Formerly Fun

It Gets Better Because We Make it Better

2011-12-15T15:45:00.000-08:00

There has been a lot of press given to the many, many recent reports of gay bashing and bullying, of ignorant public officials spewing forth hate, or intolerant, bigoted young adults invading a very private moment and then posting it on Facebook for all to see.

I am so glad these things are getting the press they deserve, finally. I am so thankful that people who have been scared silent or way past the coming out stages of their own lives, have taken the time to reassure gay kids and teenagers that it gets better. How awesome that the same technology that devastated one young man's life could be used to spare so many others.

Along with the "It gets better" conversations that are being started to support gay youth, we also need to be having other conversations. We need to be having conversations with all of our kids about bullying and name-calling. Our children do what we do. They model our behavior, they look to us for boundaries. Do you name call?

I did. Without even be aware of it. Several years ago my husband and I got into a fight one night, over almost nothing I'm sure, just two adults getting cranky and resentful over the workload that sometimes piles up. After a heated discussion escalated, I told him to stop being a dick, or you're acting like an asshole, I don't remember exactly but you get the idea. He looked at me hurt, took a deep breath and walked away.

Later on when he had calmed down and we were talking things over he said to me, "please don't call me names, it just makes me feel really bad."

I instantly got defensive realizing that I had hurt him. I hadn't thought the words really meant anything. "I wasn't saying anything personal, I told him, it was just I was really angry with you and venting, a general word like that is pretty innocuous, I explained, like when you get upset and call me bitchy or something like that."

"I don't ever call you names," he said earnestly. I thought for a moment, he was right. He has never once, since we have been together, called me any name that wasn't nice or at least licentious. He has told me he is upset with me, or feeling unsupported. He has told me he is stressed out and doesn't feel like I understand. He has told me what he needs from me whether it is a hug, reassurance, a pep talk or the like, but he has never called me anything derogatory.

This was quite the wake up call for me and I have admitted on more than one occasion that my husband came into our relationship with a Masters while I was just out of Kindergarten (metaphorically speaking mind you). I come from a home environment where judgement, shame, coercion, disappointment and guilt assured your compliance. I learned that name calling, in its milder forms, was acceptable. I learned that you don't apologize, or take responsibility for your actions, ever. And I learned that talking about your feelings got you ignored or derided and asking for what you needed made you needy (maybe they need an "it gets better" campaigns for people from dysfunctional families).

Gene and I talk to the kids about this bullying and name calling all the time. They are kids, so of course, in spite of our instructions, they occasionally call each other names. When this happens they get lengthy soliloquies about how the world is hard enough without making it hard for each other. My eleven year old understands what gay is. He knows how we feel and he knows how and why some people justify treating homosexuals badly. We have talked about how boys can use words like faggot, homo, queer and the like to make other boys feel small, less than or isolated. We have told him that not only do we have an expectation that he never call someone names but that we expect him to step in if someone else is, unless he feels his safety is at risk, in which case he should inform an adult. We have role-played and given him scenarios so that he can be empowered to come up with some strategies before it happens.

I don't think any of my kids are gay. My son is unquestionably interested in girls, and much to my delight, smart girls. My middle daughter is, at least right now, sort of boy crazy. And my youngest daughter just wants to marry her cat. But if they are, or maybe one of their friends is, I want them to know they can come to me for help, or just someone safe to talk to and I want my children to be open to friends, wherever they may find them. Because sometimes one good friend is all it takes to be okay.

Steps

2011-04-07T07:45:00.000-07:00

About ten years back, I started making individual seed bead necklaces. They were not terribly complicated or creative but I did all different colors and patterns and the most important thing was it kept my head quiet(ish).

When my anxiety threatened to get the better of me, I would take out the filament thread and beads and pointedly string away.

Now, years later, these necklaces hang on a mission style coat rack in my bedroom. Individually they aren't anything special but together their thick rope is quite impressive. They are thick enough that I can't quite circle my hands around them.

They are the combination of thousands of small pieces of translucent glass, pulled together into something that transcends all the individual pieces. For me, they are the many, many individual steps it takes to get somewhere more solid.

Lovely Day

2011-02-14T10:15:00.000-08:00

I woke up today to my three year old's hand on my arm, her silent way of asking for me to lift her into bed with me. I pulled her in and she nestled into me like the smaller of two spoons, said my hair was sweaty but I'm still beautiful and told me I could draw pictures on her back like it was a reward, which it is. We did this for about an hour until my husband had enough of trying to sleep through our giggling and got up. I made breakfast for all three kids, just some fruit and yesterday's leftover donuts from Clare's birthday breakfast. My ten year old was happy and helpful. My seven year old was still floating from her birthday weekend. I had a cup of coffee that my husband made while I cleaned out my spice cabinet and made ratatouille for a warm, hearty lunch. It's one of my husband's favorites and I had everything on hand so what better valentine then to feed him something good. These days, my husband is working from home so I get to see him all the time. Today, my kids are home, playing and laughing in the backyard. Right now, I am reminded that the best thing in life is wanting what you have.

The Shiz My Izz Says

2010-12-01T10:03:00.001-08:00

While I tuck her in:
"Mommy, can I have a kiss?
"Of course you can," I kiss her.
"Oh, Mommy, I love your kisses."
"I love your kisses too."
"Mommy you are my best friend."
"Awwww, that’s so sweet."
"Now Mommy get out of my bed. "

One afternoon, I see her crying:
"Izzy, why are you crying?"
"I’m not crying."
"It’s okay to cry, I cried today."
"You cried?"
"Yeah, remember when you were in the shower with Daddy after you threw up and I sat on the toilet and cried?"
"You fell off the toilet?"
"No, I was worried about you because your tummy has been sick and that made me cry."
"Don’t be sad Mommy, it’s ok," she says and puts her arms around me.
Just then, my husband walks in.

"Dad, Mommy was crying because she fell off the potty."

After digging into the Halloween candy:
Me: You have a big chunk of sucker stuck to your shirt, let me get that.
Izz: No! I’m going to eat that.

Separated at Birth?

2010-11-09T09:00:00.000-08:00

Dreamwork's Megamind

Kmart's Mr. Bluelight

You decide.

Wayz to Save the Planet

2010-10-12T03:55:00.000-07:00

With the trend toward the Greening of everything, I wanted to share tips for saving the planet, Formerly Fun style.

If it's yellow, let it mellow, if it's brown, flush it down. If it's dirty, pretend it's purdy because Clorox bowl cleaner isn't good for the planet.

Change from standard light bulbs to CFLs(Compact Fluorescent Lightbulbs), better yet, switch to candlelight, you'll look younger and more attractive in the warm, forgiving, flickering glow.

Institute a housewide one outfit for one week policy, enlist help of family-size bottle of FaBreeze.

Quit your job and eliminate commuting carbon emissions.

Support your local growers, buy your weed only from local, sustainable harvesters.

Traditional house cleaners are expensive and toxic, stop cleaning and embrace domestic dishevelment.

Cancel your expensive and wasteful electronic security system and invest in a 100% recycled material machete, a green gun or a personal Zombie.

Cut your shower time in half, masturbate in bed.

Cancel the gym membership and set your thermostat. Low in winter, shivering=exercise. Turn off the AC in summer, sweating reduces unsightly water weight gain.

Unplug large appliances like washer, dryer, vacuum cleaner when you're not using them, better yet, leave them unplugged all the time. Dishwasher is surprisingly efficient but paper plates are better.

This Halloween, forgo the standard cavity-inducing candy. Eschew giving away granola bars, popcorn balls or even pennies--too expensive. Instead, this Halloween, dish out a heaping spoonful of good advice. Kids will appreciate your gentle nudgings to floss more or eat their locally grown sustainable broccoli much more than they would ever enjoy that KitKat or delicious premium Dove chocolate.

Anxiety

2010-10-11T09:34:00.000-07:00

She's going to wake up because of the thunder and lightening. When she wakes up, she's going to get scared because we don't get storms where we live and she's not used to them. She's going to want me. She's going to remember I am sleeping downstairs. She, in all her self-reliance will come to me rather than cry for me. She will try to navigate the steep staircase in the dark and foggy with sleep she will fall, breaking her neck.

This is what my mind went over and over like fingers on a worry stone. It was 2am and I had to get up at 5am for a flight taking my husband and I on vacation, leaving my three young children with my mother and stepfather, in a house with stairs, and guns, and a lake, and boats and big hunting dogs, and no childproofing and a million other possible dangers that could get my heart thumping wildly in an instant.

I worried about the big kids too but at six and ten, I knew they could navigate those steps even half asleep. I knew they would call for me if they were too scared. I knew they followed the lake rules and I knew that the worst that would happen to them was dehydration or sugar overload induced barfing. But the baby was still vulnerable and too daring and sneaky.

My mind went back to the stair/storm scenario. The image of my two year old with her neck broken at the bottom of the stairs flashed graphically in my mind against my will and it was too much for me, I had to go check her.

I got out of bed slowly, trying not to disturb my husband. It was going to be bad enough with one of us exhausted the next day, two tired cranky people spelled argument. I walked the stairs noting each area that could spell instant disaster for a small foot missing a step. I found her snuggled with her big brother, bum to bum in the full sized guest bed. I took a deep breath, fully breathing in the improbability of my own anxiety.

I covered them both back up and peeked in my middle daughter, limbs akimbo in the king sized island of a bed with her great grandmother. I got myself a drink of water and quietly padded down the stairs, feeling myself relax a bit with each step. I settle in to bed and as I drift again, the storm picks up. I will my mind to quiet down and let me find sleep.

I would like to say that having checked on the baby, I was able to nestle down and drift into dreamland. Rather, my night included five more identical trips up the stairs to check on her before relenting to my impulse to grab a comforter and go sleep on the floor in her room ready to intercept her should she awake. I think they have a pill for this, thank god it does not hit me often.

Where Were You

2010-09-11T07:38:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in a beautiful, old hotel in Portland, Oregon on that strange and sad day. My habit when on the road working was to leave the television on to help me sleep. So when I woke up that Tuesday morning I thought it was a movie that I was watching on the screen, I must have left the channel on HBO, I thought. Then I changed the channel looking for some local news and almost every channel had the same images, over and over. I watched in disbelief, this could not be real and yet it was. I was stuck in Portland, all the planes were grounded. I wanted to be home. Not my southern California apartment but home, back in Wisconsin with my mom and the rest of my family.

My hotel phone rang. "Do you have your tv on?" asked my boss who was in a room at the same hotel one floor down.
"Yes," I answered shakily.
"Are you ok?" he asked.
"I think so, I don't know, I don't want to be here."
"Me either."
"Have you spoken to Lisa?"(his wife and a flight attendant)
"Yes, she wants me to come home."

The executive coffee suite was on my floor, just around the corner from my room. I didn't bother to get dressed but put a hotel robe on and wandered out to get a cup of coffee. The room had coffee and bakery, chairs, couches and work desks and the room was filled with business people who didn't want to watch these events unfold alone.

My boss came in, got a coffee and we went back to my room and sat on the edge of the bed watching for another hour trying to figure out what we do next. We had meetings and sales presentations planned at the Portland radio/tv stations. None of which could happen today given the events. You can't call people and ask them to come to a tv pitch meeting when they had just watched people throw themselves from a burning building.

We went to our clients offices. We watched the ten plus monitors in their newsroom with feeds from all over the country. We were overloaded with images and talking heads. Some of us cried, some of us didn't. I chewed my fingernails down to the nubs, something I hadn't done since I was seven, the year my parents got divorced.

We were still there working when they tentatively opened the airspace to some craft, though not regular commercial flights yet. I was on my computer in an empty boardroom working. The boardroom had a big open skylight and when a plane flew overhead I gasped and covered my head. The skies had been busy with air traffic in the days before that day, then nothing. The sound of an aircraft ahead after all that quiet was jarring.

Finally, I got to go home.

Travelling got much more difficult after that. You had to go much earlier, everything took longer, everyone was nervous, hostile, paranoid, nobody wanted to make a mistake. Those first few weeks after the planes resumed normal-ish flights, the bulk of the people on them were business travellers who had to fly and people finally making their way home after being stranded somewhere else.

It was fucking grim. Nobody said much, everyone still looked shell shocked. It didn't get much better from there. All of a sudden no boxcutters(not a problem for most people), we had to take our shoes off, much more extensive searches, sometimes inappropriate searches, watch lists, mothers not being allowed to bring their own breast milk, it got really weird there for awhile. I remember stopping to eat lunch during a layover. The only thing they had was Chili's and I had a two hour wait so I sat down and looked over the menu. When the waitress came, she informed me of the few choices that were available. Why just these I asked. They had stopped serving anything off the menu that might require a knife, even a plastic knife.

On September 11, 2001, my husband and I had not yet met. We have since shared with each other, as I'm sure many people have, exactly what we were doing on that particular day. I don't know anyone who doesn't remember. It's odd for me to think that I can talk to nearly anyone and we can place ourselves exactly where we were at the very same moment in time.

Those events have come and gone. The visceral anguish is gone for most. The open wound has faded to leave in it's place an angry, red, raised scar.

No one left that morning thinking they would not have the afternoon or evening. No one kissed their children aware that it was the last time. People rushed out the door, to work or school as they did every other Tuesday, unaware that this day would be wholly different.

