smoke + mirrors

government shutdown.

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 03:09:00 +0000

Yes. That must be what has happened here.

No funding. No posts. Without direction, without my own personal congress overriding any pork-eatin' shenanigans all efforts come to a screeching halt.

Naw. Really. On the way home from a stressful day at the office (I had to write that to justify the bourbon and ginger sitting beside me), I was listening to NPR and heart the term 'smoke and mirrors' uttered by a Republican in reference to the efforts being put forth by our President of the Democratic persuasion to keep things moving in our country's capital.
And I thought, "Smoke and mirrors???!!! By golly, that's MY trick. And I started feeling the guilt of not pulling my weight here.

But since I am (at least for now) a total and complete volunteer effort and do not in any way rely on taxpayers, product endorsements and / or schmoozing politicians gifting me and opening doors, it takes a great deal of oomph, commitment and discipline to get myself here on a regular basis.

So yes, there will be the occasional shut downs here at smoke + mirrors. Don't worry (and yes, I'm talking to you, Pop), the interior halls and inter-workings of my internal government is alive and well and might just need a mini-furlough to gather more writing material.

break ... as in spring.

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Fri, 25 Mar 2011 03:07:00 +0000

Yes, I've absent in the written word as of late. It's because I have been in self-imposed rehab in a vain attempt to kick the Trader Joe's Blister Peanut habit. It's a tough one, this addiction, so please do not tempt me.

My unintended break in writing is also a result of just wanting to be a lazy-ass this month. It's my passive-aggressive retaliation aimed at the rest of my family who get to enjoy a real Spring Break while I get to work through the month. No break. At all.

And I decided instead of calling my failure to write on a regular basis what it is - Failure. To. Write. - let's just call it my own version of Spring Break - which, in Portland is a very soggy and gray season. A season where one must dodge life-sized fungi formations and puddles large enough to drown small children.

I promise to be back in absolute full force in April with regular posts ... or sooner if I feel like it ...

happy spring

...

these are a few of my favorite things ...

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 05:07:00 +0000

OK. I've been accused of being a little on the downer side (by my father). I have been busted for embellishing the truth (by my dear sister-wife-neighbor-friend). And I've been called very brave to be revealing such ugly and real aspects of my life (by almost everyone).

So, in the spirit of being positive and one with the world, I ask you to join me in song.

Don't pretend you don't know the tune, because we've all seen this movie more times than any of us care to remember.

C'mon...all together now. And if you really feel like maintaining the tone of this blog, sing it in a sad, minor key if you feel so compelled.

Hot cups of coffee made by my sweet daughter

Long lazy showers with lots of hot water

Spending my days writing all about bling

These are a few of my favorite things

Chocolate brown wedges and ultra-soft denim

White sheets and red wine and water with lemon

My sweet loving children who laugh when they sing

These are a few of my favorite things

Family dinners with everyone helping

Snowballs inside of the freezer not melting

Veggies we plant and then eat in late spring

These are a few of my favorite things

When the girls fight

When the wine's gone

When I'm feeling maaaaaaaad

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don't feeeeeel so bad.

an uh-oh project

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Sun, 06 Mar 2011 02:57:00 +0000

The plan was easy-peasy.
A mini-redo for my oldest daughter's bedroom
Buy some lovely new bedding and paint the room.
Do it in a weekend, right?

Uh. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Remove everything from the little room attached to her bedroom. Done.
Vacuum. Done.
Dust the baseboards. Done....but wait....what is that little bubble down there? And a seam? WHAT?
Hmmm....what happens if I pull....
OOOoooOOohhhh.

Shit.

The walls aren't painted. THEY ARE WALLPAPERED and then painted. AAaahhhh.

So I pulled. And tore. And scraped.

And uncovered a circa-1915 paint job (pink), a circa-1930 paint job (green), a circa-1945 paint job (pink again) and some lovely but very stubborn circa-1955 wallpaper (flowered).

I also uncovered a job that will most certainly take more than a day and more than this little weekend can hold. And I had to call in the big guns. My husband AND The Shop Vac.

So much for the weekend project.

Or maybe I can convince my daughter that the walls look like an old French castle and it would be just fine to just coat them in something clear and move on to the next room.

everything in its place revisited

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 06:42:00 +0000

...and I'm not talking about the condition of my house. Not even close. I'm talking about the ability to compartmentalize. To com.part.men.tal.ize. - you know, the very common (though baffling to me) ability to keep emotions in check rather than letting them run willy-nilly across the borders of relationships, the work environment or in the check-out line at the grocery store.

