Formerly Fun Facts
Tuesday, February 2, 2010

I have an unhealthy obsession with green sweaters and printed cardigans.

My hands are so small they have been referred to as "paws" by more than one man, as in, "look, your hand look like little cubby bear paws, awwww."

I have an awesome sense of smell which is great for cooking but sometimes detrimental in my line of work.

I have only been in love once, and I married him.

I love cats but after having spent the last year and a half with our dog Lucy, I realize I am not really a dog person.

I am fond of adopting completely odd personas in public and will sometime use foreign accents to enhance my enjoyment of the facade.

I have a love/hate relationship with my cell phone.

My husband is the nicest person I know.

Having someone to do arty stuff with is one of my favorite things about having kids.

I am anal retentively clean but inordinately lazy so my house always looks just ok.

I make my kids do a lot of chores, my mother in law thinks I am preparing them for the foreign legion.

I like porn but don't watch it because I think it subjugates women. Maybe I'll just watch more male gay porn as I think I would feel less guilty about that.

I wish I would have traveled for a year or two after college before getting a real job.

I could go to prison and as long as I had a some things to write and draw with, a camera, Photoshop, food and stuff, I would be ok for a really long time. In fact, somedays, I fantasize about this a little.

I think corporations are inherently evil and responsible for many of the things I think are wrong with the world.

Monsanto is the devil.

Some of the best students I knew in highschool were among the worst cheaters. I hope it was the pressure that made them do it but I still think it's skeevy and I think about how to make sure my kids don't become those kids.

I want to try stand up comedy but I am terrified of it.

The system is broken.

I am amazingly optimistic and inherently cynical, sometimes I wish there was a medication for that.
Postscript: For HereinFranklin, here is my latest printed cardigan, and you'll see it's free of appliques or Christmas trees:)

10 comments    

Caption This
Tuesday, January 12, 2010

1. World's Hottest Pussy?
2.
3.
4.
5.

Oh yeah, my Keyword's are going to go crazy.

Your turn.

12 comments    

Daily Exercise Log
Monday, January 11, 2010

In an effort to be healthier, I resolved in 2010 to exercise more. I figured if I put it on my blog, I'd hold myself more accountable. Even though I have a terrible cold today, I was able to put myself first, and make time to achieve this important goal.

Today's Exercise:

Warm Up- Existential thought, extra credit for wiggling my toes while I did it.

Aerobics-Blowing my nose(120 minutes Total Combined).
Resistance Training- Yelling at my nine year old.

Isolation Exercises-Deftly picking the remaining not entirely dried leaves off my basil plant(it has a death wish) so I could add it to tonight's dinner.

Alternative Exercise-Thought about exercise.(Also called napping)

Flexibility Training- Negotiated dispersal of evening kid/house tasks with husband.

Additional Flexibility Training- Thanked husband for doing the better part of said duties.(This was also aerobic and there might have been some Tantric Yoga involved)

Interval Training-Did sprints from bathroom to laundry to shower to laundry to car to post office to laundry to car to pharmacy from car to grocery store...also changed first laundry load topless and boobs got very cold.

Core Training- Tweezing eyebrows, I tightened my core while I did it.

Strength building- Getting childproof cap off cold formula and wrestling very firm honey from bottom of jar for cup of tea.

Isometrics- Holding my tongue on a phone conversation with my mother-in-law.
Weight lifting- Carrying 2 year old to bathroom in a mad dash when she tells me,"I have to poop, oh oh I think I did."

Stretching- My kids get credit for stretching the limits of my patience today and I did a few stretches to get the container of Organic Non GMO Fair Trade Vanilla Bean ice cream out of the back of the freezer.


I am pleased with my progress.

4 comments    

Is It Wrong?
Friday, January 8, 2010

Is it wrong to see a friend posed on Facebook in the most ginormous sunglasses you have ever seen and comment that "Willy Wonka called and he wants his glasses back"?

Is it wrong that I find it over the top high-larious when my two year old daughter says "fuck-ing dammit" with near perfect intonation when the dog runs off with her favorite froggie stuffed animal?

Is it wrong that sometimes I wish I were financially capable of having staff(not like i would refer to them as staff, just having people to do the things I don't feel like doing(which is a lot(but kids don't think that means you(but sometimes it does)))).

Is it wrong that my husband bribed me with a week of nightly massages for something he "wanted"? Is it wrong that I wholeheartedly accepted and am now on my 6th night of massages wondering what tricks I am going to have to pull out to keep this particular gravy train rolling?

Is it wrong that I have probably logged 10 hours on my phone playing Tetris?

Is it wrong that I sometimes fantasize about my kids leaving for college and already am encouraging them to have the "full experience" of going away to school?

Is it wrong when I do passive-aggressive things like dressing my potty-training two year old in a unnecessarily complicated outfit because I'm irritated that her pre-k teacher is letting her nap too long?

9 comments    

Labels: I'm a bad person., My kids are going to need a really good therapist. Girly girl.

I Am Perfect, Just Like Everyone Else
Wednesday, January 6, 2010

A New Year, a Fresh Start, the beginnings of I Will Always and some I Will Nevers, None of This and More of That, less snacking, more flossing, blah, blah, blah.

The Baroness Von Bloggenschtern, a thoughtful, dynamic and witty friend, recently posted on the vein of being kinder to ourselves, lowering our expectations a bit. She was moved by a mantra she encountered at a yoga retreat, the very simply stated:

"All I have to do is be,
and all I have to be is who I am"

It was also well said by these guys. They look a bit goofy but I think they were on to something:

There's nothing you can know that isn't known. 
Nothing you can see that isn't shown. 
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.
It's easy.

9 comments    

Pop It Like It's Hot
Tuesday, December 1, 2009

If you have spent much time around these parts, you would know that I am a popcorn aficionado, a gourmand of the cob if you will. I have looked down with abject scorn at those who would sink to eating store bought, microwave packing material rather than the delightful, stovetop butter-infused goodness that is better suited to my well-honed palate. I have proudly stated many times that microwave popcorn hasn't touched my lips in over ten years, a record I have held on to staunchly, even in the face of terrible hunger with crappy vending machine popcorn only three-quarters away.

I finally caved and had microwave popcorn last night. But before you wag your finger in contempt, let me tell you, it was divine.

I found a recipe for homemade microwave popcorn. I generally don't share recipes here because a)this is not a food blog b)most of my friends and readers couldn't cook their way out of a paper bag. But alas, this is cooking with a paper bag so even the most cooking challenged among you can pull this off. This is a great one for the kids to make too, easy peasy. Oh, and it tastes good, real good and you know what's in it so less this. Tonight, I will try my hand at a variation using raw sugar to make kettle corn, I'll report back. Alton Brown, you are my hero.

Ingredients

• 1/4 cup popcorn
• 2 teaspoons olive oil(canola or veg will do and for those of you calorie conscious, most of the oil remains on the bag not in your belly)
  
• 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt or popcorn salt
• Paper lunch bag
• Stapler

Directions

Toss the popcorn with the olive oil & salt in the paper bag. Fold the top of the bag over and staple the bag twice to close. Place the bag in the microwave and microwave on high for 2 minutes to 3 minutes, or until there are about 5 seconds between pops.

NOTE: Popcorn salt is a super-fine salt that is designed especially for sticking to food such as popcorn. It has the taste of regular table salt, but its granules are much finer.

11 comments    

He Said, She Said
Tuesday, November 17, 2009

He Said, She Said

Me(wistfully as I watch our two girls frolic in the tub): I wish I had a sister.
Him: I can pretend to be your sister.
Me: It's not the same.
Him: Come on, try me. Tell me something you'd tell your sister if you had one.
Me: Ok, rambling, dissecting, analyzing, feelings, blah, blah, overwhelmed, blah, blah, more feelings.
Him: (using his hands to mime pigtails on the sides of his head) Let's make out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do It Yourself

So we had a rare free Saturday without the kids(thank you Grandma) and I had to work until about 2pm. I was running down the husband's honey do list, making sure he knew I wanted some things done around the house.

"Don't sit around all morning lazing about, looking at porn and doing whatever it is you do when I'm gone until you get my list done, I admonished him.

"I'm not going to sit around and masturbate all day", he chided me like he does when I act like he can't get anything done without me directing him.

So I grab my lunch, leave the house and get in the car before I realize I left my cell in the house. His office window is right at the front of the house so he can see me coming back. As I open the front door, he's standing right there, with his pants down, holding our poor beagle up against him.

"We're stuck, honey, uh, can I get a hand here, I'm stuck in the dog."

I was still laughing when I got to work.

10 comments    

Labels: he said, He's all mine., she said

Picture This
Thursday, October 29, 2009

Photographic Evidence Found of First Gay Couple Adoption

Marvin Teslavich and Samuel McSmiley announced the adoption of their fourth child this weekend at the monthly meeting of the town elders held at the local one room schoolhouse.