For my son, today is a history lesson, a day to wear red, white and blue, a careful conversation with parents and teachers. For my husband and I, it is a reminder to cherish every moment of every day, to make sure to always say I love you and never leave angry because you never know when it is going to be your day.

*Originally posted 9/11/08

Home Improv-ment

2010-09-07T09:06:00.000-07:00

Things my husband should divorce me for:

We were inexplicably watching some awful reality show together. If I am remembering correctly, the tv was on that channel and we were both too lazy to look for the clicker. As an aside, do you call it the clicker or the remote? Is that a regional thing? When I moved to California, my friends would make fun of me for asking to stop at the Time Machine on our way out.

"What are you going to go back in time and stop yourself from buying those jeans again?"

"Looking for your boyfriend Scott Bakula?"

Yeah, ha, ha, ha. When I was growing up in Wisconsin, the company that owned most of the ATMs was named Tyme, hence people would say "I need to stop at a Tyme machine."

Anyhow, back to the awful reality show. It's about some Vegas pool party schizz and there were these two Guidos picking up on their servers. They were pretty douchy but in really good shape. My husband noticed and said,

"these guys clearly have no kids or high stress job if they have time to stay in that kind of shape. I'd love to have a fraction of those muscles."

"Yeah me too."

"Ouch."

"No, I meant me, I would like to have some of those muscles, not you.

"Whatever, I guess I won't be having dessert."

Then this weekend we were talking about replacing our carpet with hardwood floors because we have three animals and pissy carpet. My husband wants to do it himself and I am afraid of having to live with floors that look like we did them ourselves. Plus, I am allergic to physical labour of this sort and I am pretty sure I would have to be his ass-istant on this one. So I was trying to convince him to hire someone to do the work or at least let me pay one of my client's husbands who does hardwood floors to walk us thru the installation.

"Honey, I can do this myself, what are you worried about?"

I then proceed to laundry list every fail or semi-fail we've had on the diy projects. Note to wives, this is apparently tantamount to your husband commenting that your ass is getting fat because I hurt my man's feelings. Then I top it off with the kicker, slipped out of my mouth before I even thought about it.

"Honey, you're no Mike Holmes."

The silence was deafening. Of course there was only one way out of this one,

"I mean with home improvement of course, I mean come on honey, it's Mike Holmes. But when Mike Holmes goes home and doinks his wife every night, you know what she says to him? Pretty good honey, but you're no Mr. FormelyFun."

I am a bad wife.

Top Things I Learned from the Real Housewives

2010-08-06T06:04:00.000-07:00

From the Orange County Crew:
1. It's okay to wear $800 shoes even if you can't pay your rent.
2. Talking to your girlfriends about your marital problems rather than your husband is a much better way to resolve them.
3. The best way to bond with your kids is smoking pot or downing tequila shots.
4. When you have had a rough year with your husband, the best way to renew your commitment to being married isn't counseling or commitment, it's a tattoo of his name on your finger or a lavish vow renewal ceremony and presents.
5.Eviction notices are no reason to stop shopping, in fact, shopping might be the best way to feel better about the cardboard box you are about to live in.
6.It's good to be conscious about the environment. The best way? Recycle boyfriends.
7.Crafting might make you a millionaire.
8.Always look like an aging Las Vegas tranny showgirl. Always.
9Your underage kids showing up at your work party drunk is no reason to go home.
10.Working out is a job.

From the New York Girls:
1. Money can't buy you class but it can get a "spoken word" song produced.
2. It's perfectly normal to go on vacation with people you can't stand.
3. When you don't want to hear uncomfortable truths, just keep saying "zip it" in people's faces.
4. Deranged is the new black.
5. Gossiping IS a job.
6. Posing for nude pictures for your husband is whorish but spreading your "Betty" for Playboy is classy.
7. When the going gets tough, the tough buy seemingly endless amounts of high ticket luxury goods.
8. Husbands are one part drama fodder, two parts cash machine.
9. Insist that the help always call you by your most formal name or title.
10.The USDA pyramid actually looks something like this:
Botox
Retalyne
Collagen Silicone
Prescription Drugs
From the Jersey Housewives:
1. If you go to a child's cancer fundraiser with a bunch of uninvited mob bruisers and Hell's Angels(whom you have not bought tickets for), and you are not welcomed warmly, someone is out to get you.
2. It's normal for parents to spend thousands of dollars on clothes for little girls, tens of thousands on a birthday party and then declare bankruptcy hoping to skirt over $11 million in debt.
3. They're called bubbies, not breasts.
4. Stripper car washes will be bigger than the Ipad, just wait.
5. When the camera start rolling is the optimal time to go off your meds.
6. Delusion is a requirement and an art form that can always be elevated.
7. Infant christenings are the new weddings. What do you mean you don't have a DJ?
8.Never upstage your stage mom.
9.There is absolutely no irony in saying you're a nice girl while you deftly work a stripper pole.
10. If you join on as a RH, you get a jewelry line, a tell-all book, a cookbook, a parenting book, a gay club themed single or a sex-tape, your choice.

He Said, She Said

2010-06-27T10:16:00.000-07:00

On a Friday date night.

Him: What movie do you want to see?
Me: A-Team.
Him: You hate shoot 'em up action films, that's so sweet, you're doing it for me, awww..
Me: You and Liam Neeson, arrrrr(drooling.)

----------------------------------------------------------------

As husband leaves for business trip that Sunday

Me: Ok, I love you so much and just remember...
Him: Remember what?
Me: No whores.
Him: Uh, okay.
Me: And I hope you're plane doesn't go down.
Him: Thanks.
Me: But if it does, thanks in advance for the insurance money, that was awesome of you.
Him: And if it does go down, promise me you'll remarry, you can go after Liam Neeson.
Me: Aw, if you died, I'd have the perfect in, you know hey Liam we're both widowed, wanna
go see the A-Team?
Him: With your luck when my plane goes down, it will land right on Liam Neeson's house.
Me: That would be so sad for me and Liam.

Dropping the Kids Off at the Pool, and That is Not a Euphamism For Anything

2010-06-14T08:12:00.000-07:00

Ah, summer vacation is almost here. I have been all aflutter trying to plan daycare as needed and activities that keep the summer from becoming a three month Spongebob marathon. My husband and I are dropping the kids off in Wisconsin with my parents and then we are going to spend eight days in New England.

Funny story, or maybe sad depending on how you look at it.... Gene and I decided on Boston as our point of entry into the Northeast. Neither of us had been further than New York and the two hour, reasonably priced flight from Milwaukee clinched it. In spite of my tremendous failings in geography, I knew that from Boston, we might be able to visit several surrounding states. I kept typing Boston and Maine and Rhode Island into Google, hoping to get some ideas of proximity so that we could see as much as possible without spending too much time getting there rather than being there. So New England kept coming up and I thought, yes, we should go there too.

You are not reading this wrong, I thought New England was it's own local, separate from Boston and Maine and Rhode Island. I didn't think it was a state exactly, perhaps a city in one of the states or something vaguely ambiguous like how Washington DC is neither part of Maryland or Virginia. Of course I am the same girl who sophomore year of highschool raised her hand to correct the teacher that Washington DC was in fact the capital city of Washington the state. Thankfully I mentally put together that they were on separate ends of the country before I was called upon.

The best part is that when I asked my husband what and where New England was, certain that I had to be the only one lacking some fundamental US geography knowledge, he had a correct notion of the where but thought it was a state. I felt vindicated because my husband is a very smart man with a Master's degree. He however, was not all together happy with me outing his lack of knowledge on all thing Nor'easterly, and used his birth in California as well as the fact that his master's is not in geography as an explanation for said lack of knowledge. I also blame my misinformation on the New England Patriots. I think that a region getting to put their name on a football team that is based in Massachusetts is unnecessarily confusing for map moron's like myself.

Anyhow, I would like to once again thank Wikipedia for correcting the severe gaps in my public school education.*

*Don't email me angry teachers, I am using public school as the scapegoat for my own academic failings. Truthfully, I was probably outside around back smoking cigarettes during this particular lesson.

Never give up, never surrender!

2010-06-07T15:53:00.000-07:00

Listen to me.

Yes, I'm talking to you.

That was, totally, uncool.

There I was, face up, laying on the just made bed contemplating which part of my to do list I was going to tackle first. I was staring up at the lazily spinning ceiling fan, not really looking at anything, just silently thinking when you dropped from the fan and landed right in my face, smack between the eyes.

Seriously, that was so uncool.

What happened next is a bit of a blur but involves me yelling for my husband, and shaking my head more vigorously than a fifteen year old boy at a Slayer concert circa 1992. There was a bit of keening followed by a three minute attack of severe heebie jeebies. The worst part was I still didn't know what had fallen on me and where it was.

Then I saw you lollygagging about on my comforter.
We have nurtured an uneasy truce in the past, you and I, but I have no choice but to view this as an all out declaration of war. Sure you and yours have already sustained some casualties but I've told you, you get free run of the bathroom from midnight to six am, rest of the time it's mine and if I see you, you got a date with a sizable wad of toilet paper. I refuse to call an exterminator, I won't make someone else do my bidding and truthfully, I'm phobic about chemicals. But seriously, if you can base jump on my face with impunity, just skulk with one eye open from now on and watch out for my fucking foot.

Bite Me Electrolux and Shame on You Kelly Ripa

2010-04-19T14:42:00.000-07:00

Have you seen any of the Electrolux commercials with Kelly Ripa? You know, the ones where she manages her high pressure job(s), makes cupcakes, has a dinner party, washes, folds and puts away clothes, makes chocolate strawberries, hosts a sleepover and a birthday party for a dog... all set to the Bewitched theme.

The commercials that command you to "be more amazing!"

Am I the only one who sees these as a giant feminist backlash?

One of the biggest wrong turns women ever took was making the work we do appear effortless. I say appear because any woman or man who has done the work that is traditionally seen as female, knows it is anything but effortless. I have also read several studies that show the mechanization of housework with the inventions and technological improvements of appliances increased, not decreased the amount of housework that women do in part because it raised expectations. For me, showing Kelly Ripa, a woman who probably works no fewer than 50 hours a week and has multileveled staff to help her manage her responsibilities, effortlessly managing her household is a crock of poo fondue. I would be very surprised if she didn't have a full-time housekeeper, maybe two. And seriously, I'm not saying she shouldn't, I'm guessing she juggles about twenty dozen more important things than I do. I am saying that when a high profile woman like this tells us that we need to "be more amazing" then we are doing it wrong. We are priming the pump of motherhood for depression, anxiety, body dysmorphia, eating disorders, isolation, et. al..

So Kelly Ripa, keep making your chocolate strawberries and being "more amazing," I'll be over here yelling at my kids and looking at my pile of laundry. Oh and Electrolux? If you want my hard earned dollars spent on your over-priced hunks of steel and plastic, how about showing a man using them?

I Should Be Folding Laundry or Woe is Me

2010-04-05T16:34:00.000-07:00

I have been writing, just not here. I have been putting my busy little fingers to the keyboard and punching out my would be book about life as a brazilian waxer . All of my favorite stories that I've held back because they were good enough, funny enough to maybe be published. It was so smooth, it was coming out so easy. I put together my chapters with titles in an hour of deep thought in the passenger seat of my minivan driving with the husband to drop the kids off at Grandma's. I roughed out five chapters in the following five days. I had the rest outlined in another two days. All of a sudden, I had three chapters at what I would call ready. It was coming out so easy that it felt serendipitous, like this was when it was supposed to happen.

Then my computer lost power in the middle of working on it two weeks ago. I had continually saved so I didn't worry if I lost the last edit I did. Except when I went to open my document the next morning, the file was 9 pages of number signs instead of 50 pages of words. I called my software engineer husband, hoping there was an easy fix. He turned around on his way to work after dropping off our daughter to come rescue me. No such luck. Somehow, the file was hopelessly corrupted. There were no recent temporary versions, he could not repair the original file and a three day search of the hard drive offered nothing. And of course, although my fingers clicked control-S about every two minutes without thinking, I had not saved another copy somewhere else in days. I had been too productive to think to back up my work somewhere else.

I had one copy that held my first 20 pages, all of my outlines but more than half of my work was gone. There were a lot of tears, too many what ifs and profound disappointment when my husband could not undo my mistake.

So here I am, two weeks later. I'm done crying about it. The good thing is although I lost a lot of work, these are stories I know, I can do the work again. My problem is, this thing that was pouring out of me so beautifully, now feels like work. It is tinged by disappointment, the stress around it has made it unfun. I keep opening it, hoping it will comeback, that feeling I had before it exploded. How do you get that back?

Get Your Mouth Off That

2010-03-09T20:24:00.000-08:00

So apparently a bunch of little girls have contracted salmonella from kissing frogs. Thank you Walt Disney. Come on girls, kissing frogs is a metaphor. Not like when mommy says you are making her crazy, that's hyperbole. Or when your parents tell you you're a crybaby that's just honesty. Now, I don't want to minimize the potential dangers of salmonella but girls, FormerlyFun spent a good 15+ years in the dating world and there are way worse things you could have caught than a little dating diarrhea. Take it as a cautionary tale of a cautionary tale, get yourself some yogurt, stay hydrated and when your freshman boyfriend suggests you go under the bleachers(another metaphor), remember what happens when you put things in your mouth.

Ohm, Have You Seen My Chakra?