Remember my first 'everything in its place' post? My emotions are, much of the time, in the same state of disarray.

In a slightly confrontational conversation with a colleague, I begin to imagine their sad home life, the disappointing and lonely meals in front of the TV, the frustration they must feel everyday when they come to a job they are not cut out to do...and I completely undermine the professional intent of what I am supposed to be communicating. UGH.

Or in an attempt to discipline my youngest daughter, I will project into her future and see that my condemning words ("You need to keep your room clean!" and "Why are their things stuffed under your bed?") have caused her to make her television debut on the show "Hoarders", so instead, I stuff my words and clean her room myself.

I have been know to mumble under-my-breath-but-passive-aggressively-enough-to-be-heard, "You must have had a ROTTEN childhood to behave this way!!" to a former boss while silently psychoanalyzing her strange, anti-child behavior and wondering what horrible sexual experience convinced her to marry god and become a nun. She was a teacher. And crazy.

I have a friend whose emotions occupy a very clean and orderly apartment within her head. Each one of them comes out when needed then quietly retreats, closes the door and isn't heard from again unless invited to play. No one blares their music or talks so loud their voices are heard through the walls. Each of them keeps to themselves. No contact, no mingling, no trouble.

My emotions? Imagine a busy, inner-city street of row houses during the peak swelter of a hot and humid summer. You've got the fire hydrant open and streaming water, neighbors shouting to each other from window to window, dogs barking, kids jump-roping, playing tag and fighting, men lolling about, listening to music and drinking beer, car horns blaring...you get the picture. That's the emotional neighborhood of my brain.

It's quite a challenge to hold an organized block party or neighborhood association meeting with all of the shenanigans going on at all hours.

I have a lot to learn from the finely-tuned feelings of my friend. And while I initially thought her approach was cold, calloused and lacking of any tenderness, I can now see its strong, efficient and well-oiled advantages.

Like when her oh-so-perfect toddler son dumped his entire toy bin in our living room (yes, he keeps toys at our house due to his constant presence here...) and she proceeded to pick him up to take him home without nary a care to the destruction left in his wake.

That pesky tenant of my emotional apartment, the one who has her nose in everyone's business and refuses to bag the poop of her yippy rat-dog started to involve her wimpy self in the interaction - nearly enabling my neighbor to walk out the door scott-free of responsibility. I shoved her backwards into her abode, locked her up and knocked on the door of the strong, democratic, soft-voiced, big-daddy tenant who helped me construct my direct comment of, "Oh honey, you forgot to show him where the toys go before he leaves."

Direct. To the point. And without any emotional distractions.

voices inside my head.

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Sat, 26 Feb 2011 04:24:00 +0000

"Mo-ommm, if I have to miss part of my friend's party, I'm not going to play select soccer! I've had to miss ... like, FIVE parties because of soccer!!!!!"

"You haven't missed any parties or sleepovers because of soccer and I'm only picking you up an hour early you'll be there for about 95% of it!"

"FORGET IT MOM. I'm not playing."

"You are part of the team and they are counting on you."

"NO Mom. I'm not."

And then I hear the other voice participating in the ~~conversation~~ ~~discussion~~ ~~debate~~ convincing-of-my-child-she-needs-to-fulfill-her-commitment. And it says in a calm, reasonable and confident tone, "Honey, do not get into this argument. Don't fall into her verbal trap. Back down and let it go for now."

WHAT? How could my husband be part of this talk? He's at the rock gym climbing!

OHHhhhhh. It's just his voice. Inside my head. Again. Second guessing my approach and taking the appropriate, parent-like and mature high road in a no-win argument with our attorney-in-training-'tween.

Why am I the one who seems to forget that I AM THE PARENT?

-----

They arrive in one day. I cannot wait! The bed is ready. The half of the room they use is clean and even has a gorgeous fuchsia colored orchid on the table. The kids are totally excited to the point where they can't even sleep.

Everything is vacuumed. The pillows on the couch have been fluffed. There is a fresh and cool flower arrangement on the coffee table. The house is pretty much spotless. No ugly corners anywhere.