Mr. Teslavich took a moment to remind everyone that "it is love that makes a family and not simply a mother and father."

The elders broke early for an impromptu surprise shower for the couple, both longtime residents of Hollow Falls.

8 comments    

My Life in Slow Motion

I have been reading nonstop, so thank you for all of your recommendations. I finished Nick Hornby's Juliet Naked, have read several stories in the Stephen King short story collection, Just After Sunset and I have digested the first few chapters of The Outliers. The best part is I have a big stack from which to pick the next.

It's been an interesting week so far, it's only Thursday and I've already told an inexplicable whopping lie to a kind Mexican purveyor of produce and I took a funny pill and almost had to spend a little time in the "bad trip" tent. Is your curiosity piqued yet? I'll start with the whopping lie.

Monday morning I went by one of our local farm stands to pick up pumpkins and inquire as to whether they would be open to selling me their ugly tomatoes at a cut rate. My garden tomatoes are all used up and at 1.99/lb and up, making homemade sauce from pristine store tomatoes would be an expensive venture. My thought was the blemished or overripe tomatoes might be had for a bargain. I told the farmstand man that I'll use them for sauce, that I make a lot at a time because I have a big family. As he considered my offer, I counted family in my head to figure how many pumpkins we would need. Me, hubs, kid 1, kid 2, bebe and visiting Grandma, just as I'm tallying up, the gardener asks me, "So how many kids do you have?"

I answer without thinking, "Six."

"Six?" he asked.

Now, yes, certainly I could have explained, "no, no, no, I don't have six children, I was only half listening to you and counting pumpkins in my head and trying to decide if Grandma should get a larger pumpkin like the husband and I or if I could slide by with one of the smaller three dollar pumpkins because in truth, she has gotten a bit smaller." But just answering "yes" seemed somehow less crazy than my genuine stream of consciousness and perhaps taking pity on me and my six children/mouths to feed, he'd fork over my tomatoes.

This man was friendly, sweet even, so naturally he asked after my six kids.

"Six, wow, that is a big family here in the U.S., in Mexico, where I am from, not so big, but even me, I only have four," he said this almost apologetically. "How old are they?"

Without skipping a beat(what is wrong with me that I can lie this easily) I answer,"Oh the oldest is eleven and the baby is two, and the rest are, you know, in between."

In my head I am quickly trying to do the math: given my age, would I have to have had twins to get all six in or should I just say I'm a few years older than I am? Great, now I am lying about my age too, what is wrong with me?

"Both girls and boys?" he asked.

"Yes, three girls and three boys,"(oh how convenient and seven brides for seven brothers perhaps?)

A spotted teenage cat, not quite a kitten but not yet full grown leapt from a stack of cardboard boxes and I leaned down to offer my hand jumping at the opportunity to change the subject before he starts asking me for names, I tell him I also have two cats and a dog. It's a wonder I didn't lie about them too.

















I will carry this picture in my wallet from now on in case I need proof.


Then yesterday I was getting ready for work running about trying to get out the door. Husband was calling with information I needed to write down, Grandma was asking questions about where stuff was because she was staying home with the bebe, I was trying to, you know, leave the house in something that matched without forgetting any important "foundation" garments, again.(Did she forget something important another time you ask. Yes I did.)

The wind here in my area of Southern California have been whipping around in a frenzy and my sinuses have been going crazy. It's bad to have a drippy nose at work, especially during flu season, especially with H1N1 freaking everyone out, especially when I spend my days touching people(that sounds wrong--you know what I mean). So as I'm leaving the house, I think I have got to take a Claritin or Sudafed or something to dry me up and quell the sneezing.

So I write down my husband's info, get Grandma what she needs, figure out my adult version of Garanimals, pop a Sudafed and fly out of the house. I arrive at work and just a few minutes later, I start feeling very dizzy. Perhaps it was all the flurry leaving the house I tell myself. Then the sweating and nausea start and some little piece of my brain leads me back to the bathroom where I pressed a little pill I thought was Sudafed into my hand and washed down with the last sip of my coffee.

Oh my god, that was not Sudafed, I just took my RX migraine medication, Sumatriptan(see sounds the same no?) This is the med that last time I took it, I felt drunk, slurred my words, thought I might throw up, flopped on the bed and slept for three hours.

And I am at a new job, one where there are coworkers who I am still trying to be professional around, honeymoon period and all. And here I am, I will now be known as the girl who takes pills and gets all funny(half the women in Orange County by the way so not really the stigma you would think it might be, really but so soon?) And I feel like I have to tell at least our receptionist in case I need to make a quick exit. I look at my calendar, too late to cancel my first clients so I sip a diet coke intending to counter the sedative effects and hope for the best.













Something like this is what I was afraid of.


It all turned out ok. I didn't act intoxicated, or throw up on a client, I did nothing weird except ask the receptionist too many times,"I am acting normal right?" The worst part was the headache that came at the end of accidentally taking my headache medication. Still, I did learn two important things, don't take pills in a hurry and Diet Coke fixes everything.

7 comments    

Read Between the Lines
Tuesday, October 20, 2009

33 comments    

Would I Lie to You?
Thursday, October 8, 2009

I don't dabble in chain mail or chain posts or whatever they are called online or even blog awards for that matter and yet, every once in awhile I will get picked for something that is actually insightful and interesting. The Well Read Hostess(and she is and her dad wrote a book and was on The Daily Show so that makes her kind of famous and she teaches 9th graders so she should be given a bunch of humanity awards and probably a big fat raise, she has very nice toes and runs a virtual book club if you haven't heard of it.) picked me for a "Be Honest" post which either means she thinks I am a big fat liar(probably not because she is a very nice Well Read Hostess and I am a pretty honest girl) or she thinks someone who waxes vag for a living and has a super sexy husband might have a few juicy things up her sleeve.

As she related in her post, woman have a tendency to lie. We don't lie to deceive so much as to blend into our environments much like the chameleon changes color. We pretend things are easier than they are because we want to appear to have it all together. Because of course we look around and everyone else seems to be doing okay(see the viscous cycle here??) We leave out details of marital spats, calls home from school, a lackluster job review perhaps out of fear that others will make a mountain out of a mole hill. Maybe it's out of fear that others will offer to help us and we'll feel beholden or looked down upon. But it is important to share the truth, it's one of the things that attracted me to this whole blogging thing in the beginning. I found the virtual anonymity fostered in many, a more honest sharing of the highs and lows of being human in this day and age.

So in the spirit of full disclosure

1.There are very few things I won't talk about. The thing I rarely discuss, at least online, is when my husband and I argue or don't get along. I don't do it to impart an image of perfection as much as when it comes to our conflicts, I have learned a short memory serves me well. Writing about it would leave a record and I am already bad enough about keeping score, I don't need to have the evidence to go back to. The truth is, we argue. Thankfully it doesn't happen too often because he is almost perfect but it happens. One of the last arguments we had was after he let my nine year old buy something before he had saved enough allowance. "He's going to pay it off over the next few allowances," he said. "Wonderful," I replied, "you just taught my nine year old how to use a credit card." Maybe I'll write about that one because it was funny(and I was right and I am much more likely to write about the time I was right than when he was right).

2.Like Well Read Hostess, I wish I were a better mom and wife some days. I wish I didn't crave and guard my personal time so closely. I'm an extroverted introvert and I need that time alone to recharge but it makes me feel selfish.

3.I regret getting a dog. I love her, the family loves her, in time I may even like her again but she is way more work than I bargained for and every time she escapes our front door and takes off running toward the busy street, my heart lurches and I pray she doesn't get hit by a car. All that silent pleading has made me resent her, oh and she won't stop shitting in the house.

4.In spite of all my koombayas about accepting yourself and appraising your body kindly, I think I will always struggle with body image. It's probably why I have written so much about it, it helps me work through it. I intellectually understand but accepting myself on an emotional level is much more challenging.


5.Years ago a bunch of my college poker buddies were all talking about how crazy girls make the best lovers. I took great exception to that because I knew I was a girl with, shall we say, certain talents and I clearly had my shit together. Years later, turns out? Yep, I am the crazy one.


6.I'm embarrassed by how much tv I watch. I go glassy-eyed watching Top Chef and every once in awhile, I uncomfortably contemplate all the things I could have accomplished with that time.


7. I have a nice singing voice but I am uncomfortable performing. Once I start doing it, I'm ok but just beforehand I get severely nauseated and panicky. It's stupid because people always enjoy it but I, ugh, just thinking about it brings on some cold sweats . It took me a long time to even sing comfortably in front of my husband and he's seen me nekkid, in fluorescent and other exposing things. I do not, however, have any hesitation singing to my children, go figure.

8.I am really impatient with my kids. I do things efficiently and quickly and I have never quite learned how to dial it down. They are slowly wearing me down. Truthfully, the bebe will probably have it easiest.