2010-03-09T08:08:00.000-08:00

Have you ever read the Ramona series by Beverly Cleary? I read it somewhere around the age of seven or eight and to this day, I remember portions of it vividly. I also recall laughing so hard during quiet reading time that my teacher threatened to send me out of the room. There is nothing like being told to stop laughing that makes it even more difficult to stop laughing. In one of the books Ramona, at the time a spirited kindergartner, is told by her teacher to "sit here for the present." Of course the teacher means only that she take a seat temporarily. For Ramona, excitement ensues when she contemplates this unknown present she will be receiving, then of course, confusion when the day ends without her getting the promised gift.

I had much the same feeling yesterday when I sat in my first Zen Buddhist meditation orientation. The Zen master said "be present in each moment" and I imagine myself, nestled in a box, limbs folded on themselves, wrapped in brightly colored paper with an iridescent cellophane bow festooning my head. Biting the side of my cheek, I realized I am probably as immature and easily humored now as I was at eight. "Be present in each moment," the Master urged us. The promise being that if I sit here with my legs folded, being still(adult Buddhisty word for quiet and not at all fidgety)I will get rewarded with the thirty-something mom version of Disneyland: calmness, acceptance, enlightenment, a clean refrigerator and organized mind.

Some meditations ask that you clear your mind of thought. The goal of this particular meditation was to focus on your breath allowing the thoughts to come as they will, acknowledge them, and then return to the breath. The problem with doing this, this being conscious of your internal voice is that you notice what a neurotic little chatter bug you are.

Ok, close your eyes. Keep them closed, don't get distracted. Hmm, I smell perfume. Is that Aqua Di Gio? Oh, I don't like that smell, definitely hate it. Still, it is better than Patchouli and armpit which is what I expected half these hippy types to smell like. Hippy types? What am I, my eighty year old Grandpa? I do like sandalwood though, used sparingly. You know what I should do when I get home is make more of those homemade essential oil laundry sheets. Maybe I should give those to people for Christmas, wait that's right Gene and I decided no more consumer Christmas, icknay of the gift-ay, but does a homemade gift really promote consumerism? Probably because someone might feel they needed to get you something in return. Wait I'm supposed to be focusing or not focusing or focusing on breathing, wait how did I get to dryer sheets? What is wrong with me? You know I should really give my internal voice an Australian accent or something just to spice things up a bit.

This is just a small snippet of my stream of consciousness, I could write another fifteen paragraphs but believe me, it doesn't get any more interesting than that. I'm told it gets easier to shut off this dialogue, the internal equivalent of what crazy people say out loud. It would be helpful to eliminate the negative chatter of you shoulds, you shouldn'ts or any of the other tracks that keep me from being the me that is free of all that. Still, I would miss the neurotic girl who's head is full of stories, impressions--she has a good vocabulary, makes me laugh, keeps me company and tells me it's ok to buy more shoes so she can't be all bad.

What I Learned About Women From Vintage Advertising

2010-02-24T09:22:00.000-08:00

If you drive a Maserati, a pretty woman would like nothing more than to hold your shaft and give you...a driving lesson.

See the one that's winking at you? She's winking because she's gonna give you the herps and then use that pistol to steal your wallet. Be warned fellas, girls with spiders in their lady business wink a lot.

I'm not exactly sure what they are selling here. Plate collecting? Mousse? Fear of brazilian waxing? Retro-crotch? Merkins?

Santa is a perv and perhaps a stocking fetishist.

InsetDo you want to know that this guy is thinking about how to get more innovative with crotchless panties? Frederick's of Hollywood was wise to drop Mr. Frederick from their ad copy. Looks too much like a FBI Wanted Poster picture.

This is what happens to cougars?

The ad copy reads

"...After one look at his Mr. Leggs slacks, she was ready to have him walk all over her...If you'd like your own doll to doll carpeting, hunt up a pair of these He-Man Mr. Leggs slacks."

This ad tells me that if you have fancy pants it's ok to stand on a pretty lady's head.

This Should be Fun, or Humiliating or at Least a Book Review

2010-02-18T14:59:00.000-08:00

One of my clients has a son the same age as mine so we trade stories and notes and suggestions. A few weeks ago she told me that her and her husband had embarked on the detailed where babies come from discussion. I immediately started thinking that perhaps my husband and I were behind the ball on this one. I asked how it went.

"Oh, not good", she told me, "not at all good."

Apparently this gentle parent-child conversation about the miracles of life had ended with her nine year old son in tears, yep, crying, big, wet, messy nine year old boy tears saying something along the lines of "Daddy does that to you ?" in disbelief and confusion.

So, needless to say, I am a wee bit gun shy about telling my son that yes, Daddy gives me a back rub and begs until I let him put his pizza* in my oven(and sometimes my microwave) and then we watch another episode of Six Feet Under until we fall asleep.

Then I remembered one of my all time favorite books, discovered at my cousin's house so many years ago.

Does this ring a bell for any of you??
This is the book that explains an orgasm to kids, so, uh, reading this with my nine year old should be a lot of fun for everyone.

It feels like a sneeze but much better, and if Daddy's feeling generous, you might get four or five"sneezes".
My husband and I do not look like that. He has hair on his head and I wax. Oh and for accuracy kids, Daddy's way too tall to have sex in the bathtub. We actually look a lot more like this.
Nothing screams intimacy and tenderness like bubble wrap thigh highs on a man.

Unless you're Daddy.

I ordered the puberty version. I figured I'd give Where Did I Come from a chance to sink in before springing puberty on him.

Can't wait to hear what he tells his friends.

*I actually told the bebe that Daddy has a pizza rather than a penis since she is all about the tmi right now. I figured this would avoid an embarrassing mishap at places like the grocery store and bank. Now if she tells the teller that I was eating Daddy's pizza, the teller will just think my husband likes to cook traditional southern Italian food. When she's older, I will tell her the truth, that that is where jewelry comes from.

Image Entendre

2010-02-16T12:53:00.000-08:00

My nine year old just recently began to clamor for use of the computer for looking up things for school. Because neither Gene nor myself have Safesearch, this usually entails searching for him with the monitor hidden from his view until we can confirm there isn't some manner of inappropriateness lurking for his tender eyes. Lest you think I am being over-cautious, let's just remember that Google search algorithms don't always give you what you're after.

Potentially Innocuous but Dangerous Google Image Searches
apple pie...very good
cherry pie...not so good

melon...fine
melons...not fine

coffee...fine
tea bag...very bad

baby-fine
babe-very bad

taco...okay
girl taco...not at all ok

two girls and a pup....awwwww
two girls and a cup...ick

groomed cat...okay
shaved kitty...definitely not okay

timeout...ok
spanking...not good

Christmas...ok
X-mas...surprisingly not ok

tickle...not ok
wrestle...still not ok
canoodle...again not ok
lallygag...surprisingly ok
lollipop...mostly ok
sucker...very bad

snake...fine
snake in its natural habitat...still fine
grass snake...fine
snake in the grass...disappointingly fine

ned flanders...fine
ned flanders porn...predictably not okay and a little creepy

tattle tale...ok
bad girl...very bad

ribs...fine
beef...fine
meat...fine
bologna...fine
salami...surprisingly still fine
wiener...not at all good

Sunday Holmes

2010-02-14T09:25:00.000-08:00

Ode to Mike Holmes(the Canadian professional contractor not the ice hockey player)Oh Mike, you brawny, blonde, chiseled charmer, you Adonis of abodes, you domicile dreamboat. In my fantasy, you walk through my front door in your coveralls and steel-toed boots. You look around and then pull me into your arms and tell me it's all going to be okay. Then you go to town......noticing the way the crown molding ends abruptly without the correct finishing pieces. I show you how big chunks of the bathroom tile was never grouted properly. You use words like vapor barrier, code, standards, shoddy and I think I am going to explode on the spot from the size of...the job. Then you tell me it's going to be alright, you are going to fix everything. Then you pull out your big tool......belt, and you get started. You rip out stuff and then you put it back right. You finish things the way a girl ought to have things finished.

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

My husband and I bought our house from people who had made lovely cosmetic upgrades but either did much of the work themselves or used substandard contractors because corners were cut. Gene and I watch Holmes on Homes whenever we can and can I just say, he is everything that is right about Canada. He is a craftsman of the highest order. This morning while we watched the show, I cautiously told my husband that I was developing "feelings" for Mike Holmes.

Me: I think I have a crush on him, is that ok?

Gene: Honey, even I have a crush on Mike Holmes, it's okay.

So Mike, if a google alert makes it's way to your inbox and you read this, my husband and I decided that if you were to ever make me an indecent proposal, I could heartily accept. We don't even need the million dollars, but I can accept only on the condition that you give our house a good once over.

I Fell Asleep Beneath the Flowers For a Couple of Hours On a Beautiful Day

2010-02-11T07:58:00.000-08:00

I am an extroverted introvert who has always enjoyed the space inside my head. I have frequently said I could be relatively content in prison given time to myself, books and maybe a sundry of art supplies. Oh, and freedom from random shiv shanking. My husband has told me more than once that this ability to withstand confinement coupled with the fact that I watch so much Forensic Files scares him a little. Just don't do anything bad I tell him, and you don't have anything to worry about. Sure, I'd miss the outside world but my imagination would make a fine companion for ten to life.

I grew up an only child and an avid daydreamer. Stacks of books took me far past the borders of the city where I grew up. Books gave me the pieces to build upon. When I was young, most of my daydreams took on different forms of wish fulfillment. I was a jet-set fashion designer, a symphony conductor, a foreign double agent and even a ballerina, never mind I'm only five foot tall. I was Karen Von Blixen on a coffee plantation in Kenya, going on safaris, learning to use a gun. I was the muse Kira from Xanadu skating figure eights in my basement, the soundtrack booming from my giant 1980s boombox. I was Laura Ingalls Wilder, Karana from Island of the Blue Dolphins, Francie struggling for a better life in Brooklyn.

Many of my reveries wreaked of the dramatic. I was never very graceful but I can sing so many of my fantasies were my own little musicals, put on in my bedroom for no one else but me, and maybe a reliably unimpressed house cat. Think one part theater, one part the Judy Miller Show. Put on the soundtrack to Evita and I was Eva atop a balcony addressing the little people. I think I wore clear through my vinyl copy of the Grease soundtrack. I would tease my hair, put on slutty clothes pilfered from my moms closet, slip on my red Candies and stand in front of my mirror with one of my mom's unlit Winston lights dangling from my lips. Tell me about it stud. True to girly-girl form, every daydream had an accompanying outfit.

Once in awhile, someone else was let into this usually personal reverie. Ask my cousin about the impromptu operas I performed for her. Scarves tied to our heads babushka style, I'd sing/talk about being taken from our parents in Russia(no we're not Russian) and being forced to be slaves of a prince, or labourers in a work camp. I'd see the expression on her face at first was one of skepticism and mild embarrassment but it quickly turned in to full scale buy-in as she tightened her babushka and lamented with me about the mother country. I think my mom might have made me watch Doctor Zhivago one too many times. Even as we got older and the “operas” stopped, she'd still call me a couple of times a week at bedtime and make me sing to her over the telephone until she fell asleep. I guess that could be considered a delayed standing ovation.

Now that I'm older with a husband, three kids, two cats, one dog, a mortgage, a small business and more, many of my daydreams have been replaced by anxiety dreams. Daydreaming as a child was probably the result of plenty of time on my hands and an active imagination. My adult anxiety thoughts are no doubt the result of not enough time on my hands and that same active imagination. Now I worry less about the monsters under my bed and more about the dust mites. Did I leave the wax warmer on when I left the spa? Is it burning down at this moment, the fire trucks littering the street to hose down the inferno. A florist five businesses down got held up at gunpoint a year ago. I wonder what if they had hit my spa and found me and my massage therapist instead of a doughy, overweight gay bear peddling petals? Are my children getting enough DHA, Omega 3s? I hope that toy the bebe is chewing on doesn't have lead in it, damn the grandparents and their Big Lots, Chinese imported, lead ridden, foot gouging, room cluttering, car littering crap.

Thanks to 9/11, the fact that our house is in a relatively busy airport pattern, and probably too many Donnie Darko/Weeds viewings, I have visions of planes careening through our roof. I worry about my husband being hit and smushed accordion style in the crazy L.A. rush hour traffic. I follow a truck with steel pipes battened in and I ponder decapitation by steel pipe before switching lanes. I think about people breaking into my house and taking my children, Darfur, unequal education opportunities, poverty, peacekeeping, climate change, biodiversity and ecosystem losses, oceanic dead zones, child sex rings and world hunger. Don't get me wrong, I don't obsess and I'm not at the point where my anxiety requires medication, well more medication. It's just that I have so much now that I have so much to lose. The dangers of the real world are so much scarier than the stuff that worried me as a kid.

Now my wish fulfillment daydreams are saved for my frequent bouts of insomnia. As my husband lay next to me, still save for his rhythmic breathing, and the kids are safely tucked into their beds, and the dog lays on her cushion in the corner of our room and the cats are curled up on any one of the beds of my children, this is when I feel calm enough to dream bigger. I'm not Sandi or Francie or Ludmila anymore but I do see myself doing the things I hope one day I will. I see myself travelling around the world with my husband. I see a time in the future where I have some time to myself again, time to read, to draw, to meander through a day with nothing to do. I see my children grown and healthy, happy living their own lives, being their own people. I see myself holding my grandchildren, released from the responsibility of raising them right, free to spoil them relentlessly to my children's chagrin. I see myself a few years from now, walking up to a podium at a small bookstore to give a reading. I see my husband and I, hitting each milestone in our life together, our relationship morphing to fit the changes in our lives. I see myself calmer, mellowed with age, wizened with experience, though I'm pretty sure I will always avoid those giant steel pipe carrying trucks.