"What about the cat box? I'm not sure having it in the bathroom is a good idea. And we need to go to the store to buy a bathmat. My feet ache on the porcelain. And we also need to go to the grocery store. I need organic, non-sweetened soy milk for my non-coffee drink...which we also need to get because that's what I drink in the mornings. And have you thought about giving away any of your cats? Five iiiiiis an awful lot!"s

MOM? What? Where are you? I thought your flight didn't arrive for five more hours?!?!?

OOoooOOoooohhhhh....it's just your vooooice. Inside my head. Again. Weren't you just here an hour ago? And then again yesterday evening? And also the day before that?

-----

A snow day and no one but me has to get up early. And ahhhhhhh, boy does it feel nice to sleep past 6:15 without having to wake up, act alert, get dressed, make breakfast, oversee the lunch-packing and look semi-presentable for work....

But if I sleep for an extra hour, I'll get to work at 9 instead of 8. But is that ok? Considering the amount of work I do off the clock at home? I mean, it's the one time for me to chill and cuddle with my kids in bed while the snow falls outside.

WHAT??? Where are you? I thought I left you at the library! What? You followed me home! It's the voice of my reasonable, responsible, mature and career-oriented self telling me I'm LATE. FOR. WORK. And that I'm SUCH. A. LETDOWN. Shit.

Be QUIET fergodssakes!

-----

Friday night.

It's been a looooong, busy and invigorating week at work.

Feel like relaxing.

Husband working out.

Two glasses of wine and too many chips and salsa into the early evening to feel like doing anything productive, wholesome or homemade for dinner.

Let kids watch 1/2 hour of TV (...DISNEY even...the horror!!!!!).

And...ordered....the forbidden...the once-every-four-years...the staple of my pre-teen Friday night dinners way back when...yes...I know....sugar-carb-artificial-ingredient-laden-right-wing-supporting....Domino's pizza.

WHAT? Did you say something? HUH??

"You know it's really easy to throw together some veggie pasta, sauce and a couple of turkey meatballs. Stock up and have them ready so you don't have to resort to the diet of middle America in weak moments. It's soooo easy and uncomplicated."

How the hell did my wholesome, does-not-own-a-TV-and-eats-all-organic-homemade-food friend get here? Because I thought she was on a silent yoga retreat in the mountains!!!!!

Oooohhhhhhh. It's just her voice. Inside my head. Telling me I'm going to bad-mom-hell for allowing my kids to dip in the pool of bad nutrition and mediocrity.

-----

I can't do anything right.

Dammit.
My kids should be painting and crafting and writing plays and baking vegan muffins and reading Shakespeare during their down time.
And what are they doing instead?

They are learning about balance, moderation, real life and how to handle situations with grace, realistic expectations and humor.

And THAT? That's my own damn voice!

because every leader follows something

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 06:08:00 +0000

there are only leaders in my followers.

see that little button over there?

yeah...to the right and under the photo of me pretending to be all zenned out in joshua tree.

click it and follow the smoke.

lurking in the corners ...

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 06:13:00 +0000

I never promised this would be a pretty ride. And, come to think of it, I think someone might have told me that when I got married and decided to produce offspring and move into a larger house. But. BUT, I really try to keep it all together. At least most of the time. In most parts of my house.

Tonight, however, I noticed many of the corners were beginning to get away from me, to revolt, to create little enclaves of their own. These spaces seem to be completely independent of the interior themes permeating the rest of our living space instead choosing their own signature look. A look that will never EVER make it to the home page of any cute design blog.

But just so you don't think we live in complete squalor and disarray, I'll begin with the corner that won't shock you into throwing yourself from the under a truck or sticking a sharpened pencil into your ear.

This evening when I came home, dropped my free-weight purse on my desk only to glance underneath and notice the faux-organization beginning to tower toward the bottom of my desk:

Uh-huh. See, I pretend if all of my unpaid bills and old bank statements and important papers are crammed into white leather and shiny lacquer boxes thus hidden from the naked eye, they will not cause clutter. What never really occurred to me is when you have seven of these boxes all piled on top of each other in a small space it's certainly not pretty.