9.When I moved out to California,I quit smoking, I lost a bunch of weight and got healthy. I ate well, I ran, I drank green tea, did yoga, took ballet classes, I was a well oiled machine, I maintained it for 8 years and I promised myself I would never be overweight again. Guess what? (While I fell off the wagon with things like bagels and real, homemade buttered popcorn, I never did start smoking again.)

10.I am outwardly, a very outgoing person but actually, I am very introverted, being chatty and getting to know people is something I do to get comfortable. I hate silences with newish people, it makes me really uncomfortable and sometimes I just talk and talk and the little inside my head voice is begging me to shut up and let someone else talk.

Ok, that's it.

I nominate because I lurvs them:

Rassles(cause I wonder what secrety secrets a wacky twentysomething has)
Blues(cause she lives in Spain and her secrets probably have a spicy, Latin tinge to them)

Ginny(cause she has a life very close to mine)
Gypsy(cause she is so nice, there has to be a little dirt there)

9 comments    

Big Surprise...Another Rant
Monday, October 5, 2009

I know, I know, I'm not funny anymore, I write like I "want to win some Reader's Digest award", I'm a downer, blah, blah, blah... First of all, yes, I am currently afflicted with some kind of low-grade writer's block and it will pass eventually, just like last night's street taco dinner(I probably just need antibiotics). Second, there's a lot of stuff going on and I am up to my eyeballs in detritus that no one besides me cares about(and sometimes my husband when he gets a free thought moment that isn't clouded with techie engineer crud and paying our mortgage.) Third, fuck you, I am funny and if you waxed vag all day, you'd realize that you can't do that job and not be funny. So, if I want to rant and rave, well as Bobby Brown says(and we know that he is oh so sage and quotable)"It's my prerogative."

So here goes, FormerlyFun decree #213

People, please stop cheating on your spouses.*

Now if me saying that makes you angry, you are probably doing someone something you shouldn't. Knock it off.

Honestly, isn't this kind of like having to tell kids not to wipe their nose on their sleeve? Doesn't it really go without saying? Come on, you promised, the rules were clearly laid out, it's not like the Columbia record club and you just signed hoping for the free cd, never really thinking about the others that would come later.

Grow up. It's unfair. Unfair to your partner, your kids if you have them, your friends and family who have probably made effort and room for this person you brought into their lives. It's unfair to you. You deserve better. If you're not happy, get out, get happy. If you can't get out then turn your energy inward and as Tim Gunn says, "Work it out." Most of the unhappily married people I know can get out. It would just be much more challenging than staying put. Yes, maybe you'd be poor for a while or not have a date for the company function or be the talk of your town or have to go back to work or downgrade your lifestyle or admit you wanted better for yourself or confront your families or disappoint your kids or feel like the latest failure..... But you would be free to figure out what you want or who you are or whatever.

But FF you say, I fell in love, I really love this new one. I call bullshit because love is something you work at and cherish and protect. Love is not some woman in your office that "gets" you or some man who is unable to communicate frustration to his wife and therefore needs you to make it bearable... If you love someone that much then leave them alone you are going to ruin their life(don't care) and probably a lot of other's who didn't get to decide they wanted their families torn apart(do care). And the fun part about marriage is(with very few exceptions), you bring half the problems so they are likely going to trail just behind you right into the next relationship unless you deal with them in the current one.

The grass is rarely greener. That guy who is wooing you now is just someone else's version of your husband that seems better because you don't share the conflicts that come with combining your life with another person. And mister, that twentysomething will get older and nag you just like the one you have now except you are going to have to work even harder to keep her happy because really, she's out of your league. And someday, when you have old man boobs and you are trying to make the last wisps of your hair cover your liverspotted head, she is going to be looking at you wondering whatthe hell she did and hoping the payout is there because there had better be a payout for bedding your old ass.



*I am not addressing any of you specifically, only the current near epidemic of shenanigans I am seeing around me and yes, I said shenanigans because I have the vocabulary of an eighty-five year old woman.

10 comments    

Pick Me, Pick Me
Wednesday, September 23, 2009

These are hand soaps, get it? Hand soaps. I ran across these looking for a photo of something else. I thought about buying some of these for my kid's bathroom. You know, tell the kids they use the hands of little boys and girls that died of infectious diseases because they didn't wash their hands properly to make soap for the good little kids who actually take time to wash their hands correctly. I resisted however, because the kids bathroom is also the guest bathroom and I was afraid guests might think we were trying to make some sort of political statement in the abortion debate.

11 comments    

Revenge: A Dish Best Served With Sad Puppy Eyes
Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Clearly I am not in "writing" mode. Sorry to blog about blogging because it's normally verboten in my book but it is what it is. I am in the midst of trying to move the spa closer to my home and I am inches away from going to fisticuffs with my current landlord. Were it not for the lovely manicure I recently got, I would have already broken some teeth. Sorry, I am feeling a little violent right now and no doubt just need to vent.

I am a model tenant, not model like Tyra Banks, model like good and equipped with timely rent payments and low maintenance(shut up hubs, I am low maintenance with him). My lease is up at the end of October and I am trying to exit gracefully but he is being, well, a prick. He is a lazy, greedy, cheap, sleazy, dishonest slug(no offense to slugs). I am trying to conjure up the right words and visualizing him is making my skin crawl, literally, like in those horror movies where skin actually crawls.

My recent interactions with him have me contemplating all these very non-Buddhist, complicated, multi-layered revenge fantasies. This is not healthy. I've spent years squaring up my Karmic debts, the last thing I want to do is rack up more.

But be warned Burt*(that is the human name for this lizard, no offense to lizards). I don't want to go have to work in a soup kitchen for weekends in a row to right the wrongs I am considering doing to you but I will. Don't underestimate my willingness to go to the darkside to prove a point. You are wrong and I am right and if you want to check in with my husband to see if I back down when challenged, be my guest.

In lieu of genuine Karma-challenging revenge, with my landlord's phone numbers in hand, I am considering the annoying but harmless promise of excessive, interrupting cell phone calls. To that end, I have devised my faux craigslist post.


Please Adopt My Doggie -- Free Yellow Lab Pup to Good Home

12 comments    

Someone's Officially a Little Woman Now, Ugh
Wednesday, August 12, 2009

You know, the life of a n'er do well, jet-setting Brazilian waxer is enviable and rarely dull. For instance, this week at the Maison 'd Formerlyfun:

Lucy Bagels became a woman and started her first menstrual cycle because she got into the cat food the morning she was to get spayed and I have been remiss in rescheduling her appointment. Now I have to explain to the kids why the dog's "butt" is bleeding, but really, she's fine. No, we are not going to celebrate the moment by buying her a box of pads and her own copy of Are You There God, It's Me Margaret.

In an attempt to get my son to stop biting his nails, and cuticles and probably his toenails when I am not watching, I got the No-Bite nail polish. I was worried it was a bit of a barbaric approach until everyone in the house asked to try it. It's like when someone tastes the sour milk and says to you, I think this is sour, taste it.

On a high note, I recently got to meet one of my favorite fellow bloggers, the Baroness Von Bloggenschtern. Not only did I get to meet her but her husband and two sweet(I know boys hate that word but they were, they really were) teenage sons. The Baroness was just as I would have imagined her, charming, unpretentiously eloquent, warm and funny. They were kind enough to pop over to my neck of the beach for a meet and great. There was girl talk, mom talk and to my delight, they are all huggers.

14 comments    

Mama Sings the Blues
Monday, August 10, 2009

I had applied flea prevention to our three animals. I had trimmed printed pictures, written notes, stamped and addressed envelopes to send pictures of the kids to the great grandmas, both of whom are computer literate but not print literate. I had called to refill prescriptions. I had filled out the bebe's preschool paperwork, dug up her vaccination card. I had counted the cash from about twelve chacha waxes and put it in an envelope for my five year old's preschool for the month. I had deposited checks from the spa and my husband's paycheck. I had finally sent a wedding gift for a wedding I attended in June. I had put new sheets on the bed, gave my nine year old his to do list and fed the bebe her lunch.

All I wanted to do was sit for twenty minutes and eat my Greek salad in relative calm and quiet.

Though her belly should have been full, the vinegar soaked tomatoes with flecks of mint on them were too much for the bebe to ignore.

"More pillows mama, more pillows."

This is how she asked for the tomatoes out of my salad. I put a small tomato on my fork and give it to her, straight in the mouth careful not to drip on the fresh sheets since I am sitting on my bed eating my lunch looking over spa paperwork. Maybe this is why I have a hard time sleeping in my bed.

While I turn a piece of paper over to read the back side, the bebe has taken the tomato out of her mouth and examined it before wiping her hands on my just-cleaned sheets. I look right through the large watery red smear on the sheets that were pristine just seconds ago. It's my fault, I shouldn't have been in here eating.

I just wanted to eat my lunch.

I hurriedly finish what I can, the quiet lunch a pipe dream. I put the bowl on my dresser, too high for the bebe to reach and try to finish my paperwork so I can cross one more thing off the Sisyphean list that replicates itself each day.

Crash.