Madmen Indeed

2010-02-10T08:10:00.000-08:00

"Lollipops Bubble Duds, Mother-Daughter Favorites" -because there is nothing daughters like better than to wear the same underwear as their mom. I don't know about you but swinging with my mom in our undies is one of the special times I remember most.

The message of this ad is pretty clear to me. Boys in bubbles love biscuits. Now try saying that quick five times.

Ok, this one is for the married ladies. If perchance you still wore stockings, or substitute something else more modernly worn, would your husband ever look at you the way her husband is, with disdain over your run. He's eyeing her suspiciously like her shabby stockings are an indication of her inclination toward communism. The best I can get my husband to notice is if I have gone from blonde to brunette or actually have a boob hanging out.
Ahh, the good old days.

Ladies, are you ready for the gun show?? Meow.

If I Knew You Were Gay I'd A Baked A Cake

2010-02-09T14:00:00.000-08:00

Click here for newest post on the Birds and the Bees FormerlyFun style

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

My daughter Clare just turned six. We asked her what she wanted for her birthday.

Me and Husband: So what do you want for your birthday?

Clare: Uh, uh....... Louie.(Our fat grey cat)

Me: You want another cat?

Clare: Uh-huh.

Me: No more animals, mommy can't take it.

Clare: No, a stuffed Louie.

Husband: You want us to stuff Louie? Ok, hold on let me go get him.

Clare: Noooooo! I want a stuffed animal that looks like Louie.

Me: Okay, well that's more reasonable. What else.

Clare: You know what I like, rainbows, kitties, fairies, cupcakes.....(at this point she enters her "happy place" in her head for a few minutes no doubt imagining this place that has rainbows and kittycats and fairies and cupcakes.) We wait for her when she does this. It happens. A lot.

(5 minutes later she's back)

Me: I can't really get you a rainbow and we have reached our houses 1700 square feet fairy maximum, how about something a bit more tangible.

So she tests the waters.

Clare: Well, uh, you could get me a Bratz doll?

Me: No, because Mommy doesn't want you to be a whore. (I think I said this in my head)
You know how I feel about Bratz dolls, if you still want one when you graduate college, I'll buy you one then.

Clare: Fine, markers.

Me: Good, that's something I can work with.

Clare: I mean lotsa markers, a lot, of you know, markers.

Me: I think I can make that happen.

So I try to find a stuffed cat that resembles our pet Lou who is dark grey. Funny enough there are lots of white cats with pink noses and blue eyes but dark grey in the toy market is almost nonexistent.

I manage to find a grey Webkinz cat on Ebay and low ball on three of them hoping I'll get one.

Guess what? Clare got triplets by accident and if I would have known in advance the reaction, I would have done it on purpose because each subsequent cat after the first elicited more squealing until the glass in our kitchen cabinets just shattered.

Getting her a rainbow was more difficult, none on Ebay to speak of. So I thought and thought and finally came up with this.Yes, I am a golden god of cakery. It's got real fruit(raspberries, blood orange, lemon, lime, blueberries, blackberries) and real frosting made with butter(mmmmmm) and about 4 pounds of powdered sugar(mmmmm, diabetes). She was served what she thought was a big white blah cake, but when I cut the first piece for her, rather than more squeals, there was just a hush.

Mom, this is the best cake ever. Even the adults were blown away by the sheer novelty. And it wasn't that hard.

So if you are coming out and you want to mark the occasion with the right amount of festiveness. Or you want a non-confrontational, foodie way to tell your gay teenager, mom and dad are cool with it, this is the cake.

NEW POST ON THE BIRDS AND THE BEES

Formerly Fun Facts

2010-02-02T04:14:00.000-08:00

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:)

Caption This

2010-01-12T21:39:00.000-08:00

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

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

Your turn.

Daily Exercise Log

2010-01-11T14:52:00.001-08:00

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.

Is It Wrong?

2010-01-08T09:22:00.000-08:00

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?

I Am Perfect, Just Like Everyone Else

2010-01-06T09:13:00.000-08:00

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.

Years ago I was spending some time with a favorite Aunt who happens to be a Buddhist and herself, very wise. We were talking about achievement and working as hard as you can to get to the "top". I was a rising executive at a media company and very determined to get "ahead". My family(the other side) was a driven bunch and it was so ingrained I thought it was my own ambition, something I had come up with on my own, not just mimicry or trying to meet their standards and earn their approval. Well, I told my aunt all of the things I wanted and my timetable for getting where I wanted to be et. al., and she asked me one thing, why? Well, to achieve, I told her, to make "it". Again she asked, why? Well, because people should work as hard as they can and achieve as much as possible I tried to explain.

Why?

I had never before questioned the value of these things(like the value of perfection, achievement, all of it). I couldn't come up with a reasonable answer. Most of those ambitions were tied to showing people I could do it, proving to people I was smart, capable, fierce. Yes, some elements of my drive were more mellow, like the good feeling one gets from doing something well, from setting a goal and meeting it, from achieving something you weren't sure you could. But a great deal of it was tied to less than healthy motives.

I thought about why I was doing what I was doing. Why was I travelling 32 weeks out of the year rather than putting time into a personal life. Why was I staying at a job I didn't like just because I made good money but then turned around and spent it on things I didn't need to feel better about the fact that I was in a job I didn't like?

My aunt wasn't trying to be antagonistic, just to get me to think. And think I did. After a while, I couldn't stop thinking. The why I was doing what I was doing wedged itself so far in my brain I finally went to see a therapist. I won't go into detail because personal therapy is generally only interesting to one's self but over the course of a year I worked on casting off some of my families' influence so that I could figure out who I really was. It was spent working on being kinder and more forgiving toward myself. I spent time discovering what I really wanted and what was important to me.

A year later, I was no longer at my media job, rather, I had just got my esthetician's license and was on my way to opening my itty bitty little spa. And just another year later, having made room in my life for, well, a life, I met my husband. It took a 2000 mile move from home, a year of therapy and the love of a very good man, but somewhere along the way, I really did begin to believe that all I have to be is who I am and there is nowhere I can be that isn't where I am meant to be. Yes, there are days when I get stuck in my old fear, or loathing or expectations but I am getting better at getting back to the place where I am reminded of my own imperfect perfection.

Here's wishing you the same for 2010.

Pop It Like It's Hot

2009-12-01T09:31:00.001-08:00

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.

Formerly Fun's Microwave Popcorn for People Who Like Popcorn and Not Packing Material courtesy of Alton Brown to whom the recipe really belongs to:

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.

He Said, She Said

2009-11-17T18:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Picture This

2009-10-29T16:47:00.000-07:00

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.

My Life in Slow Motion

2009-10-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Read Between the Lines

2009-10-20T09:58:00.001-07:00

I think I know why I haven't been writing so much. Yes, I have been very busy lately with a new location, closing down the old location, kids acclimating to school, husband at tail end of huge time-sensitive project, Grandma coming to visit in a few days, Halloween, Mom and Stepdad coming to visit Thanksgiving.........................

But usually these things don't get in the way of pumping out some prose here and there.

I think my problem is I haven't read a book for months. Even my short story anthologies have gone uncracked in the bathroom. Reading fuels my writing. I need to read. Books. No more magazines scanned for some new dinner ideas, or PTA requests to sell this junk or that crap. I need to read fewer School Bulletins and more weighty, inky stinky books. I have culled a few from fellow bloggers mentions and I have perused the NYT Bestseller list only to sigh a resounding meh.

Here's my current list, already on it's way via Amazon:
Under the Dome- Stephen King

Outliers:The Story of Success

Just After Sunset(short stories)- Stephen King(I bought it bundled with his new one)
The Best American Short Stories of 2009- Alice Sebold

I need more fiction. I like Stephen King but it's been awhile. I am feeling nostalgic and figured I would give him a try again. Still, I need more fiction. I don't like "chicklit" if it's fluffy but I have happily devoured some of the Oprah list and other more female centric novels. I want you, my readers and fellow bloggers to recommend some good reads, and it doesn't have to be fiction. It can be anything, even if you aren't sure if I'll like it, I'll check it out.

Here's what I don't want:

~anything with vampires featured prominently in the storyline.

~books about shopping or shoes or purses(I like these things but I don't want to read about them) or anything that might use the non word words fashionista, shopinista, bargainista, maxxanista, barrista, sandanista, you get my drift.

~books either symbolically or literally about an Apocalypse. I read The Road and it gave me the creepies for like three days. Even seeing the previews for the new movie is fueling my stress nightmares. There are at least seven apocalyptic movies out, must be in response to war and economic depression but frankly, I'm over it. It doesn't have to be all Mary Sunshine but no more death and devastation.

~book that are overly maudlin, please don't recommend anything from Mitch Albom or Nicolas Sparks. I don't want to read about dogs dying, or dying teenagers last wishes, or a tree that's dying or a family coming together just in time for Christmas. No life lessons please, not now.

Other than that, throw some recommendations at me because I am finally coming into some time to read.

Postscript:
A long time ago, I read Lovely Bones(Alice Sebold), did anyone else know it's a movie coming out in December?? Looks like it could be good.

Would I Lie to You?

2009-10-08T06:34:00.000-07:00

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)

Big Surprise...Another Rant

2009-10-05T13:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Pick Me, Pick Me

2009-09-23T16:30:00.001-07:00

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.

Revenge: A Dish Best Served With Sad Puppy Eyes

2009-09-01T20:40:00.000-07:00

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

Date: 2009-09-01, 7:45PM PDT
Reply to: thelizardathisworkemail

This is Maya. Cute isn't she?
We got Maya just a few weeks ago but must find her a new home because our young son is terribly allergic. Maya is 10 weeks, all Lab but with no AKC pedigree. She was purchased from a reputable local breeder, socialized with kids around and has had her first series of pup vaccinations but will need another round next month. She is sweet tempered and gentle and we are sad to have to let her go but as long as it's to a good home, we'll be happy. We are not asking any monetary compensation for her, it is hard enough to see her go we just want the right home, someone who will treat her well and make her part of the family.

If you are the right home and can provide all the love we intended to, please call #310-xxx-xxxx.

It's TOTALLY ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests or even copious ads for penis enlargement, Viagra and Canadian Pharmaceuticals and Nigerian Ponzy Schemes.

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

I think he'll get a few calls no?

*Pseudonym and no offense to Burt's everywhere.

Someone's Officially a Little Woman Now, Ugh

2009-08-12T10:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Mama Sings the Blues

2009-08-10T12:26:00.000-07:00

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

I've Saved You a Stool, Come Shit Right Over Here

2009-07-31T12:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Return of the Crack-Loving Bebe

2009-07-30T19:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Me and My Crack-Loving Bebe

2009-07-21T21:59:00.000-07:00

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.

He Said, She Said (and the Bebe Said)

2009-07-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

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.

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

Me(speaking the militant feminist manifesto): A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.

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.

Mauna Kea Kisses

2009-06-23T23:54:00.000-07:00

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 Kingdo m, 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

Mauna Kea is unique as an astronomical observing site because the atmosphere above the mountain is extremely dry -- which is important in measuring infrared and submillimeter radiation from celestial sources - and cloud-free, so that the proportion of clear nights is among the highest in the world. The exceptional stability of the atmosphere above Mauna Kea permits more detailed studies than are possible elsewhere, while its distance from city lights and a strong island-wide lighting ordinance ensure an extremely dark sky, allowing observation of the faintest galaxies that lie at the very edge of the observable Universe. A tropical inversion cloud layer about 600 meters (2,000 ft) thick, well below the summit, isolates the upper atmosphere from the lower moist maritime air and ensures that the summit skies are pure, dry, and free from atmospheric pollutants.

Okay, enough of the sciency schmiency, it was the. coolest. thing. ever. It was odd to be wearing parkas in Hawaii but the freezing nose and fingers worth every minute. The view was the most spectacular thing I have seen, the stars so close it was as if you could pick them out of the sky. The sky was so dark, several moving satellites were visible and the constellations blazed so bright you could easily pick them out. The idea that so many countries work together and share their information and data is hopeful(quick note, Japan is the only country that sells their info rather than share, tsk tsk Japan!). In a word, the trip up Mauna Kea to an elevation of 14,000 feet was breathtaking, and yes in part because at that elevation it is actually difficult to breathe. This guy also took my breath away.

Greetings From Hawaii

2009-06-20T12:45:00.000-07:00

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.

We'll see you in seven more days guys.

Things I Do When I Should Be Working

2009-06-14T13:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Well At Least There Were No Issues With Wire Hangers

2009-06-13T06:35:00.000-07:00

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.

Oh Oh, She's Back on Her Soapbox Again

2009-06-12T14:03:00.000-07:00

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

I have a problem, a bone to pick with some of you. I am beyond tired of women saying they are not feminists. "Oh, I'm not one of those(pause) feminists(said in a slight whisper)," they utter, like their name might be added to a black list somewhere.

