When my Mama Bear instinct kicks in, it IS emotional. And that's not always a good thing for all concerned.
I was at a concert with my step-daughter, Katie, when I woman touched the top of my head, and yelled, "Sit down, you tall ass bitch." Without going into specifics, let just say I handled myself...without being kicked out. I don't even want to THINK about what could have happened if she would have put her hands on Katie. One thing is for certain: I would have gone to jail for homicide. Is it normal to feel that much RAGE?!
After school one day, my daughter, Bella, was explaining to me that she was being bullied by a much bigger classmate. For reader purposes, I will call this girl bully, Satan. I felt myself burning with anger. "Bella, you have to stand up for yourself." I found myself giving my daughter the SAME speech my dad gave me! "If she EVER touches you, if she EVER lays a hand on you, or ANY of your sisters, take her down." Bella, looking worried, said, "But hoooow Mom? How do I act mean?"
Hmmmm, good question. This can't be taught. Aggression comes from deep within. I should know.
The next time I went to school to volunteer in Bella's class, I asked another student, "Where does Satan sit?" He answered, "Right here, at my group." Satan had heard her name, and looked up. She was huge, almost as big as me. Satan looked old enough to drive her own self to school.
I looked Satan square in her little beady eyes, sending my message, without saying a word. "I know what you're doing to my daughter you little bitch. It better stop NOW. That's right, Satan, I'm watching you."
Once again, I'm questioning, is this amount of anger normal? Please don't be scared of me. Just remember one thing: you want me on YOUR team!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
For All The Motha's
Mother's Day, by far, is one of the most significant days of the year for me. My birthday...yeah, it's alright. Anniversary's, yes, an important milestone.
But there is something different about Mother's Day. It's like mothers all around the world are sharing in this one day of appreciation for what we have done, and what we have yet to do.
I had NO IDEA of what my mom did for me until the time I turned 23 years old: the same year I met my husband, and became a step-mom. As I would go about my day to day business with a 9 and 11 year old in the house, I kept having these "a-ha" moments. Parenting was like this Cirque de Soleil balancing act on a high wire, while riding a unicycle, without a net. I fumbled to discipline the kids / be a good listener / make sure the homework was done / keep the house clean / make lunches each day and dinner every night / stock a refrigerator / and recognize each child for their unique differences. I mean, where's the book on how to do that? Where's the damn manual? There isn't one.
I learned quickly that parenting, good parenting, is hard. It is a lot of work, a lot of sacrifice, and exhausts you in ways that are inexpressible in words.
I'm still in awe that my mom let me live past my teen years. I'm not sure that anything my brothers did which preceded me, could really prepare her for my teenage angst. Thinking about it makes me cringe. But I appreciate that she loved me enough, (not to be confused with like), to not kick me out of the house. 'Cause I'm thinking that idea crossed her mind more than once.
On Mother's Day, I feel like I'm part of a very unique sorority of sisters. Sisters of Survival. We have each shared the birth experience, the toddler years, and school age years. I look up to moms who have teenagers and college kids, as my mentors.
And the really good moms, the ones who are confident but humble, they don't tell me how hard it will be in the future. The really good moms just let me vent, while nodding their heads patiently, as I refill their wine glass. The really good moms understand, that no matter what they tell me, it won't really prepare me for what it will be like with MY girls as they get older. Because that experience is unique to each of us.
I appreciate all mama's out there. The Silver Fox, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-laws, aunts who have been like moms to me, (one who has even been present at the birth of all my babies), my justice league of MILFS, and especially, the moms-to-be, and brand new mama's, who are excited, but also scared.
All of us other moms are here to tell you the same thing: it will be okay. The future is uncertain, but it will be okay. Because we are here in the trenches with you, and we understand. And yes, being a mom is really hard, and more exhausting than you ever imagined.
But see, you're part of this new sorority now where strength and love comes in numbers. You are embarking on the greatest, but scariest field trip of your life. But, you know what? Everything really will be okay, because you will never be alone on this journey. You're one of us now. And we're so glad you're here.
But there is something different about Mother's Day. It's like mothers all around the world are sharing in this one day of appreciation for what we have done, and what we have yet to do.
I had NO IDEA of what my mom did for me until the time I turned 23 years old: the same year I met my husband, and became a step-mom. As I would go about my day to day business with a 9 and 11 year old in the house, I kept having these "a-ha" moments. Parenting was like this Cirque de Soleil balancing act on a high wire, while riding a unicycle, without a net. I fumbled to discipline the kids / be a good listener / make sure the homework was done / keep the house clean / make lunches each day and dinner every night / stock a refrigerator / and recognize each child for their unique differences. I mean, where's the book on how to do that? Where's the damn manual? There isn't one.
I learned quickly that parenting, good parenting, is hard. It is a lot of work, a lot of sacrifice, and exhausts you in ways that are inexpressible in words.
I'm still in awe that my mom let me live past my teen years. I'm not sure that anything my brothers did which preceded me, could really prepare her for my teenage angst. Thinking about it makes me cringe. But I appreciate that she loved me enough, (not to be confused with like), to not kick me out of the house. 'Cause I'm thinking that idea crossed her mind more than once.
On Mother's Day, I feel like I'm part of a very unique sorority of sisters. Sisters of Survival. We have each shared the birth experience, the toddler years, and school age years. I look up to moms who have teenagers and college kids, as my mentors.