The bowl is on the floor, not broken but the remaining vinaigrette has splashed the carpet. The cat had quietly snuck up on the dresser to lick out the small bits of leftover feta cheese spotting the bowl.

I just wanted to eat my lunch.

I don't even have the urge to cry about this small stuff anymore. Instead I put the bowl in the sink, get the resolve and wipe down the carpet. I take a deep breath and remind myself that parenthood is a package deal. You cannot have everything you want and have them too. I remind myself that when they are gone, on their own living their lives, I will eat my lunch in peace probably wishing for the noise and the small dirty hands and the clamors to share my food, my space, my body.

But today I just wanted to eat my lunch.



Lest you think I lament too much, here's the trade off for my hurried lunch and messy bed.
Bebe Sings the Blues

7 comments    

I've Saved You a Stool, Come Shit Right Over Here
Friday, July 31, 2009

What a wonderful and informative world we live in.

It's Friday and I am at the spa. Having been stood up be my 10 o'clock client and my next client scheduled at 2:30, I gorged on $25 worth of Thai food(they won't deliver just one thing and I am too lazy to give up my primo parking spot) and proceeded to surf the web.

At the risk of oversharing, my colon has recently instituted a work slowdown. Maybe it's in protest to the deep fried twinkie I ate earlier in the week at the Orange County Fair but things are not right. I even programmed my Ipod for a little inspiration.

The Constipation Compilation
Stuck in the Middle With You- Beatles
Patience- Guns 'N Roses
One More Cup of Coffee- Bob Dylan
Drop It Like It's Hot- Snoop Dog
Free Falling- Tom Petty
Push It- Salt 'N Pepa
Anticipation- Carly Simon
Break My Body- Pixies
The Hardest Button to Button- The White Stripes
I'm Not Gonna Cry- Sharon Jones/Dap Kings
Stay Just a Little Bit Longer- The Zodiacs
After the Rain Has Fallen- Sting
More Than a Feeling- Sleater-Kinney
Dig Me Out- Sleater-Kinney
Wanna Be Starting Something- Michael Jackson
Waiting on a Friend- Rolling Stones
I'm Sticking With You- The Velvet Underground
Ready to Go- Republica
Are You Alright- Lucinda Williams
At the Bottom of Everything- Bright Eyes
Something in the Way She Moves- James Taylor
Peekaboo- Siouxsie & the Banshees
Hanging on Too Long- Duffy
I Say a Little Prayer- Dionne Warwick
Move You- Anya Marina
Should I Stay or Should I Go- the Clash
Today's the Day- Aimee Mann
Hallelujah- Rufus Wainwright
Take Me to the River- Talking Heads

So I decided to use my lull time at work to do a little research to set this current situation right. Of course, I contacted a trusted expert Butt Doctor Wikipedia. Now I am a simple girl, words are good butt a picture is always worth a thousand turds and affords one more time to go back for seconds on Thai takeout.

Yes, what an informative world we live in. Nearly every detail of our lives can be shatalogued and compared. Norms are measured, baselines are set. Nothing, I mean nothing, is sacred.


I just cannot imagine that someone hasn't put this on a t-shit yet. Oh, wait...
That's better.

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Return of the Crack-Loving Bebe
Thursday, July 30, 2009

I recently bought a few wigs on Ebay, they are for, uh, Halloween, yep, Halloween. I thought it would be fun for me to see how the bebe would look with hair since hers is taking so long to come in. She, the girl who loves hats, did not like the fake hair. Probably because it was made in China by kids who are probably her age. I had to ply her with chocolate to get her to try one on. It stayed on as long as the mouthful of melty coco goodness remained and was then unceremoniously flung off until more chocolate was forthcoming.


Lest you think I dabble in hyperbole.


And to prove that this trading all kinds of favours for chocolate is a family-wide problem, we have Exhibit B.

Me: Hey Josh, put this wig on.

Josh: Eeew, no.

Me: Want some delicious Ritter Sport Chocolate.

Josh: Gimmee the wig.

Seriously, I am such a good mom.

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Me and My Crack-Loving Bebe
Tuesday, July 21, 2009

I sincerely believe that my almost two year old, Izzy, purposefully makes a grand mess of herself at dinner so that she can harangue a second bath or shower out of me. First, she loves water more than any kid I've ever known. I start the shower in the morning and she opens the door and sits down right under the icy water squealing with absolute delight while I stand safely outside the glass door waiting for the water to warm. Second, she doesn't embody the food at any other meal, just dinner. Third, she does this food performance art at the very end of the meal, my guess being that she doesn't want to have to remain in the gooey, ketchup bedazzled, yogurt-haired, jellied-nose state for too long. Likewise, when she is done rubbing the remains of pizza up her forearms and stringing linguine between her toes or letting a few pieces of chocolate(proud parent moment #52- my husband, himself a chocolate fiend, has taught the bebe to call chocolate crack) artfully melt betwixt her fingertips and finger paints herself like some pornographic, viral video I have heard about but not seen, she looks into my eyes and says baf? showa? as if it were a foregone conclusion.

Proud parent moment #53, this one my fault. Izzy used do raspberries with mouthfuls of milk. She did this while laying on her back, thus spraying milk all over her face and earning her the nickname, Bukake Bebe(Grandma, please don't google bukake). I know, I know, having her ball her little fists, get all red in the face and shout, "mo crack pop-pop, more crack pease" and giving her TripleX nicknames is not exactly an auspicious beginning. Whatever, my mom let me dress like a whore (for Halloween mostly) and pretend to smoke her cigarettes and I turned out okay, sorta.

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He Said, She Said (and the Bebe Said)
Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Him: You're my little ciabatta.
Me: What?
Him: I said you're my little ciabatta.
Me: I'm your bread?
Him: Well if you can call me Dagwood than I should be able to call you my little ciabatta.
Me:What you really mean is ciabutta.
Him: Fine, now I'm going to put my panini in your ciabutta?
Me: Too many carbs no thanks.

Him: Well than I guess you are one bicycle riding fish.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Bebe, as babies do, is making connections and learning a slew of new words each day. She makes generalizations so the word 'draw' becomes the word for everything related to drawing, the paper, the pencils, the crayons and the completed pictures themselves. She has finally learned the names of all of the fruit rather than call everything round 'apple.' She still, however, connects everything with long blonde hair to me. So when she holds her sisters Hanna Montana alarm clock, she points at the sixteen year old blonde and says "Mama" matter of factly. Same goes for Barbie, look "Mama" she says to her sister, pushing the Barbie in her sister's face. That's not Mom, her sister says like I'm the furthest thing from Barbie.(I know, I know, it's time for a touch up on the highlights, I'm doing the best I can). Is it a sign of my desire to conform to ideal beauty types that it makes me feel just a little bit good that my daughter think I can pass for a teen superstar and an unrealistic female archetype? Probably, but I will consider these comments like armor for the ones to come. Like when my now five year old said she hopes her butt is big like mine when she grows up. Or when she looked at my wedding pictures and said, Mom you are so skinny then. Sigh, have you been talking to your father?

Speaking of fathers, the bebe also generalizes in the Daddy department. What does Daddy get compared to? The Blues Clues guy gets called Daddy, Kai-lan's grandpa and yes, even the chocolate-skinned, orange jump suited Yo-Gabba-Gabba guy.

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Mauna Kea Kisses
Tuesday, June 23, 2009

My husband, the technosexual man, had Mauna Kea on his short list of must sees.



Okay, first a quick briefing for those of you unfamiliar with Mauna Kea(like I was).

Mauna Kea hosts the world's largest astronomical observatory, with telescopes operated by astronomers from over eleven countries.

Telescopes found at the summit of Mauna Kea are funded by government agencies of various nations.

• Caltech Submillimeter Observatory (CSO): Caltech
• Canada France Hawai'i Telescope (CFHT): Canada, France, University of Hawai'i
• Gemini North Telescope: United States, United Kingdom, Canada, Chile, Australia, Argentina, Brazil
• Infrared Telescope Facility (IRTF): NASA
• James Clerk Maxwell Telescope (JCMT): United Kingdom, Canada, Netherlands
• Subaru Telescope: National Astronomical Observatory of Japan
• Sub-Millimeter Array (SMA): Taiwan, United States
• United Kingdom Infrared Telescope (UKIRT): United Kingdom
• University of Hawai'i 88-inch (2.2 m) telescope (UH88): University of Hawai'i
• University of Hawai'i 24-inch (610 mm) telescope (UH24): University of Hawaii at Hilo
• One receiver of the Very Long Baseline Array (VLBA): United States
• W. M. Keck Observatory: California Association for Research in Astronomy

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Greetings From Hawaii
Saturday, June 20, 2009

In spite of the very, very relaxed expressions on our faces, we do in fact miss you guys. Izzy, we miss you shouting from your crib because you threw all of your favorite stuffed animals out because you were mad you had to go to bed an now you want us to retrieve them so you can go to sleep. Josh, we miss telling you to pick up your socks and take out the garbage and to get your fingers out of your mouth. Clare, we miss the whining, the head in the clouds huhs? that are exclusively yours.