A woman saying she is not a feminist is like a human saying they are ambivalent about oxygen. When did feminism become the exclusive bastion of man-hating, "men and women are the same," sensible shoe-wearing, eschewers of deodorant?

Can you be a stay at home mom and a feminist?
Uh, are you at home because it works for your family or because you think a woman's place is in the home?

Can you load the dishwasher while your husband/wife/life partner fills your car with gas and still be a feminist?
Division of labor is a fact of life and if it so happens that the "man" likes to do the more traditionally "male" tasks and the "woman" wants to sit on the couch and eat bonbons whilst thumbing through her dog-eared Germaine Greer treatise well fair is fair.

Can you don pigtails, stilettos and layers of thick, pink lip gloss in the bedroom and still be a feminist?
I say, yes we can.

For those of you who say well I'm not a feminist, do you even know what a feminist is?
Feminism is the idea that women should have political, social, legal, sexual, intellectual and economic rights equal to those of men.(look it's in pink, see you can be girly and still be feminist.)

Pray tell, what part of this sounds like a bad idea?

Thanks to feminists we can vote and take part in the political process, we can serve in the political realm. We can own property, we can get educations and further developments in science and medicine. We can pursue scholarly goals and assert our legal rights when there is injustice. We can use our voices to carry the message of women around the world that have no voice. We can drive cars and own homes and build our retirement even if we choose to be single. And at least for now, we can make decisions, even difficult, heart wrenching decisions with regard to our health and reproduction.

So why is feminism a dirty word for so many women?

Do you think people should be paid differently for doing the same job?
Do you think a woman should not be allowed to own property?
Do you think women shouldn't do certain jobs?
Do you think women should not have the same educational opportunities as men?

If you answered no to these questions, then you, my friend are a feminist.

I will leave the reproductive freedom out of this because I think you can be against abortion on principle and still be a feminist in practice. For me, reproductive freedom is an integral part of the equation of equality but let's be frank, no one likes abortion. I respect people for whom this issue is a difficult one fraught with religious doctrine and social ambiguity. I am certainly not "pro-abortion' but I have always considered this the most personal of decisions and not one I would ever like someone to make for me or for me to make for another person. I have to ask, is this issue the major holdback?

And guess what guys, feminism, it's not just for women anymore.

FormerlyFun's Manifesto on Why Feminism is Good for Men

-Your educated woman makes a mighty fine partner in a neighborly game of Trivial Pursuit and a suitable rival in Balderdash.

-That whole reading/writing thing comes in handy when you need someone to program the GPS while you drive.

-Bound feet rather unattractive shoeless.

-More opportunities outside the home equals less neurasthenia.

-She can now work in the higher paying battery department at Johnson Controls.

-Women look hot when they are voting.

-She won't lose her job just because you knock her up.

-If women couldn't go to college we wouldn't have movies like Revenge of the Nerds or Animal House.

-Access to contraception is sexy.

-Repression is a downer.

-More women burning bras = more women braless.

Goodbye Thirty Five, Hello Thirty Six

2009-06-04T12:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Any Given Saturday

2009-05-29T16:48:00.000-07:00

Most Saturdays the routine was the same. Get up early(8:30am, this was b.k. as in before kids) get gussied up, walk to work. Then I would wax, scrub, steam and tweeze the women of Southern California to near perfection, walk home to my apartment at about 4pm, fling myself on my couch and sleep until my boyfriend came over, beg for just twenty more minutes, get up, hang out with said boyfriend, maybe dinner, movie, hot monkey love.

This particular Saturday was much the same. After a grueling day at work up to my elbows in cha, I paid homage to my couch, face down, exhausted from the long day and late work night the day before. I was deep in sleep, a small strand of drool pooling on my pretty silk pillow when I heard my boyfriend's key in the door. We didn't live together but I had given him keys and all manner of personal stuff many moons ago.

I had probably looked fresh in the morning but now resembled more of a small, blond raccoon.
“Hi babe", I slurred, not really awake yet. I looked at him, smiled and turned to face into the couch and unceremoniously went back to sleep.

“Hey, wake up, I have something for you.” he said.

"Great, just put it on the table," I mumbled incoherently.

“No, come on, get up," he said as he tried to pull the pillow out from under my head.

"Noooo," I whined, "I'm sooo tired, just a half hour, pleeease?" I clamped a pillow over my head and grunted to send the message I was not entirely communicative yet.

"Come on, I made you something."

"That's nice honey, can I look at it later, really, very tired." I opened up my eyes a little further and noticed he looked weird, not weird like weird but unusual, something was different. I reluctantly sat up and eyed him skeptically, my eyes narrowing as I tried to put my finger on it. I huffed and pouted, the look on my face said fine, what, you wanted to show me something, okay already, on with it.

He sat beside me and produced one of those brown kraft envelopes from which he pulled a sheet of paper.

"I know how much you love crossword puzzles so I made you one," he offered as he proudly shoved the paper at me.

Oh, great I thought, he was bored at work and discovered one of those teacher programs that lets you make crossword puzzles. He really got me up for this, I thought annoyed. "This is nice honey," trying to hide the vexation in my voice, "I'll do it later," I said as I put it on the coffee table.

"No, come on, do it now."

"Oh, gawd honey," I whined, "I'm not even awake yet." I looked at the excitement on his face and realized he wasn't going to let me do it later.

"Fine," I said," give me a pencil".

So he did and I started doing the crossword puzzle. Hmmm, number one,

What Chris wears all the time _ _ _ _ _ sweaters?

Awwww, it was stuff about us. I filled it in, Chris wears GREEN sweaters. I started to warm as I filled in the answers to sweet inside jokes only the two of us knew.

Oh, oh, _ _ _ _ _ _?

Hotdog! Oh, oh, hotdog!*

After a few more of these, I looked at him, something was different, I saw him look at the crossword and then at me expectantly, he was sitting on my coffee table shifting around looking as nervous as man in line at airport security with a bunch of heroin up his bum. And he hadn't taken off his coat. I looked down at the crossword and scanned the rest of the clues, they were pretty easy so I mentally filled it all in while pretending to try and solve one clue. My ears started to buzz and I could hear my blood pumping through my body and that familiar feeling, that swell that marks the beginning of tears. The clue for the long answer across the middle read

The start of the best love story ever?

W I L L Y O U M A R R Y M E

And with that he got down on one knee, produced a box with the most beautiful diamond ring I had ever seen and nervously asked me to be his wife. Why he was nervous I don't know, we had talked about it wistfully, knew it was going to happen eventually. Still, it must be different for a man to actually ask the question, put his heart in your hands. That's what the wedding ring really is, it's a big shiny pretty object to entice you to be gentle with his heart. And anyway, I knew it was coming one of these days and I still cried.

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.

Hornicopia - Random Bits

2009-05-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

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?

In other news, I have been all aflit planting-- determined we grow some of our own food. I got seeds and planted tomatoes, peppers, onions, basil, carrots, beets, broccolini and a few other things. I still have some seeds left in their packets and have neatly folded over the edges and stacked them all in one of the kids little plastic sand buckets. I was really proud of my little seedlings as they sprung forth from the proper ph soil and extended their planty goodness to the sun. I showed my husband our eventual bounty. Did you plant all of the seeds he asked me.

No I have the rest here in my seed bucket i said. His reply?

a. wow, I can't wait to try the tomatoes
b. thank you for providing food for our family
c. looks like we are going to be eating a lot of salad

or

d. you're my seed bucket. What a pig, he's lucky he's cute.

Picture This

2009-05-26T11:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Daddy Done Good

2009-05-10T18:02:00.000-07:00

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.

Soapbox Part Deux

2009-05-04T09:38:00.000-07:00

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.

Stay-Cation

2009-05-04T08:34:00.000-07:00

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

Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon(Enough)

2009-04-29T09:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Child Abuse

2009-04-23T18:10:00.000-07:00

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

Easter Phony

2009-04-11T12:50:00.000-07:00

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.

Ok son, I'll tell you what really happened to the Easter Bunny but let me preface it with you are the one that wanted a dog.

'Da Butts

2009-04-11T12:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Oh the Humanity

2009-04-07T13:18:00.000-07:00

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.

She

2009-04-06T07:35:00.000-07:00

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.

I See London, I See France

2009-04-04T21:44:00.000-07:00

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.

What Do People Do During an Economic Depression?

2009-04-01T14:21:00.001-07:00

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.

The cake was a little slice of 3000 calorie heaven on a plate. I wish I would have taken a picture of the inside but as soon as I cut into it, the whole family devoured it. It was a big hit and yes, you must now bow down to my baking acumen.

So the moral of the story? Economic downturn's are not all bad as long as you have the heady muse of chocolate to assuage your empty wallet.

Hot Catholic School Girls Tear into Lifesize Zac Efron Pinata

2009-03-25T07:49:00.000-07:00

I figured since this was basically a redirect post anyhow, I'd grab you with the title and amuse myself with the subsequent google searches.

In case you haven't had your fill of FormerlyFun, I am over at Rassles today guest posting, la di da. So while Rassles defiles the whole of New Orleans, you can peer inside my childhood. While you are there, I encourage you to take a look around. She is beyond funny, can write insanely great dialogue and has what I think is the most unique perspective on things ever.

An Ode to Thighs

2009-03-23T14:04:00.000-07:00

These are thighs.These are thighs.

These are thighs

These are thighs.

These? These are not thighs.

For the One Man Who Likes My Thighs

Denise Duhamel

There was the expensive cream from France
that promised the dimples would vanish
if applied nightly to the problem spots.
Then, when that didn't work, Kiko, the masseuse
at Profile Health Spa, dug her thumbs
deep into my flesh as she explained
in quasi-scientific terms that her rough hands
could break up the toughest globules of cellulite.
I screamed, then bruised over, but nothing
else happened. When they healed, my legs still looked
like tapioca pudding. There was the rolling pin method
I tried as far back as seventh grade,
kneading my lumpy legs as though I was making bread.
Cottage Cheese Knees, Thunder Thighs --
I heard it all -- under the guise of teasing,
under the leaky umbrella mistaken for affection.
I learned to choose long dresses
and dark woolen tights, clam diggers instead of short-shorts,
and, when I could get away with it, skirted bathing suits.
The nutritionist said that maybe Royal Jelly tablets
would break up the fat. I drank eight glasses
of water everyday for a month. I ate nothing
but steak for a week. I had to take everyone's advice,
fearing that if I didn't, my thighs
would truly be all my own fault. Liposuction
cost too much. The foil sweat-it-out
shorts advertised in the back of Redbook
didn't work. Swimming, walking in place, leg lifts.
It's embarrassing, especially being a feminist.
I wondered if Andrea Dworkin had stopped worrying,
and how. If Gloria Steinem does aerobics,
claiming it's just for her own enjoyment.
Then I read in a self-help book:
if you learn to appreciate your thighs, they'll appreciate
you back. Though it wasn't romance at first sight,
I did try to thank my legs for carrying me up nine flights
the day when the elevator at work was out;
for their quick sprint that propelled me
through the closing doors of the subway
so that I wouldn't be late for a movie;
for supporting my nieces who straddled, one
on each thigh, their heads burrowing deep into my lap.
I think, in fact, that it was at that moment
of being an aunt I forgot for an instant
about my thigh dilemma and began, more fully,
as they say, enjoying my life. So when it happened later
that I fell in love, and as a bonus,
the man said he liked my thighs, I shouldn't have been
so thoroughly surprised. At first I was sure I'd misheard --
that he liked my eyes, that he had heard someone else sigh,
or that maybe he was having a craving for french fries.
And it wasn't very easy to nonchalantly say oh, thanks
after I'd made him repeat. I kept asking
if he was sure, then waiting for a punch
line of some mean-spirited thigh-related joke.
I ran my fingers over his calf, brown and firm,
with beautiful muscles waving down the back.
It made no sense the way love makes no sense.
Then it made all the sense in the world.

Silly Pink Frou Frou Bebe

2009-03-20T08:05:00.000-07:00

Alternately titled: My Bebe is Pinker than Your Bebe

Circus performer, ballerina, doctor, I don't care as long as she stays away from the pole and she's never the object of affection in a rap video, though she does have smoove mooves.

Postscript: By the way, this outfit was aquired via Grandma, I don't dress her like this everyday.

Ask Formerly Fun: Dude Looks Like a Lady

2009-03-17T18:34:00.000-07:00

OK, Formerlyfun,

I recently stumbled across your blog. Don't ask me how, the web is weird like that. I read your article about your first "Manzillian" and I found it incredibly humorous. Now, let me tell you something about me that I have only told two other people on planet Earth: I am a crossdresser. I came out to my wife about a year & a half ago, and things went rather well, and things have been.... well... progressing ever since.

I remove a lot of body hair and the woman doesn't mind a bit. In fact she seems to like it. Long about November 08, I bought an Epilator. Because I was sick of shaving my legs every .00037 minutes. Apart from the massive crop of in-growns, I rather like the Epilator. It has solved the largest problems with shaving. The two biggest downsides to epilating being TIME (Oh, lord does it take time to do it right) & the PAIN!. Some areas are better than others, but overall, its devastatingly painful. This coming from a man who triathlon trained himself into doctor's orders not to even climb a single flight of stairs. It hurts worse than triathlon training ever did, yes. But I do it. I even do it on the "nether regions" and this is indescribably painful. It takes equal parts determination, motivation & stupidity. But it's worth it. Barely. Because I like smoothness.