And the really good moms, the ones who are confident but humble, they don't tell me how hard it will be in the future. The really good moms just let me vent, while nodding their heads patiently, as I refill their wine glass. The really good moms understand, that no matter what they tell me, it won't really prepare me for what it will be like with MY girls as they get older. Because that experience is unique to each of us.
I appreciate all mama's out there. The Silver Fox, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-laws, aunts who have been like moms to me, (one who has even been present at the birth of all my babies), my justice league of MILFS, and especially, the moms-to-be, and brand new mama's, who are excited, but also scared.
All of us other moms are here to tell you the same thing: it will be okay. The future is uncertain, but it will be okay. Because we are here in the trenches with you, and we understand. And yes, being a mom is really hard, and more exhausting than you ever imagined.
But see, you're part of this new sorority now where strength and love comes in numbers. You are embarking on the greatest, but scariest field trip of your life. But, you know what? Everything really will be okay, because you will never be alone on this journey. You're one of us now. And we're so glad you're here.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
My Anti-Gravity Chair
I made one of the best decisions in my life last week. I mean, it's right up there with deciding where to go to college: Chico State, baby! And who to marry: Tom Walsh, Super Genius, of course. I'm talking THAT big, people. Life changing stuff. I purchased an anti-gravity chair from Costco. When these contraptions first came out several years ago, they were an outrageous amount of money...like $200 bucks. I got mine for $39.99...I likey.
Looking ahead to what the summer will bring me...four high energy kids, hot and sticky weather, the belly the size of a patio table, and lower back pain that will most likely drive me to my knees, it seemed like a no-brainer. Anti-gravity chair, YOU are the answer to all of my problems.
Just this morning, Midnight, our girl bunny got out. No big deal. UNTIL I found the ginormous burrow she had dug under our fence leading to the sewers of Willow Glen. "Oh shit," I thought to myself, "How am I going to break this horrific news to my 7 year old?"
As fear and panic started to fill my body, I looked across the yard. There I saw a sight to behold...did I locate the lost bunny, you ask? No, nothing like that. BETTER. There resting in the most sunny spot in my yard, stood my anti-gravity chair. Calming me, soothing me, beckoning me to come, sit down awhile.
I was catapulted back into reality when my 4 year old belted out, "MIIIIIIDIIIIGHT...where are YOU? Did you get eaten by a HAWK? If you don't come out and are hiding from mommy, she's going to make Bunny STEW out of YOU." I don't know where she comes up with these things. Really. Okay, maybe I have somewhat of an idea.
Anyhoo, here's my point. Simple things make me happy. I have found solace in my anti-gravity chair. I'm not even sure words can quite express how happy it makes me feel. I invite you then, to come and experience the magic of my chair for yourself. Just understand one thing: there's a 5 second rule, and then you have to get up, so I can have it back. What do you mean that is selfish?! That's my version of "sharing".
By the way, for those of you "animal lovers" out there, Midnight finally showed up. But I'm pretty sure she was out scouting Lincoln Avenue. I'm sure she made a stop at Starbucks for a Carmel latte, and then hopped down to Powells Candy Shop for a Charleston Chew. On her way home, I'm willing to bet she had the nerve to stop at Aqui's for an "Industrial Strength Margarita", that little tramp. She nearly gave me a heart attack.
And so I would like to take this opportunity to thank the one thing that kept my sanity for me: anti-gravity chair, I love you. Thank you for keeping it real.
Midnight, you are SO on my shit list, right now.
Looking ahead to what the summer will bring me...four high energy kids, hot and sticky weather, the belly the size of a patio table, and lower back pain that will most likely drive me to my knees, it seemed like a no-brainer. Anti-gravity chair, YOU are the answer to all of my problems.
Just this morning, Midnight, our girl bunny got out. No big deal. UNTIL I found the ginormous burrow she had dug under our fence leading to the sewers of Willow Glen. "Oh shit," I thought to myself, "How am I going to break this horrific news to my 7 year old?"
As fear and panic started to fill my body, I looked across the yard. There I saw a sight to behold...did I locate the lost bunny, you ask? No, nothing like that. BETTER. There resting in the most sunny spot in my yard, stood my anti-gravity chair. Calming me, soothing me, beckoning me to come, sit down awhile.
I was catapulted back into reality when my 4 year old belted out, "MIIIIIIDIIIIGHT...where are YOU? Did you get eaten by a HAWK? If you don't come out and are hiding from mommy, she's going to make Bunny STEW out of YOU." I don't know where she comes up with these things. Really. Okay, maybe I have somewhat of an idea.
Anyhoo, here's my point. Simple things make me happy. I have found solace in my anti-gravity chair. I'm not even sure words can quite express how happy it makes me feel. I invite you then, to come and experience the magic of my chair for yourself. Just understand one thing: there's a 5 second rule, and then you have to get up, so I can have it back. What do you mean that is selfish?! That's my version of "sharing".
By the way, for those of you "animal lovers" out there, Midnight finally showed up. But I'm pretty sure she was out scouting Lincoln Avenue. I'm sure she made a stop at Starbucks for a Carmel latte, and then hopped down to Powells Candy Shop for a Charleston Chew. On her way home, I'm willing to bet she had the nerve to stop at Aqui's for an "Industrial Strength Margarita", that little tramp. She nearly gave me a heart attack.
And so I would like to take this opportunity to thank the one thing that kept my sanity for me: anti-gravity chair, I love you. Thank you for keeping it real.
Midnight, you are SO on my shit list, right now.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Things That Chap My Hide
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!
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!
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!
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