Okay, we don't really miss that, but we do miss this.

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Things I Do When I Should Be Working
Sunday, June 14, 2009

Gene and I are getting ready to go on vacation Wednesday and I have been telling him to get a haircut, maybe pestering is more accurate. So I made a little movie to let him know that I realize I can be kind of bossy.

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Well At Least There Were No Issues With Wire Hangers
Saturday, June 13, 2009

The Milwaukee Public Museum was always my favorite with its dark and vaguely ominous Streets of Old Milwaukee exhibit and the oddly static but roaring dinos that every city's museum seems to have. With a great downtown and Chicago at our doorstep we did schloads of field trips, the art museum, the Field Museum in Chicago, the symphony, the kids theatre, the kid's science museum. The field trips are some of my fondest school memories.

My mom was a single working parent, and more than a little fly by the seat of her pants. So while most of the kids got kickass paper sack lunches with Capri Suns and multi-layered sandwiches and bags of Doritos, and Little Debbie snack cakes, me? I usually got my mom's leftover t-bone from her client dinner the night before encased in tinfoil shaped like a swan . Really Mom, how is a seven year old supposed to eat steak on the bone in a museum cafeteria with no knife?

Thrown in for good measure was a hard boiled egg with a little plastic baggie filled with salt, and a Tab. Who gives their kids Tab? And salt? No wonder I'm only five foot tall. My kids school hasn't done much so far in the way of field trips and I've been far too lazy a parent to take them anywhere good. Sigh. But at least I make my children proper lunches.

Notice the expression on my face when I realize a 17 year old and 19 year old
are resposible with rearing me. Oh oh!

Though I was grateful when I finally was allowed to buy “hot lunch”, lunches were not the only thing that suffered as a result of having a harried career mom. My mother was only seventeen when she had me, so when I was seven, she was just twenty-four, not exactly the apex of responsibility. Still, she was a creative problem solver.

Many mornings she would sleep through her alarm clock. Rather than bark at me to hurry up she'd say, ok, it's a race, whoever gets dressed first wins! My mom knew only too well my competitive streak and I would yank my pants on in a flurry and string my clear plastic glitter belt through my belt loops missing most of them. No socks, socks took too long to get on, pebbly because they were from like three years ago and way too tight. Brushed teeth? Time waster. I think I may have even inadvertently gone to school with my shirt on inside out more than once. Yet, as a hungry seven year old, my stomach would not let me forget about breakfast. "Breakfast?" She'd say on the days we were minutes away from being both tardy and fired, "not everyone eats breakfast every morning." Seriously Mom, couldn't you have stocked a few lousy Poptarts?

I'm not saying that my mom neglected me, just that she neglected to pick me up from school a few times. There I'd sit on the steps at school, reading my book, waiting for my mom's red Pontiac to pull in the circle drive. Moments like these in part probably explain why I became such an avid reader. As it neared four o'clock, the teachers exited the building, most of them giving me the odd worried look but saying nothing. Occasionally, the young, fresh, helpful new ones would ask, where's your mom honey? "She's on her way," I'd say, knowing even at seven I was going to be able to milk this one awhile.

My mom didn't let me smoke, she just let me pretend to smoke, totally different.

It wasn't always easy being the only child of a single mom trying to make the mortgage and compete in the workforce. As a radio salesperson, she worked long hours and weekends, but the job did have it's perks. Trade was something reps worked out with local businesses, free goods and services for free commercial time. The intent was Joe's restaurant got some commercials and the station reps could take clients to Joe's for lunches on the house. I didn't realize that not everyone's mom could just sign her name to the bill with her business card and leave. These lunches and dinners were meant for clients but especially in the early days of making ends meet, we had many “business” meals together my mother and I. Many of the restaurants were very nice, not exactly normal for a child. It was here that I first developed a taste for very good food. I was hardly sixteen when I was grilling our local butcher on which steaks he was giving me. Don't you have any that are better marbled I'd ask, are these dry aged? Prime?

When I have my finer moments of parenting and fear I've scarred my kids for good, I just look back to my own childhood. Were it not for the missteps, I would not have the sense of humor I do. Most of my favorite funny people have a wry and witty sense of humor breed as an elaborate self-defense mechanism--tragedy begets comedy. Were I to be the perfect mother, I would be denying my children stories to harangue me with later and that in itself is a form of child abuse, no? So in my epic fail moments I sit back and consider that my mistakes will someday be reflected upon by my own kids as they traverse the rocky waters of parenthood.

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Oh Oh, She's Back on Her Soapbox Again
Friday, June 12, 2009

Yes, here it comes, a small but significant rant.

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Goodbye Thirty Five, Hello Thirty Six
Thursday, June 4, 2009

Goodbye perfectly smooth feet and snag free manicured fingernails. I have discovered gardening and can't be bothered to remember to put my gloves on or wear shoes. Seeing that I devote nearly 23 hours of everyday to 1 husband , three kids, two cats, a dog, and a small business-- that only leaves me about an hour to devote to my own personal care needs and a girls gotta poop sometime.

Goodbye luxurious silky mane. I won't cut you off anytime soon but gone are the days of regular trims and deep conditioning. The baby is finally past grabbing fistfuls of you and ripping you out so I'm hoping you fill in from time to time but until then, can you recommend a good volumizing shampoo?Goodbye regular reading. We had it so good didn't we? Just you and I, we were inseparable. It seemed like all we ever did was go on long weekends together, exotic vacations or just hole up together and spend the whole weekend in bed. Now I treat you like the old, smelly family pet saying hi once in awhile but rarely getting down for a good snuggle.

Goodbye going braless, you guys are still fighting the good fight but you've let me down a little. The weight of it all has pushed me to join a daily support group.

Goodbye smoking, I gave you up for good a long time ago but don't think that I don't still think of you nearly every day. You were good for a quick diet or after a fight with my mom or a reward/ break on Saturdays cleaning the house. You have been missed but I don't miss the way you made me feel. You treated me bad, come on, you know you did. I broke up with you but I took you back a few times. There were a few late night booty calls after a night out but no more, it hurts a little to say this but I'm really over you.

Goodbye size six and maybe even eight, I hope I see you again soon but this baby thing is really getting in the way. Yes, maybe I should be working out instead of blogging but I don't want to.

Goodbye extra cash, I'd like you to meet the new guy, Three Kids Who Want Bachelor Degree's At Minimum. Yes, I'm not sure I like the new guy either but he's here, handcuffed to my card sliding arm, reminding me every time I get into three digits at Target that I'm a bad mom who didn't really need that new stripey cardigan.

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Any Given Saturday
Friday, May 29, 2009

He put the ring on my finger and held me tight. We had already made a million promises to each other but this one cemented all the others.

"Let's go celebrate," he said.

"I have to shower and change," I said thinking of my couch-raggled hair, rumpled clothes and raccoon eyes. I looked at my hands, two days of work had ravaged them and no self-respecting newly fianceed girl could go out with this piece of art on my hand with ragged nails and chipped polish. So, the boyfriend who was now the fiance made himself a peanut butter sandwich to tide himself over while I did my girly ministrations. We went and had dinner and I not so subtly admired the way my ring cast prisms all around it when it caught the light. We ate good food and lightweights that we are, got all silly on one Mojito each and we went on like before, but different.

Today is our anniversary, well, actually it's his. We have two. The first one is our Vegas wedding where it was just the two of us, holding hands waiting for our turn at the Little Chapel of the Flowers. The second, our family wedding in Wisconsin, has become my anniversary.

Happy Anniversary Gene. I love you babe. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You mellow out all my less than stellar qualities and you bring out the very best in me. You tell me I'm beautiful/hottie/rockin' milf/heinyrific/bootytastic/fp nearly every day and you tell me you love me at least twice each day.
You are supportive of every silly idea, notion or secret longing of mine. I waited so long to find you and finding you, my partner in crime, is the biggest reason why I believe in fate. You coming into my life was serendipitous, everyday magic.
I can walk into a room full of women and know without a doubt that there isn't one woman in there who is treated better than I am. You respect me, you protect me. You tease me, you let me have my way much more than is truly equitable.
You are my soft place to land and my favorite person to nerd out with. Me, the one who's usually pretty good with words can't even begin to capture how much you mean to me. I hope we make it, I know that sounds pessimistic but lots of good couples lose it, whatever the 'it' was that made it work. I never went into this marriage thing with the hubris that we were any better or more special or somehow smarter than all the other people who faced the precipice of matrimony and jumped off. I know we're not bullet proof, I only hope we will grow together, resting firmly on this foundation we've laid. I love you and I look forward to rolling over in bed and seeing your handsome wrinkled face when we're old and smell weird.