Now you being married and knowing a man's body, and doing at least one Manzillian, are familiar with the seam that runs the vertical length of the nutbag? Yes!? This area is EXTREMELY painful and ultimately impossible to use an Epilator on. If anyone could do it, it's me. And I simply cannot. My wife buys the occasional home waxing kit and we attempted to use that. On the vertical seam & the rest of the nutbag, yes. It turns out that it works just fine. If you don't mind losing the skin there for 3 - 5 days. Would you believe that I tried it three times before giving up?Now today I have set up my first "Manzillian", which will take place one week from today. I have modified the basic program ever so slightly. I'm not interested in removing the "main swatch" of pubic hair, just north of the penis. I don't really need to. I just shave it down to 1/8", and it looks & feels fabulous. But everything else covered by the Manzillian must go. So... Is there anything I should know about this particular operation? This analogy might distract you. But imagine your husband, brother, nephew, etc. were about to have one. What would you tell him? How would you prep him? Would you tell him nothing, because there is no preparation to be had?I would truly appreciate any input that you could provide, as you are a professional in this area, and riotously fun to wit... Thanks!

Alandra

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Alandra,

First to the most pressing matter, your upcoming professional wax. The good news is that most estheticians will not do male genital waxing so if you found one who does, chances are she/he knows what they are doing. You've read my Manzilian story and that lays out the basic procedure though it may vary a little from esthetician to esthetician. I'm all about hard wax when it comes to the testicles and if I had them, I wouldn't let an Epilator or soft wax near them. The tissue, much like a female labia is very thin and prone to tearing and lifting. Hopefully your esthetician will use hard wax, if not you may tear but since you've mangled yourself you might as well give a pro a shot since if she does a good job, you can forgo DIY on this one.

The difference between hard wax and soft wax is with soft wax, the area is powdered, warm wax is applied in a thin coat and then muslin or pellon is smoothed over the wax and pulled off, often with skin attached to it, ouch! With hard wax, a thin coat of oil is applied to the skin first, then the warm hard wax is applied, this wax completely hardens and"shrink wraps" the hair but does not adhere to the skin, so when its pulled off the skin stays put, yipee!

As far as prep for your wax goes, cleanliness on your part is always appreciated. Whenever I've been faced with a client with funk, I do a hasty job figuring if you had the balls, no pun intended, to come grungy then a quickie is all you deserve, give me my money thank you see you again never. Take a Vicodin or an OTC pain reliever about and hour before your visit. Lay back and uh, enjoy the rest. If you do tear at all, slather the area where the skin lifted with Neosporin until it heals.

Now to the rest of your letter. First, congratulations! Now if your wife is really as understanding as you say, you owe it to her to go buy her something big and shiny(not a new makeup mirror because you stole hers), I mean something expensive. It can't be easy vying for bathroom time and honestly, if my husband ever got into my NARS Orgasm blush or my custom blended foundation, or my favorite YSL eyeshadow that I've had for almost 7 years because they don't make it anymore or even my MD Skincare $120 moisturizer, I would probably divorce him. I'm not even kidding.

An Epilator A Shark

See the resemblance?

Second, the Epilator? Really? Even the Bush administration refused to use Epilators on the Guantanamo Bay crowd because they felt it fell under "torture". The Epilator is so 1990 and it's no wonder you are getting ingrowns because it can break the hair just under the skin rather than pull the complete hair from the follicle like waxing thus causing it to continue growing under the skin. Get your legs, underarm, etc. waxed a few times by a pro, if you are worried that men don't wax, just tell them you swim a lot and are trying to improve your time. If you can afford to, let a pro continue to do it. If you can't, pay attention to how they do it so that you can replicate it at home. The kickass thing about 2009 is everything is online. Go to your local beauty supply store or go online and purchase the supplies and look here for a good how to. Waxing lasts much longer and it's far quicker. You can even find hard wax for your sac wax here. A little practice and you'll be on your way. Good luck with the short and curlies.

Your pal,

Formerly Fun

Finals Blew I Barely Knew My Graduation Speech

2009-03-02T10:31:00.000-08:00

On any given muggy summer night somewhere around 1993, you could find my friend Stefani and I hanging out at my house killing time. Because we were punk, naughty, buck the system girls, we decided to get stoned. Stefani was lucky enough to have a friend that grew his own stuff and supplied it freely as long as you agreed not to ever sell it to anyone. So I could envelope myself in a hazy cloud of lightness without feeling like I was contributing to the 'war on drugs'.

Of course, hip girls that we were, I bet you're wondering what we did afterward. Perhaps we went to Summerfest, Wisconsin's giant world class music festival or maybe Lollapaloza or Lillith Fair. We went to all of those but most nights were spent doing ridiculously fabulous things like hours worth of jigsaw puzzles, creative writing games, painting(yes, we were arsty punky girls), putting on makeup and taking pictures of each other and the pièce de résistance, making up alternate lyrics to the Diarrhea Song.

Stefani could always be counted on to be silly and we must have spent at least two hours, high as kite stuck in a Redwood, trying to rhyme, laughing until the pain in our faces and bellies eclipsed the hilarity. This was only one of many silly, goofy, teenage girl things we did. One of the things I miss about those days is how silly I was. I haven't felt silly for a long time. Playful yes, thankfully my husband is replete with ribbing and innuendo to keep me laughing and on my toes(and sometimes over his knee).

Still, I long for those carefree days of girlhood where you were only charged with yourself, responsible for no one except maybe a cat or two. Don't get me wrong, life at this end is good too. Still, while I would never go back and do these years over again, I might just like to drop in on a few of the more memorable moments. I saved those silly lyrics we wrote, so now, for your pleasure, the Poopy Song's alternate verses:

When your brother's punched you hard and your pants are filled with lard...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When your stomach's not at ease and your ass is gonna sneeze...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When your tract is on a roll and you gotta let it flow...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When you're visiting a castle and a chamber pots a hassle...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When your stomachs filled with pain, it's so loose you can't restrain...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When your cheeks are really strained it's your cushions you will stain...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When your bowels are feelin' loose and your ass is squeezing juice...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When your stomachs feelin' knotty and you're runnin' for the potty...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When your ass is filled with gas but it's sludge you're gonna pass.
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When your diets filled with prunes and your sphincters in the ruins...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

When you're filled up to the max and your rectum's feelin' lax...
diarrhea, diarrhea.

Good times, good times.
So you guys can just send that Pulitzer to my house.

Trifecta of Chris

2009-02-26T15:07:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite bloggers, Chris over at afreeman initiated another round of peer interviewing. I am usually the official unjoiner of anything like this but I know from reading and commenting on his site, he attracts a very thoughtful, intelligent crowd and my curiosity was piqued. I was interviewed by Christine/Flutter of Flutter Dark and Divine. I was acquainted with Flutter before having meandered over there after she got a favorable review here. I was instantly hooked on the honesty and clear voice that radiates throughout her writing. A lot of people blog to work through things and make progress toward figuring out their stuff and the steps toward being fully who they are. Flutter is a woman who lets you walk those steps with her and it is humbling to be allowed a window into her mind. She asked some really thoughtful questions and here are my answers.

Flutter:
When you think of the reasons that you started to blog, what is the most important? What is the least?

Chris:
When I started blogging last year, my youngest daughter was nearly six months old and I was in the throes of postpartum depression. Months of sleep deprivation and being overwhelmed with three kids, a business and a hubs to take care of, left me feeling woefully inadequate and completely over my head. After a few weeks of frequent crying, self-loathing and general disinterest in well, anything, I went to my doctor.

In spite of my initial embarrassment over what I felt was a personal weakness, I knew walking around like a pod person, a shell of my formerly fun self(yes this is where my moniker stems from) wasn't good for anyone. I quietly went on an antidepressant telling no one except my husband. I had some fear that I might do something weird and needed at least one person to know I was on the crazy pills.

There's a stigma in my family about needing help, for not being able to do things on your own. I felt better on the meds immediately but I still felt like something was wrong with me that I needed medication to handle my life. I wasn't embarrassed enough to go off them because rather than feel like some supercharged happy schmappy supermom, I finally felt like myself again and I wasn't willing to give that up, no matter how weak I felt about needing it.

I hadn't been involved with the blogging community at all, wasn't even really aware of it. Still, I love the internet as a resource and when I went looking for information on depression after childbirth, I found all these women speaking honestly about the reality of being a mother in today's world. The delicate balancing of all of the things expected of us, the futility of the goal of womanhood to do all this stuff and then strive to make it look effortless. I was hooked immediately. I think that's why so many moms blog, the relative anonymity, the shield of the computer screen allows women to strip down the facade of perfection and share openly with a lot of support and minimal judgement.

Ok, so the the short answer to the question, the most important reason I started blogging? My sanity and relating to other women on a deeper level. The least important? I love writing and blogging allows me to keep that muscle flexed. I also get feedback on the writing which is nice. It feels really good to know that certain things you have written have moved people, inspired them to be more gentle on themselves, made them laugh. This is a great side benefit to blogging and it's motivated me to write more and set and work toward personal writing goals. So it's important but definitely secondary to having a forum and outlet that keeps me feeling good.

Flutter:
What writers inspire you?

Chris:
I write mostly humorous personal essays so writers who do this very well inspire me. My favorite is David Sedaris. In fact one of my most treasured gifts was when my husband took me to a David Sedaris reading for my Christmas present. We both laughed so hard that our bellies ached all night. He's just so good at what he does and though his family is unique in their own way, he captures the milieu of the American family like no one else. I like other writers in this category like Cynthia Heimel, Erma Bombeck, Robert Fulghum, Augusten Burroughs, even Dave Eggers . I am attracted to people who use humor to deal with the difficulties of life. I am inspired by writers who are able to turn sometimes painful things into funny stories. I think this comedy/tragedy speaks of the resilience of people. I am a voracious reader and love schloads of books and authors but these guys inspire me because it's what I aspire to.

Flutter:
If you were to teach a course in comparative religions, your faith being one point of view and one more religion being a counterpoint, how would that class look?

Chris:
This is a hard one. I am a spiritual but not religious agnostic. Agnosticism is defined as:

the philosophical view that the truth value of certain claims —particularly metaphysical claims regarding theology, afterlife or the existence of deities, ghosts, or even ultimate reality — is unknown or, depending on the form of agnosticism, inherently impossible to prove or disprove. It is often put forth as a middle ground between theism and atheism.

My counterpoint would be atheism because I abhor people who claim to have a monopoly on truth. For an agnostic anyone who believes they hold the ultimate truth is questionable. I am not a huge fan of most organized religion in part because they tend to be exclusionary and the same applies to atheism. I am a follower of science and the provable, testable. And yet, I can't look at the beauty and organization around me and not think that there is something greater than me, some force of creation that is well beyond my capability to even imagine. That's why it slays me when people view god as this big mean father-figure in the heavens looking down on us judging what we do. I just don't think it works that way. I don't think we know or will ever know and that is perfectly ok with me.

So what would my class be like? I would endeavor to imbibe students with a sense of wonder, an awe of discovery and a comfort with the unknown. I would hope to create an atmosphere where we could question why our brains are hardwired for things like religion. Why we probably constructed religion the way we have, why we anthropomorphise god. I would explore how most of the tenets and parables of religion appear in all of the major religions. I wouldn't need to change student's minds but allow critical thinking and reason to be a part of the discussion.

Flutter:
It's a rainy day, you have the house to yourself and the entire day, what do you do?

Chris:
As a mom of three, this is one of my ultimate fantasies(besides all my kids saying yes mom for one day and my husband cleaning the house and attending to all of my, uh, needs.) I used to devour books, reading a few a week. Since having kids, I struggle to make time to both read and write. Writing takes precedence and it's easier to put aside and come back to for me. So for my day to myself, I'd pick one of the many unread books awaiting my rainy day and spend all day reading. I'd read in bed, read in a hot bath spiked with lavender and rosemary. I'd read on the chaise lounge out in my garden, I'd read over lunch and a cup of tea. I would, for the first time in a while, finish a book the same day I started it. I did that frequently BC(before children) and it's one of the few things I really miss.

Flutter:
Quick, what's the first word that comes to mind when I say "balls"?

Chris:
My mother. She has giant ones and though she drives me crazy sometimes and we are very different people philosophically, she has set a good example when it comes to standing up for yourself, requiring more from people, working hard and aspiring to more and never letting other people tell you what you're capable of. I have a slew of great stories relating to this but they are all worthy of their own post.

Flutter:
If we are to come away with one thing from reading your blog, what do you feel is the most important?

Chris:
I'm all over the board with my blog. Sometimes I'm funny, irreverent, even silly. Other times, I am contemplative, serious and downright morose. I know from reader's comments that different people appreciate and connect with different things. I think I just want people to take something. I've written quite a bit about body image and I hope women can read some of that and be kinder on themselves. I hope that struggling moms can read some of my travails of motherhood and know they are not alone in this difficult but loved job. I hope that people read my political and opinion posts not to agree with me but to allow for the dissemination and discussion of ideas. I think a lot of our political problems have come from people's assent and reticence to vocally dissent when they think their opinion might be unpopular. If people dropping by can take something away period, then that is fair and kind payment for the effort that goes into blogging.

One Year Later

2009-02-24T09:10:00.000-08:00

My unbelievably loved and respected grandfather died on this day, one year ago. This first year is the only time I will mark this date, after this choosing to celebrate only the good days. My grandfather was immeasurably important to me, to all of my family. To say that he was a good man, a dedicated father, an adoring grandfather, great grandfather, a loyal friend -- none of it encompasses how he impacted the people around him. When I need a measuring stick in human kindness,compassion and morality that eclipses religion, it is him that I measure against. What follows is rather long, quite personal, it certainly isn't one of those 'general audience' pieces but it was important to me, at this year mark, to remember.
July 23, 2007 - Diary
Today my daughter poked her eye with the corner of a book and I found out my Grandpa has pancreatic cancer. I am profoundly sad. Surprisingly, I don’t feel sad for me, even though Grandpa has been more a father to me at times than my own father, even though he is the most stable and loving man I’ve ever known until I met my own husband, even though he is an important fixture in our families often shaky stability.

I am sad for my grandparents. Tonight I called and my cousin was there with her mom and she talked to me while she did dishes. My grandparents are scared and it scares me that they, they who have always been strong before us are anxious, unsure and visibly rocked by this news. Again, when my grandpa dies, whenever that is, my world will not change considerably. But my grandmother has shared a bed with this man for nearly sixty years, my whole chest contracts with the thought of losing my husband, I can’t even imagine how directionless and pained my grandmother would feel without hers.

I am scared and sad for the indignities my grandfather will have to endure, and that’s if things are good enough to warrant the indignities of the poisons of cancer treatment. I am scared for him, with him, of the pain, the physical pain and the pain of seeing your family sad and frightened. The fear and uncertainty of trusting doctors to know what you need and do their best and manage your pain and your expectations. I am sad that my grandparents will have to walk that line between optimism and realism. I am sad that he may have to find a way to say goodbye to all of us. I am just sad for them and the uncertain road ahead.

I’m sad for me too because I love this man so much and he is the only man I have ever looked up to and admired, respected, trusted and felt completely loved and accepted by. But I don’t need him anymore, want him yes, but Gene has filled the place in my life that my grandfather held open, waiting for the right person to come and occupy for the long haul.

I am sad for my mom and her siblings because to lose your father is different than your grandfather and to watch your grandmother sad and scared is not jarring in the way it is to see your mother contemplate what’s ahead. I wish for my grandfather whatever it is he needs to make any of this, whatever this turns out to be, as easy as possible. I love him, them and I only wish that knowing that we all care so much will make things easier not harder.

My aunt has found a site, the Caring Bridge that will help my grandparents keep their large family and bevy of friends updated on my grandpa's progress. We have all left messages which my cousin prints up for my grandfather to read. My Grandma told me that these messages mean a lot to him, something to keep his mind off things.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 03, 2007 - Caring Bridge
Grandpa & Grandma,
I miss you both so much and would give you a big hug if I were there. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make everything fine, but I know I can’t. Nevertheless, you have all of my support and love in the difficult days ahead. I am so proud to be your granddaughter and the courage and commitment you have shown to each other, especially as of late, is yet another opportunity for me to learn from you both. You have always been a huge source of strength and stability for me, I’m certain for many of us. Now, you need to focus inward and take care of each other knowing we’re all ok and will do whatever it is you need us to. I love you both.

What do you say that could ever in a million years make any of this ok?

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 03, 2007 - Caring Bridge

Hi Grandpa and Grandma,
Grandma, happy birthday. Wish I could have been at Mom's to celebrate with you. Even though it was your birthday, I bet you still made the cake. I would give anything for a piece of your poppyseed cake right now. Grandpa, Mom filled me in on your last treatment and I'm glad to know you're doing well. It's nice to get the detailed report from her since every time I call you guys, we're only on the phone five minutes or so before one of the other kids or grandkids or friends calls to talk to you too. As for me, I'm in the home stretch now as far as the pregnancy goes. Every time I think I'm as big as I'll get, I get a little bit bigger. Gene has been generous with nightly back and foot rubs, extra help around the house and with the kids and ice cream runs a couple of times a week. The doctors expect I'll deliver between the 25th of September and October 5th so we'll see, maybe the bebe will share your birthday :) With Mom, Dad's, yours and Gene's dads birthdays all around the same time, she has a pretty good chance of sharing somebody's birthday. Anyway, just wanted to drop you a note and let you know I miss you.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 17, 2007 - Caring Bridge
Grandpa & Grandma,
I miss you both so much I cannot even put it into words. I am so big, ungainly, and bored already(I worked my last day for the time being Saturday) that if I were in town, I think I'd be at your house every day eating good food, watching your big tv, chatting with you both and letting grandma overfeed me powder donuts, shrimp salad, pizelles, baked chicken and all the other things I miss. Wow, I guess this email has a food theme, I'm getting hungry just writing it.
Anyhow, I am in my 37th week of pregnancy and could officially "go" any day now. I'm hoping for sooner rather than later because I am so big, you wouldn't believe it. On my 5 foot frame, I look like an egg on legs. The big kids both have said they'll be glad when the baby comes and I have a lap they can sit on again. Gene is taking good care of me even though I am getting more and more anxious to get the show on the road. I'll keep you posted on my progress and keep me in your thoughts for an earlier rather than later birth, maybe sometime around Grandpa's birthday:) Love you both, miss you and wish I was there, albeit selfishly so you could love me up a little. Love, Christy

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 2007 - Caring Bridge
Happy Birthday Grandpa,
Wow, 87 years, I can hardly believe it.
You seem so much younger and not just because you’re handsome and still a fierce player on the golf course. You seem so much younger than 87 in part because of the adaptability you have shown through the multiple generations of growth in your family and how well you have handled everything we’ve thrown at you.

You have and continue to be, a model of unconditional love and you and grandma(I mention her because sometimes I see you as two halves of the same person) have served as the foundation and heart of our family. I have learned so many things from you and cherish every day we’ve spent together. Not only have you been a great role model but you are simply nice to be around. I’ve appreciated that without saying much, I always knew what you meant whether it was conveying love or letting me know I had to do something better. I remember occasionally getting into trouble and getting lectures over dinner at your kitchen table from Mom, Grandma and even Linda sometimes, but all you had to do was look up from your plate at me and I knew what you were thinking.

I recall with pride all of the times you’ve said to me, “Chrissy, you’re the one we never worry about, we know you’ll figure it out.” Believe me, there were many times I reminded myself of your words to reassure myself that I could handle all the stumbling blocks and obstacles of adulthood. Your confidence in me was a powerful armor out in the world. I loved that when I told you I had finally found “the one” when I met Gene, all you said was, “Chrissy, if you love him, I love him." And I have loved seeing your relationship with Grandma evolve over the many different stages of your lives. You have never stopped working to treat each other better and I have never met two people more committed and loyal to each other. Beyond the bonds of almost 60 years together it is also so apparent that you two are still in love, a giant accomplishment in any marriage.

I’ve also appreciated your impish sense of humor. You and Grandma definitely taught me that if you can laugh together, it’s awfully hard to stay angry very long and that a sense of humor and perspective can be a real comfort when things are hard or looking dim. Grandpa, I hope it is a really good birthday and know that I love you and you mean the world to me. I hope the next year brings you a wealth of health, happiness and all that you dream of.
Love,
Christy
Tuesday, October 23, 2007 -Caring Bridge
Hi Grandpa,
I wanted to write sooner but with the new baby I'm lucky if I have time for a shower! Thank you so much for giving up Grandma for a few days so she could come out to California with Mom to see the baby and help out. It was so nice to have my family here so soon after the baby's birth and I couldn't wait for Grandma and mom to meet my new girl. Gene and I were so tired after 2 weeks with Izzy up every few hours so Grandma and mom were nice enough to keep the baby with them two of the nights they visited so Gene and I could get a full nights sleep. What a treat that was. I felt positively human again rather than the walking zombie I was beginning to resemble.
Grandma played for hours with the kids and it made me think of all the times Grandma made up games for she and I to play or took the time to teach me how to do things from playing gin to making a pie. Mom and Grandma also picked up where I left off with my yard before I started getting too big to garden. They split up and thinned out a bunch of our plants, bought some colorful new ones and got the yard looking its best. With a little of our year-round California sunshine, it won't take long for it to all fill in again and look positively lush.
Only Grandma and Mom spend big $$ on plane tickets, get on a long plane ride just to sleep on our couch(they liked it better than the air mattress:), cuddle a crying baby in the middle of the night getting only a little sleep and do some heavy duty gardening. While recovering from a Cesarean and getting acclimated to a new baby and third child, it really helped me to have them here, even for a few days so thanks for parting with your favorite girl for a few days.
Oh Grandpa, I wish you'd been out to meet Isabella too but I'll bring her home to Milwaukee as soon as I can. She is such a treat, I can't imagine what we ever did without her. I love you and look forward to seeing you in person. Happy anniversary and have a good turkey day too
Love, Christy

Dec 24, 2007 - Diary
I am sitting on Gene’s lap and crying for the third time today because it’s Christmas Eve and my grandfather has been admitted to the hospital because of complications from either the chemotherapy or the pancreatic cancer it’s supposed to be treating. I am so fucking sad I can’t stand it. Not only is he like a father to me but he is one of only a handful of people who I believe I absolutely know the person he is. Oh man that sentence is so off and I can’t even put words together that make sense and that is the thing I can always do.

It is late and I go out on the front porch of our house because the cool stone on my bare feet and the air on my face feels good. I look around at the lights of my neighbors and this Siamese that I have noticed around the last few weeks finally comes over and gives me the time of day. I crouch down and he walks right over and butts his heart shaped face against my hand. He lets me pick him up and he smells like wood smoke. This is the highlight of my day, a little affection from somebody else’s cat. I have not even paid much attention to my own cats today instead spending most of the day getting ready for company tomorrow. And normally, given my mood, I would be wishing a giant sinkhole would open in the road leading to our house so everyone would have to divert and I’d be rescued from a few hours of vacuous conversation but instead I am grateful for the distraction. I am going to open presents with my children tomorrow, and I am going to make small talk and be happy being around people who make me happy, even when I am not.

January 3, 2008 - Diary
I am really angry right now. Everybody in my family are such goddamn cheerleaders that no is telling me the truth about how bad my Grandfather is. It's as if admitting he is close to death will usher it in on the spot. I get it, I get that to acknowledge it feels like giving up but here I sit two-thousand miles away and I need someone to tell me if I need to come home and no one is telling me the truth. He's okay my mom says, they're being aggressive, the chemo is taking a toll on him. What part of how he's doing is the chemo and how much is the cancer I ask, needing to understand if this is a symptom of the poison running through him or his body shutting down. They don't know she says. Well, whats typical in these case, I ask though I already know, it is grim, I just want to here her say it, confirm what I've already read over and over again unable to fathom how deadly something could be that I've never heard of before. "He's a fighter Christy, you know that, he wants to live, he isn't done yet, we have to keep praying, anything could happen." Maybe this is what every family goes through when faced with losing someone so important. How we all handle this is also complicated by the fact that my grandmother survived stage four ovarian cancer, given only a few months, here she is nursing my ailing grandfather some twenty-five years later. How can you not put some hope in the miraculous when you saw it firsthand? Still, I trust statistics and the numbers on pancreatic are so fucking grim there isn't much room left for hope. My dad is a pessimist, my mom an optimist, I am a pragmatist. So I yell at just about every member of my family until I think I have gotten straight answers. I need to go see him. I want to introduce him to our new baby, I know it could cheer him up, but I am I am nervous about travelling with her. She is only a few weeks old and it doesn't seem right to put her on a plane during the worst of cold and flu season. I try and figure out how to finagle my husband coming with me but the sad truth that there will be a funeral this year hits home and I know I will need him there then and that we cannot afford to do both. So I plan a trip for just the baby and I. I stress over it, I sob in my husband's arms feeling like a ten year old girl in my capacity to safely and calmly get this child on a plane. I don't know if I have the emotional wherewithal to handle a baby on a plane by myself. Looking back I am already having some PPD though I didn't know it yet so I am doing all this in a place of extreme panic and fragility, I am not even a fraction of my normally competent collected self. The bebe was perfect, she cooed and slept and snuggled the whole flight, I got hosts of compliments from passengers about what a pleasure she was to fly with. I, on the other hand was a mess. I had a full blown anxiety attack on the gangway, not sure if I was going to pass out or throw up, I stood frozen while other passengers made their way onto the plane. Finally a Midwest Airlines flight attendant, who I cannot thank enough, saw how disconcerted I was as I struggled to keep it together. I'm not sure if I am going to be sick I told her, I am physically ok, I think I am having a panic attack, my grandfather is very ill I'm going to see him and I've been very nervous about flying on my own with the baby. I remember she looked like Kate from Charlie Angel's and she asked if she could help me with the baby and she told me she'd help me get seated and give me an airsick bag right away so I had it if I needed it. She got me a glass of water and told me everything was going to be ok and just somebody saying it I started to think believe it would be. I took many deep breaths trying to stave off the nausea that I couldn't shake. I tried not to think about my Grandpa too much. Brace yourself Christy, they had all told me, he looks, well,, sick. I hadn't seem him since July shortly before he'd been accidentally diagnosed. He looked healthy then, even robust and tan, having played golf only a few days before.