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Hornicopia - Random Bits
Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Every so often I get a food compulsion where I literally want to eat a certain food everyday for a couple of days or weeks and then I'm over it, rarely will I eat it again. My most recent compulsion is salt and vinegar potato chips. I don't even particularly like potato chips but apparently when you slather them in vinegar powder and citric acid they sing my siren song.

Normally, I would grab the individual snack size bag but I was at the grocery store and saw a larger bag and thought, this bag suits my salt and vinegar potato chip needs far better than the single serving size bag. I was eating my lunch(yes, the salt and vinegar potato chips)(yes, only the salt and vinegar potato chips, well and a diet coke) when I noticed on the package it said sharing size. Sharing size? Fuck that, I'm an only child and probably a dog in a past life, I don't share my food with anyone. So I ate the whole bag myself and half of my tongue dissolved and I feel kind of dehydrated like I drank a gallon of pickle juice but no one was getting near my chips. By the way, do you think they are healthier since they were thick cut? In my mind the thicker chips actually contain more potato thereby really qualifying as health food, no?

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Picture This
Tuesday, May 26, 2009

My husband, in addition to his day job, operates a photo & slide scanning/photo restoration/photo to dvd movie business. So if you have any photo scanning needs of any kind, any, let me know. Sorry, husband said since I force him to read my blog all the time I have to at least pimp him a little.

Anyhow, I help out, especially when there are large jobs since I have more extra time being that I only see clients at the spa on Fridays and Saturdays. I have become adept at things I never wanted to, like handling 35mm slides without my fingers ever touching the film. I can unjam the slide feeder with my eyes shut. I understand the technical meaning of DPI and I can tell you what is the best resolution for what you are intending to use your images for. I know how to apply corrections to eliminate scratches, dust and even correct overexposure and funky colors. I can even Photoshop your arm flab or pimples. I have seen nearly every size of film available from the standard to the more obscure large format film and I scanned film shipped to us all the way from Norway.

It's all rather boring I'm afraid. Well, that is except for one part--the pictures. I have seen more of some peoples families than they have. I have seen pictures from so far back that no one smiled and the photos were just a step or two above the daguerreotype. I have seen the ubiquitous seventies family with their shag carpeting and wood paneling and brightly colored crocheted afghans strewn over funky couches. I have seen fifties mom--her hair artfully curled with a precision I don't see in today's mom, thank heavens. I have peered at her sturdy heels, red lipstick and weary, hopeful expression.

Here is the thing that strikes me, that I have noticed after perusing thousands, tens of thousands of pictures. We are all the same. No one is special except to each other. There is no one that isn't loved by someone. No one will live forever. No matter how beautiful you are, one day you will become old and droopy and if you are lucky, gazing into the beautiful faces of your grandchildren.

There are pictures everyone has. The baby asleep in the highchair, the war wedding, the picnic, the small kitchen overflowing with family and food. There are young mothers, their faces smiling but the exhaustion still apparent. There are fathers holding their babies, exposing the tender side of even the most hardened, inaccessible men. There are the pictures of people in front of new homes small and grand. There are the family vacations both tense and fun. There are the kids at Halloween, whether it's the fifties hobos, cowboys and tramps or the more modern Ninja heroes and Disney princesses. There are the aging grandparents gingerly holding their great grandchildren, broad smiles washing over their faces making them look years younger if only for that moment.

We are all the same. It makes me feel so small and so big. Like I said, it means none of us matter in the end except to the people for whom we do. Rather than make me feel insignificant, I find this is really very good news. I need to keep this in mind when I worry too much what people think or spend too much time aspiring to greatness forgetting the micro in search of the macro. It is useful to remember when I worry too much about stuff or trivialities because it can keep things in perspective when one remembers that nothing is lasting, except maybe the photographic memory left behind.

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Daddy Done Good
Sunday, May 10, 2009

I know it will probably take you a week or more to read this but you know that whole Mother's Day? Yeah you did really good. See I realize this in part because I orchestrate Father's Day and at least at this age, Mom and Dad generally have to pull the whole thing together.

I loved that you recognized how much satisfaction the garden is giving me and got me the solar lights so that at night after dinner when you are sprawled among the children watching an episode of Star Trek or the Your Baby Can Read videos(that I bought off of Ebay and think are pirated but the baby really likes them) I can go sit outside by myself and take in the smells of fresh dirt, gardenias, jasmine, freesia, orange blossom and cypress or sit on the swing filling my mom in on the kid's latest escapades.

I love my new trees. This Wisconsin girl never dreamed of a yard where I could pick a lemon off a tree for my diet coke or tell the kids if they want a snack to go outside and get an orange. I pined for the Cara Cara orange tree with it's sweet pink fruit, my variegated lemon tree the perfect compliment to the Meyer Lemon I already have and the tangerine. Unlike chocolates or even flowers, I will think of you every time I pick lemons off the tree to make lemonade or peel a tangerine while I walk barefoot through the grass with the bebe or bring a basket of extra fruit to a friend.

I adore my tomato trellises, I cherish my tongue depressor garden signs and crafted kid gifts and yes even though we tease about appliances doubling as gifts I love my new coffee maker. Breakfast was wonderful but of course you grace me with breakfast and coffee nearly every morning. Don't ever think that I don't know how spoiled I am.

You did good Daddy. Which is why I insisted you and the boy go see Star Trek yes on Mother's Day. Thanks for such a great Mother's Day and tell James T. Kirk I say hi.

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Soapbox Part Deux
Monday, May 4, 2009

The question has been asked. What exactly is so wrong with things like Bratz dolls?

First, let me direct this at the parents who buy Bratz dolls or have kids that watch Hannah Montana and the like. I don't think any of these things are inherently evil or bad for our kids. Much in the same way I don't think Heavy Metal can cause some teen to commit suicide, I also don't think a Bratz doll is going to turn a girl into a passive pole-dancing, no-voting, abuse allowing woman.

And still, I have a problem with the Bratz dolls and other toys like them. It's the same problem I have with women's fashion magazines. Even as adult women, we look at these and emulate them, aspire to them, we want what they wear, we want their smooth thighs, visible collar bones and thick hair. A lot of the things we want are a product of the images we have been bombarded with. High heels are not a natural feminine construct, they are what society has told us is feminine and sexy. Now, I love high heels but I love them in part because what they have come to represent for me.

Our girls look at the world around them to construct their idea of what they should and can be. It's not a conscious decision, it's choices made based on the choices we provide them.

I hear a lot of parents say, why can't we allow the girls their own predispositions to in part determine what kind of girl they will be? Oh, we should. One of my points in the previous post was that without a lot of interference, I was naturally a very girly girl, many of our girls are. So yes, the dolls and the pink and the dress up are fine. But why do we have to let them be sexy or provocative. Why do we need to allow them to aspire to icons and images that are unreal and unreachable. Isn't it bad enough that we already force this upon ourselves? Don't we already know as women how difficult it is to unprogram ourselves even in the full glaring light of the knowledge of why these images are thrown at us and how inconceivably unreal they are. And don't we still quietly aspire to them? Don't we want better for our girls?

Let me pose it to you another way, is it ok for our sons to be sexy and provocative. Should we dress them in uncomfortable tight pants and low necked shirts? Have you looked at the differences in the cut of girls and boys jeans lately? I remember a day when girls and boys jeans were nearly identical. Now, boys jeans are cut for comfort and movement, girls for silhouette. Even as moms we see images of cute girls and want our girls to be cute, we want them to be accepted, socially popular. My husband and I have a little rule of thumb with regard to the clothing we dress our girls in; if on me it would be sexy or fetishwear, it's not appropriate for our girls.


Like I said, I don't think letting your kid play with Bratz makes you an irresponsible parent but I do think we need to look at these things critically. None of our kids toys are just toys. Every toy we hand our children is a teaching tool. So we need to vigilantly ask ourselves, what is this particular thing or image teaching? I'll use an example of toy selection. I loved Barbies growing up and even though I am slightly conflicted about their impact on girls self-concept, I have allowed my girls to play with them. My five year old has Soccer Barbie, Barbie Space Camp, and Veterinarian Barbie. She doesn't have Barbie Totally Stylin Tattoos, Barbie Totally Nails, Barbie Wedding Day or Barbie Fantasy Groom. Can the girls aspire to be pretty, yes. Should they aspire to be pretty for pretty's sake? Are we making this too important to them by parading images of "beauty"? Are we making marriage and weddings a fantasy? Why not Barbie Totally PHD or Barbie Small Business Owner or Barbie Cures Cancer or Barbie EcoPatrol? You may say that your girls wouldn't want to play with these dolls but we don't even give them the chance. Instead we limit their options by telling them that the hair and the clothes and the accessories are the most important. I want to help define my daughters(and my sons for that matter) self-concept, not let Disney and Mattel do it.

Like many of you, I think you can allow your children to be around some of this. I don't think any of these things are inherently evil but my girls are bombarded with enough of these images every time we go out, I don't want to add to it at home.

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Stay-Cation

Sometims I forget as I dream about distant tropical locals and old European cities that I have a pretty kickass backyard.

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Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon(Enough)
Wednesday, April 29, 2009

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of my mom's coral floral quilted makeup bag. It was filled with pink plastic refillable Mary Kay eyeshadows and waxy eyeliners, hot pink tubes of mascara and soft swirly brushes that I recall my mom sweeping across my cheeks some mornings, no doubt with nothing on them.

On rare occasions, my mom would let me take this bag out onto the front porch of our house and I'd play with it, removing the items from the bag carefully, setting them up on the rough concrete step. I would unscrew the tubes of lipstick and line them up so that I could see the shades of bricks, peonies, roses that I could choose from.

The tweezers got ignored in favor of more colorful pots of powder. I would carefully sweep the shadows across my eyes, using the liner to trace my eyes appraising my own face, layering the liner until I looked like a seven year old blonde straggly, bruised-knee Cleopatra. My lips pursed in a pout, I used my superior skills gleaned from coloring books to follow the lines.

I'd look into the big swirly blue plastic handheld mirror trying it all on for size, trying to hasten the day that I'd be able to wear this stuff all the time. Then I'd usually return to my room, put the Grease soundtrack on the white leatherlike box turntable. I'd put on the closest thing I had to the outfits and reenact nearly the entire movie in my bedroom. I was an only child, this is how I passed time.

I remember a night around this time, I must have been maybe nine or ten tops. It was a sticky Wisconsin summer evening and my mom and I had gone to see a late movie. We would frequently pay for one, stay for two. We drove home in her car with the windows rolled down, the swirling air drying the perspiration, cooling our skin. Bored, I fished through my mother's purse, handling the sundry of objects. The tan crumpled pack of Winston lights that I would frequently take out and pantomime my best Marlene Dietrich or Faye Dunaway, her smudgy sunglasses sliding down my nose, Chapstick covered with stray tobacco and purse lint, pens, lighters, a stray tampon flinging itself free from the thin paper wrapper rendering itself useless in all but the most dire of emergencies.

I found the tube of lipstick and put it on, using the streetlights to see by. I sat on my knees in the passenger seat, no doubt without a seatbelt, to appear taller, and I looked out at the passing cars waiting to be looked at. I saw a truck with two men in it and I tilted my head so that my blonde hair was caught by the wind coming in and whipped around. I didn't look at them but pursed my lips out, angled my head and felt at some point that I was being looked at. I looked briefly and could see that they were smiling at me and angling to move into the lane closest to ours. My mom finally noticed them, the driver almost hanging out of the car trying to get our attention, as they got closer I watched the drivers face change to disbelief as he must have finally realized I was just a girl.

So what's the point of this trip down memory lane you ask. I don't remember how much early conditioning I had in the girly arts but my mom was not overly fixated on her appearance and while my grandmother had fun things like hat pins and long bright pink fingered gloved and hard lucite purses and hats with veils and leopard spotted coats, day to day, she mostly wore polyester pants, cheap shoes and tank tops and garden gloves. I think I was one very girly girl from pretty early on. You could have presented me a case full of shiny new hotwheels or some ratty silver platforms, cats eye glasses and a balding feather boa and I would have picked the accessories every single time.

I am a feminist. I believe in equal opportunities. I strive to give my children a common experience. In our household, everyone cooks, everyone cleans, everyone soothes, everyone cares for children. I am strong, feminine, I wear skirts frequently more out comfort than convention. I typically wear makeup when I leave the house and when my husband and I go out, you'll usually find me in heels although I admit they are uncomfortable and crippling. In spite of having three children and a fuck lot to do, I cannot seem to part with my long hair though occasionally I will longingly imagine a cute bob that air drys in ten minutes.

So I am okay with my daughters wanting to play dress up and enjoying my application of makeup whiskers to their Halloween kitty costumes. I am not concerned by my five year old's near insistence that she wear pink because she can also explain the basics of photosynthesis.

What I am concerned about is the sexualization of girls. I am concerned about the images of girls and women portrayed in what are supposed to be children's shows. I am concerned when parents allow the imagery of Miley Cyrus and Britney Spears and others to take a strong enough hold that these created, manufactured images become what is aspired to. I am concerned that later, when these idolized girls do silly and not so silly things, parents allow these same girls who idolize these girls to watch programs where their mistakes or heedless actions are put on display, given attention to and of course, tacit approval. I am concerned that parents willingly purchase and allow into their home dolls and toys that encourage young girls to be provocative and precocious.

One of the things I remember that night the men in the truck mistook me for a woman was that beauty or the attention of men was it's own kind of power and powerlessness. It could be the thing a prospective employer looked at instead of your talent. It could be a message you got that how you look is more important than who you are. It could come in often unwanted jeers from strange men. It could erase thoughts of science and math and discovery and replace them with outfits and insecurities and attempts to be pleasing. For a woman it is an everyday double edge sword, for a girl, it is an albatross, a burden, an unfair responsibility, choppy waters that they are unprepared to navigate.

This is not what empowerment looks like.

Postscript: When I was searching online for an appropriate title, I came across this, a very thoughtful look at this very same subject.

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Child Abuse
Thursday, April 23, 2009

I'm not sure but I think this might come up in therapy later.

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Easter Phony
Saturday, April 11, 2009

So the boy was talking to the hubs Friday about the Easter bunny. He wanted to know why the stuff from the Easter bunny has UPC codes on it. Hubs said, “What, you think a bunny actually manufactures all the stuff?”

Disaster averted.

Until I brought home the Easter basket crap and hubs and I were in the kitchen assembling the baskets when the boy “just happened” to come in an hour after bedtime into the kitchen to get a drink(which he never does). Mind you, the big kids have their own cups in the bathroom where they normally get a drink so he was sniffing around for sure.

He comes in and sees all the loot on the table and his eyes get as big as my mother-in-law's ass.

"Get in bed," my husband shouted, and he smugly walked back to his bedroom.

"Little fucker," I say, "what a Snoopy McSnooperson."

"Geez," hubs said, "what do I tell him now? Easter is over as we know it. Christmas and the tooth fairy can't be far behind."

"I know," I pipe in, "tell him that the Easter bunny had to lay off some workers, you know, the recession and all and since he's short on people, he had to spread deliveries over three days instead of just Sunday and since there have been so many layoffs and cutbacks, he's understaffed and just dropping off the stuff this year and making all the parents actually assemble the baskets. "

"Fuck it, it's over." hubs relented.

"Look on the bright side," I offered," if he knows that all the loot comes from us, maybe he'll start sucking up a little, it would be nice to finally get a little credit for all of this fairytale stuff.

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'Da Butts

She has been doing a lot of this lately and it cracks me up. I don't know what all 'da butts stuff is but I think she means buttons. The video is about three minutes long, too long for most of you but I think she says fuck at about minute 3:20. That's my girl.

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Oh the Humanity
Tuesday, April 7, 2009

I looked not unlike a Weeble Wobble, sort of egg-shaped like one of those plastic toys that according to the manufacturer, “wobble but don't fall down.” I was nearing the end of my pregnancy and on my way home after a long day at work. My feet hurt, my legs were swollen, my ankles nonexistent. I was crabby, exhausted, resentful to still be working and not at all looking forward to coming home to two needy, exhaustively chatty kids and one husband who probably had not picked up the house, started homework or saved some dinner for me. My car had become the setting for a very large personal pity party and I was headed home with a boulder-size chip on my shoulder.

I slowed my car to a stop at the red light and that's when I saw him. He had amazingly clear blue eyes and as they met mine, his face broke out into the widest, most friendly smile I had seen for days. His hand went up and he waved wildly at me hunkering his head down a little in my direction so I knew it was for me. I couldn't help it, I forgot my building tirade and I smiled and waved back. It was one of those odd simple moments where I am reminded of my humanity.

He must have been in his late thirties or early forties but he looked closer to seventy. I don't know if the drink had done it, meth or the other cornucopia of drugs that can drag a person to the depths. Maybe it was mental illness or a combination of all of them. His skin was thick and leathery and tanned to the color of a saddle from his days outdoors. His pants were too long and too big, cinched around his thin waist with a belt. His long hair was greasy and pulled back in a ponytail. I saw his shopping cart parked next to a pair of defunct pay phones, well within his sight protecting what were no doubt his only possessions.

I started crying as the light changed to green and I continued home. Maybe it was the hormones, maybe it was the humanity. I don't mean to say that just because a person smiles, he or she is happy but in my mind I considered that if he could smile, why couldn't I. I contemplated that long ago, he was someone's baby boy with big clear blue eyes, small chubby fingers and a host of needs and wants. I remembered that nearly all of us start there, perfect, unsullied, a blank canvas. Then we are written on and sometimes scribbled and scratched and crumpled up and thrown away. It is just a matter of luck and circumstance that some of us can rebound while others of us spiral further and further down.