January 18, 2008 - Diary
Yesterday I said goodbye to my grandfather. He was at the hospital getting some fluids after he had taken a fall the night before, probably because of low blood pressure. I am certain he won’t last six months and I am uncertain if he will last six weeks. I was getting on a plane the next day to go home, and I might not return before his cancer finally takes his life. So, I had to say goodbye as if it was the last time I would ever see him alive because it might be. He cried and apologized for ruining my trip home. I told him, Grandpa, I came to see you so how could anything you do ruin my trip? I told him that I was so happy that he met my newest daughter. I told him I loved him and admired him and how important he was to me. I told him that I knew he knew these things, this was not the first time I had ever uttered the words. I told him that if he wanted to fight, (even though it was an uphill battle filled with pain and indignitites), he should, but if and when he was done fighting, that was okay too. I told him to do whatever he needed to, that it was okay to be selfish in this instance. I told him we would take good care of Grandma. I told him whatever happens, it will be ok that no matter what, he is and will always be a part of my life. I rubbed the scruff on his face and put my hand at his temples, I kissed him and pressed my face against his. I held his hand and said the words, this might be the last time we see each other and he said I know. We both cried. I think this is the most intimate and honest conversation I have ever had in my life and the most vulnerable I have ever seen a person. I said I hope I see you in March but if I don’t, it’s ok. I went and got the baby, his latest great grandchild and brought her in, the mood lightened a little. He was too sore from the fall to hold her but he held her hand and she smiled at him, he kissed her head and cried a little more. I looked him in the eyes and I said I love you and then I walked from the room. I didn't turn around I couldn’t. My aunt, cousin and Grandma were in a nearby hall alcove. They saw me and all started to cry, my aunt came over and gave me a hug and I cried harder and she held me. Grandma said he’s a good man isn’t he, he loves you all so much. My mom came back from having talked with one of the nurses and as usual, was a cheerleader, reminding everyone to hope for the best, removing herself from that moment. I just wanted to be in that moment, allow myself the weight of the sadness of saying goodbye. I think it changed things a little for everyone. They saw a preview of what they could be doing any day now. I did it today because I am two thousand miles away and I wanted to look him in the eye and be truthful about what might be.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 2008 - Caring Bridge
Dear Family and Friends,
We are very sad to tell you that Sunday evening,
after a seven month battle with cancer,
the angels came and guided Hank home to heaven.
Hank's passing was very peaceful.
Please continue to keep all of us in your prayers.

Vintage Vag - Same as It Ever Was

2009-02-22T16:18:00.000-08:00

This is a vintage ad for Lysol brand douche. Seriously, I'm not even making this up, Lysol used to make douche. Yes, the same Lysol that you may or may not clean and disinfect your floors with. How dirty are your nether regions if you have to get the Lysol out? Or maybe, just maybe this is yet one more way to keep a bitch down. Ladies, take it from me because I know(remember I see a lotta cha in my biz), your 'ginas don't need Lysol.

Husbands, do you want your wives to be feminine? Ladies, do you want to try Demure so you can discover how completely feminine you can be? Do you want to freshen your lady business? Come on, they're promising it will make you feel very special 'down there'. Special? You know what will also make you feel special 'down there'?

And I quote,

"Bidette is your assurance of all day daintiness."

I don't think I want to be assured of all day daintiness. Maybe all day sexiness or all day smartness or even all day smartassishness, but daintiness not so much.

"Keep Bidette handy and deal with a woman's problem like a woman."

So what is the alternative? Deal with a woman's problem a man's way? Try to fix it yourself and then end up making it way worse and having to call in a professional to get it done right? Or ignoring it until your wife finely gets frustrated and does it herself?

This one's called Pristeen. Oh boy. This one says to me that if you don't get that vaginal odor under control, you are going to be sitting on some beach by yourself with a book. Yes please. I'll take my vag odor cause that beach is looking pretty awesome.

"The real problem is trying to keep the most girl part of you free of any worry making odors."

The most girl part of me?

I'm going to use this as my new euphemism for my vagina.

Husband, I would like you to touch the most girl part of me tonight.

Nurse, I'd like to make my annual appointment to have the most girl part of me checked out.

Ok client x, now take off your clothes so I can wax the most girl part of you.

Seriously, I am going to try to work that into a sentence at least one a day.

Now if you think that as women, we have moved past the idea that our vaginas are somehow dirty, or broken or require anything more than a gentle cleansing in the shower or bath, think again.
Exhibit A

Female Total Odor Control
Availability: Usually ships in 2-3 business days.
Item #: FEM-D
Price: $17.95

Product Description
12 inches long Round and curvy, sleek Feminine odor control Now we have a pad designed just for you. Neutralizes odors with our exclusive activated charcoal cloth material. It will last several weeks - depending on usage Ultra-soft Washable and reusable Comfortable Highly absorbent Very Thin Details:1 Pad and 10 Double Sided Tape strips Instructions

A pantylineresque thing that "lasts for several weeks"? Something that requires double-sided tape near my girl bits? Pass.

Exhibit B

This one is tricky because it's marketed to be female friendly and hip. Look one's called Shower of Power. That's right girls, when your vag is squeaky clean you feel powerful.

"This unique and modern advance in intimate care, coined our Shower of Power, consists of single dose packettes of intimate waters, Spot Clean! that blend with lukewarm 'H-2-oh'(water), and is carefully monitored by our temperature sensitive "smart" bidet bottle label that reads READY. SPOT. GO. when "temperature-sweet" for that extra care down there. The result is a skin-softening, cleansing, spot-refreshing 'portable bidet'"

External water freshening, doesn't sound so bad. Look, it even comes in different scents.

citrus galbanum

geranium lavendar

basil grapefruit

Unless your husband/boyfriend/lover/girlfriend is a bee, I think making your cha cha smell like fruit and herbs is a bad idea. If anything, your guy would rather have it smell like pizza and beer than basil grapefruit.

Hurly Burly

2009-02-19T20:30:00.001-08:00

Well here I am, and I'm going to do the verboten, blog about blogging, well, blog about not blogging. It been a little tumultuous at the maison de formerlyfun. Most of you probably know my husband lost his job in December, along with a lot of other people. I've been in that weird purgatory place, feeling like it's not terrible yet but it's not great and we're not moving in any direction-just stuck. I've also felt like we were sitting squarely in a big vat of quicksand, one false move and we'd be sunk.
Then there was the adjusting to my husband home everyday and stressed and disappointed and having the small crises of confidence that come with not being able to find a job. He looked everyday. He took on job hunting as his job. He had four different recruiters looking for him, he had word out to a bevy of friends and past colleagues. He looked daily at Monster, and craigslist and every other place he could post a resume or search technical listings.
He was asked to take technically difficult tests before he was even granted an interview. He was asked by the recruiters to tweak his resume for each company, highlighting or making more prominent his experience or feigned experience in the area of development they were looking for. He researched and prepared and dressed for loads of interviews. Ah, the anxiety of the first date.
I fought the urge to tell him how to do stuff more times a day than I can count. I felt guilty that the economy was taking a toll on my own income already reduced from a year of part time work after our last child was born. Fifteen years of hard work, good solid income and now I felt powerless that I couldn't shoulder more of the burden. I felt like somehow I should be able to pull more of the load so there wasn't so much pressure on him to take care of us all.
He told me he felt stupid sometimes, like he didn't know the things he should, that he wasn't up on the technology he should be. Never mind the jobs being posted were the ones companies were having a hard time placing because only a very small set had the specific mix of technical experience they wanted. Never mind that employers had stacks of resumes for single positions and were in positions to do some extreme cherry picking. Never mind the industry is constantly evolving, learn something and it's obsolete--on to the next thing. Never mind that the hubs has ramped up quickly and succeeded every place he's ever worked. I told him he was great, reassured him that all of the people he had previously worked with and for thought he was great. That even if he took a job and failed, we, his family, the people who love him would always think he was great.
I would tell him offhand that I wished we could go out for dinner because we had preemptively tightened our belts not knowing how long it would take for him to find work. He'd apologize for us not being able to go out to dinner. I didn't mean it like that I'd say, I just wish we knew what was going to happen and I don't feel like making dinner. I would lament that I felt like I wasn't pulling my weight, that I was expecting him to shoulder the burden of taking care of all of us. Don't be silly he'd tell me, we made this decision as a couple, we both decided someone needed to be home with the baby the first two years-it was, it is important to us. You had the job that had more flexibility, an easier transition back to full time-- it made more sense for you to stay home.

We took turns falling apart. We took turns telling the other that everything would be ok. We've had parents, step-parents, grandparents, aunts sending us extra Christmas money, money for no reason at all, gas cards, gift cards to take the kids for dinner, well wishes, pep talks, prayers, and offers of help, reassurances that we have more family support, emotional and otherwise than we could ever need. I have to admit, this has been really hard. And yet, I think we have been doing great, rolling with the punches, staying positive--most days.
Hubs got a job last week. The salary is for half of what he was making. But as he so enthusiastically pointed out, 50% of what he was making is better than 0% of what he was making. There are a host of other jobs in the works, all of them in the normal range of what his job typically pays. He took the one job knowing he was going to have to keep looking. The job was an interim job to slow the bleed of our savings. It's a hard thing to take a job you know you are leaving. My husband is the most loyal and considerate person I know and even he agreed that in this economy, the niceties of not accepting a job you had no intention of keeping were a luxury.So, most of my mental energy has been all hurly burly for a while. We're ok, but my energy and creativity has been drawn inward, taking care of us and figuring out what comes next. I am definately a glass half-full person but I am also a person who likes things settled, figured out. Until that happens, I am in a constant state of motion, trying to figure out where we'll end up, confronting my worst fears, trying to prepare for the worst, contemplating the worst so it can't sneak up on me--it's a terrible mental habit. So I'm here, and I hope that in acknowledging my 'dry spell', I jinx it and get my mojo back. Until then, and in between holding my breath, I'll pop my head up from time to time.

She Got It From Her Momma

2009-02-17T19:15:00.000-08:00

Not only can my bebe walk, she can walk in HEELS!

I'll Fly Away

2009-02-09T21:09:00.000-08:00

I wish I would have paid more attention when we sat at that old round formica table as she pushed her pictures towards me with her thin, unbelievably soft hands. I remember her telling me they were a group of friends who got together to hike. Those pants, are those what are called jodhpurs I wonder now looking at them. Whose piano was that? Were they friends with some rowdy boys in a band. Had she been one of those girls, the ones that balked their old country parents and wore pants anyhow? Maybe she smoked and drank and flirted and got bawdy. I know my grandmother frequented the dance halls of the day, she must have too. I wish I had paid more attention because this group of girls looks hardly different from my own group of girls. The funny one, the pretty one, the shy one...all sharing secrets. Where did all these girls go I would have asked her. What did they do and become? She is the one in the very middle. Yes, the one with the silly pointed hat.

Who took this picture I think whenever I look at it. Where were they going all dolled up? Was this outside of a church after services or in front of a train station waiting for someone's boyfriend?

This is my favorite picture. Look at the hair nets, the trouser pants. If they were wearing bras, they weren't the standard bulleted ones of the day. Maybe they took them off because they were far from the watchful eyes of men or mothers,I bet they still had clean underwear on. Those cameras in their hands, where did they get them?

I wish I had asked more questions instead of scanning the pictures while I ate the cookies and deviled eggs she'd made for me. Don't get me wrong, I loved the pictures and it meant a great deal that she gave them to me, to keep some of her memories of her youth. I just wish now looking at them that I knew more about her. The her that was still at the beginning of her life.

She died last week, my Aunt Fran. She was in her late nineties and it was time, maybe even beyond time so there weren't too many tears to go around. Still, she is loved. She was a very devout woman which is part of why I wonder so much about the young woman in the pictures. I always thought of Fran as my living guardian angel. She and my Uncle Tony had been unable to have children so my mom and her siblings and the rest of us kids were her surrogates.

Fran had this incredible knack for sending me a note with one of her saint prayer cards and a check at the precise times I needed it. No one told her, she just knew. My used car in the shop again just a few weeks after the last repair and there it would be, a card envelope with her Florida return address. She was generous and kind and I was always grateful for those small reprieves from the consequences of poor student life.

When I moved to California, she sent me prayer cards for those living alone,those living far from family. I am not Catholic but I'd read them knowing she was thinking and praying for me, always on my side. She even would call me laughing telling me she was praying for a husband for me. She was hoping I'd meet someone from Wisconsin so I would move back home. This coming from the woman who moved to Florida far from her own family. She always held one of my hands when I'd see her and talk to her. She had a glint in her eye just like my Grandpa, her brother, did. She'd hang on to every word of my stories, she'd laugh at my mildly off-color jokes.

I liked Fran as much as I loved her. There were more than fifty years separating us but I connected with her, felt like we had things in common I would only recognize later. I knew her well but I still wish I'd known her better.

The Magnificent Feats of Five

2009-02-09T13:11:00.000-08:00

My daughter turned five this weekend. She got her favorite breakfast(donuts), her favorite dinner(Mac, Spagettios,pizza and lots of fruit). Then she ate about seventeen cupcakes. Then all my kids played dress-up with her for like three hours. I was able to convince the boy that the gold tiara looked "kingly". Haaaaahaaaaaaaa, I'm showing this to girlfriends later.