I considered my pretty house, healthy children, caring husband, my warm bed with clean soft sheets, my hot shower, my warm and satisfying meals, my children's hugs, my safety net. Yes it may seem like a pretty obvious a-ha moment or a little Lifetime but that day, that short, probably three minute light shifted my paradigm. Gratitude is a funny thing, it comes and goes, I am reminded at least weekly of the constant need to refocus, be grateful, be kind. These small reminders are gifts, small pokes and pinches to pull us back to the reality of how good most of us have it, how much better a hand fate has dealt us. I don't mean that personal responsibility doesn't have a hand in it but how many of us could be that person were it not for the resources of health care, mental health, recovery, family not willing to let us sink, kind friends and partners who perhaps filled the gaps and holes childhood left behind or a simple, clawing tenacity to not be left behind.

One of my most recent personal goals has been to do more of the things that I intend to. I think intent is a powerful thing but action even more so. A few months back, a neighbor of ours lost a seventeen year old son. My husband and I went back and forth trying to think of something we could do for them. We don't know them at all, we've never even introduced ourselves but we wanted to make a gesture, to do something that would perhaps ease even just a moment or show that they were in our thoughts. Should we bring dinner? I thought they really don't know us well enough where they would just eat something we brought over. Then we thought maybe some muffins and fruit and things that would be good to have on hand when people stop by. Death so frequently brings company. Then I thought, muffins? Fucking muffins? Why do I think that me bringing over a basket of muffins will do anything to make anything better for this family. What did we end up doing? Nothing. I couldn't think of something appropriate, something I was sure would be taken the right way and seen as a kindness and not an intrusion. I was ashamed that I had really intended to do something and I didn't, because it was just easier not to.

So I have been on a mission of making my actions match my intentions. Which brings me to my blue eyed fellow human. I literally see him in that same spot every time I leave work for home, I don't know how I never noticed him before. Ever since that day that he gave me that gift of gratitude, I have intended to pull in the parking lot near where he waves and panhandles. I've wanted to tell him that he made a bad day better, that he touched something in me, that he spared my family from my anger and hostility that day.

I used to be judgemental and self-righteous about giving people money I knew would be used to buy alcohol and drugs but now I think, who am I to tell this person what they need or don't need to get through the day. In addition to verbalizing my thanks, I wanted to give him some money. In part because I have attachments to money and in my fledgling study of Buddhism, one of the goals is to release your attachment to things. Mind you not get rid of all money, but loosen one's attachment to it.

I most certainly have attachments to money, which means I worry, mostly needlessly about having enough. It makes me stingy because I think, what if my children need this someday, what if I want something and I don't have enough money, what if my husband loses his job again or my shop goes down the tubes. Still none of this is real and my mantra, which I have to remind myself of frequently, is 'I have everything I need, I always have enough'. I had just worked and had cash in my pocket. I also wanted to make his day the way he made mine, maybe he could find a cheap room for the night, take a hot shower, sleep in a warm bed, sleep safely.

I have intended to do this for about twenty months, that's over six hundred and twenty days of intending to do something. This past Saturday, I finally did it.

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She
Monday, April 6, 2009

Several months back, Chris, one of my favorite reads, asked me to guest post. He gave me a jumping off point-- 1995. 1995? Many of you might have taken the hop over to his place to see my post but here it is for those of you unfamiliar with using links. Yes Grandma, I mean you.

In 1995, I was twenty-one, finishing my last year of college. I had taken the LSAT and scored in the top 7%* in the country, I had limitless options as far as law schools went but I could not get my head around whether or not I actually wanted to be a lawyer. Did I want to travel? Tired of being poor, should I get a job? I know one part of me wanted to write, even then, however, in my family “artistic” pursuits got shelved for “real jobs”. I never really thought it was an option. I had so many people telling me what I should and shouldn't do that I couldn't hear myself think.

I look back to those days and hardly recognize myself. Those were probably some of the most difficult days for me, that tumultuous transition between childhood and adulthood. Not legal adulthood mind you, but adult in the sense that you truly take care of yourself and make your own decisions. I was terribly unsure of myself back then. I was still living under the roof of my very opinionated mother, running almost every decision past her because I didn't trust myself. I was, and continue to be, the extroverted introvert. Shy and slightly uncomfortable in social situations, being funny and gregarious is my defense mechanism to overcome that anxiety. I only appear socially adept.

I thought about how much of what I know now I wish I had known then. I imagine sitting down with my twenty-one year old self. What would I tell her if I had the chance? How could I better prepare her? I'm sure the things I'd say will continue to evolve, but at thirty-five, this is what I'd pass along.

1-You are not the only one who is insecure and unsure of yourself, in this regard, you are just like everyone else which should be comforting.

2-Don't be ashamed or embarrassed about being smart, later on you'll find the best men like the smart girls.

3-You need some breathing room away from your family to figure out who you are and what you want.

4-With regard to said family, just so you know, they're not always right.

5-Tennis? Volleyball? Ballet? So what if you're hopelessly uncoordinated? Especially since really, you're not, your just so self conscious that you get yourself all torqued up and forget to move your body. These are things you want to try, so what if you look silly, what do you care? Guess what? Most people are too self-absorbed to care what you're doing anyway.

6-Stop being so afraid of failing. You think half the people out there are misguided and misinformed anyway so why do you care what they think?

7-You think you're not pretty and you need to figure out why you think that because it's not true.

8-Go easy on the carbs and you'll lose that babyfat. Stop eating salads with ranch dressing and cheese, in spite of what you think, this is not going to help you lose weight and frankly, it tastes awful.

9-Your parents can only give you the tools they have so you are not going to be armed with everything you need. Some things you'll figure out the hard way, other tools you can get through some keen observation, the latter is far easier.

10-You got the short straw in the dad department. His behavior has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don't deserve it, you didn't do anything to cause it. You are not difficult to love and in time, you will figure out how to trust men again.

11-With regard to men, you seriously have to expect more.

12-That thing you do, you know the thing I'm talking about, you need to stop doing it on the first date.

13-Get yourself a good therapist(see #9 & #10)

14-Clean up those eyebrows already, bushy brows are so 1995.

15-One word, sunscreen.

16-Quit smoking today.

17-Trust your gut. Whether it's school, men, friends, you know more than you think you do.

*I never actually attended law school so that 7% is the sum of my bragging rights.

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I See London, I See France
Saturday, April 4, 2009

My five year old is at the stage where she has and wants to wear jeans but has not figured out that girl trick of hoisting them all the way up. Likewise, she only snaps or buttons them about fifty percent of the time.
At the end of the day, I suppose I should be grateful that I see her giant "granny panties" hanging out of her jeans and not a thong.

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What Do People Do During an Economic Depression?
Wednesday, April 1, 2009

They eat and they, well, you know, do other things that don't cost money(well, at least not if you're married).

The husband started a new job a month back, a real job, for real pay. Not the 50% of his pay scale job he first accepted in a mad dash to be employed. I didn't want to mention it for fear of jinxing it but things have mellowed considerably here at the maison 'de formerlyfun. He is still in high gear as he proves his mettle at the new digs but the heavy cloud of what ifs has passed for now.

Still, we continue to be in belts tightened mode, if for nothing more than to replenish the savings we spent the first part of the year. We've looked to do things that are entertaining and cheap(each other) and we've eaten from home most of the time. My grandparents, who were Depression-era, took a great pleasure in food. I don't know if it is because they remember lean and hungry times or if food was a measure of wealth, simple pleasures or all of the above.

I've always been an adept cook but I've never been much for baking. When I was single I didn't attempt baking because I knew I'd be the one eating all of my experiments and this could make singleton status permanent. With the rigors of young family life, who had time to dish up some fruit and yogurt much less make a cake or a pie. But then came the economic downturn and time on my hands with little money to spare. Additionally, have you noticed how blech most of the things from the grocery bakery taste? Why does nothing have butter in it anymore? I don't want lard in my frosting dammit. Sugar and Crisco do not great flavours make, I don't care how much pink food coloring you put in it.

So with my husband's birthday around the corner, I decided to attempt a homemade birthday cake. Caveat, much like my grandmother's idea of homemade, I mean a box cake, not just dumped into a sheet pan, with homemade frosting and something thrown on top. So I decided to make a devil's food cake with Swiss buttercream(yes, real butter, about 8 sticks thank you very much)frosting and a chocolate drizzle, mmmmmm. My first attempt I used two round cake pans, a mix, a recipe for the frosting, with included doing a bain-marie(fancy french name for warming something in a water bath rather than directly on the burner) and some shaky decorating skills.

This is what I got:

This is what it looked like after photo retouching. Yes, even cakes can be airbrushed.

So it was two layers and yes, it tasted damn fine. There is nothing that compares to frosting with butter and sugar versus high fructose corn syrup and hydrogenated vegetable oil.

So this was the tester cake because I had really only ever made like two cakes before and didn't want to 'practice' for the hubs birthday. After this one turned out so delicious, I got a little cocky and decided to go three layers. I changed up the decor a little and ended up with this bad boy.

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