Quickly removing myself from this trying-to-look-nice eyesore and motivated entirely by the desire to be in my pajamas NOW, I lumbered into the foyer to deposit my shoes only to find a marching army of them coming toward me under the decisive command of a pair of sassy, 'tween-sized cowboy boots:

Upstairs in my bedroom, where I go for serenity and solitude and where I ignore the pile of clothes by my side of the bed, I found this stealth creature trying so so hard to blend its sea foam green body into the fog blue walls. Who did it think it was fooling? Uh ... apparently me since it has been there for about a week:

To the bathroom I went so I didn't pee myself in fright.

OH. But on the way, out of the corner of my eye and down at the end of the hall, I spotted a low-lying stack of unwanted books discarded from my youngest daughter's room. I'm sure she slyly slid them juuuuuust outside of her door and spread them into several shallow stacks thinking I'd never notice. Hmmf. Wrong she was. And there they sit:

Not moving. Not being read. And falling all over the damn place.

In the bathroom (pre-pee), the corners became even more horrifying. Cue the eee-eee-eee sound please. You'll need it to distract you from the fright. Of this:

OH. HELLO OVERFLOWING WASTEBASKET! And how might you be today? Waiting to tip yourself over and command your contents to scurry across the floor like so many plague-ridden mice? Yeah? Thought so. I see you tried to test the waters by letting that little crumble of I-don't-even-know-what escape your high walls early. And look how far it got! WOW! It must have thought it was going to find cleaner pastures in its escape to the other corner of the bathroom - where the gravel is always grayer:

Oh, but what a cruel trick this corner has played. That little crumble of garbage will march right back to whence it came when it realizes that a big cat poop is waiting for it.

I know. EW. But you were warned. You were.

So at wit's end with the anarchy of small spaces, I retreated to my bed where I was hoping to hide under the tangle of my duvet.

But no. Another corner was waiting:

What you can't see is the glass of water hiding behind War and Peace.

There may be a dead fly floating in it.

well loved possessions

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 06:12:00 +0000

Ah...the early 1970's. The hey-day of my childhood. When I belted out Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds in sweet innocence (after watching The Yellow Submarine with my hippie uncles) - nary an idea of its real meaning. When cigarettes were advertised on TV and M*A*S*H was on way past my bedtime. When Coke was still the real thing and was made with real sugar. When baby clothes were fabricated in crazy, psychedelic patterns and when Sesame Street still took place on ... well, a street, not a cartoon filled wonderland.

I realized this evening, as I scoured one of my favorite skillets (the first one I ever owned in my very first apartment in my very early twenties), that I have in my possession many well loved items from my early existence. In my house. Being used. Today.

Not all of them originated from the era of The Exorcist and The Partridge Family (save that funky fabric above which covers one of my chairs), but many of them go back to the last days of disco. Scary.

The chair I am sitting on right this very moment - a lovely simple bentwood - was part of my family's 'dining set' when we lived in an apartment. Kinda old. Still being used.

The crib in which I slept - a blond, Scandinavian basic - is stored in our basement after being used 30 years past its date of purchase to hold my babies. (I know, I know, I know - it most certainly did NOT meet any contemporary safety requirements, but since I wasn't dumb enough to get my infant head stuck between the rungs, I assumed my offspring wouldn't either...and guess what, they are still with us today).

Moving happily along through the decades ... actually, let's just skip right through the 80's ... not sure I'll admit to owning a-ny-thing from that era at present. And the pics of my asymmetrical haircut - which are as close as you'll get to an objet d'80's in my house - are locked up to be shown only to the highest bidder.

Oh fine.

I still use the soft, mohair blanket my mom bought me when I moved to NYC. It was the sole bedding upon the flat-as-a-blazer-without-a-shoulder-pad futon in my cramped apartment. Yes, it has been professionally cleaned. I think.

And there might even be a scarf or two in my closet from my days of living in the city that I still twirl around my neck when I am feeling nostalgic and retro.

The vintage mirrored side table I used in apartments 2-5 as a night table is now in our upstairs hallway holding things of no importance. And despite my husband's strong dislike for its reflective facets and bordello-esque appearance, I still love seeing it in our home.

Those of you who know me well will wonder why I have slyly chosen to eliminate the story of the 30 year old feather pillow I hauled around with me from city to city, continent to continent, crib to bed to bed. And I can hear you ... the collective 'Ewwwwww's' ... jeez ... NO sillies, IT IS GONE ... trust me ... my mother and husband had to do an intervention to grab that health-hazard out of from under my head. After all, would you admit to sleeping upon a little bag of feathers and other microscopic creatures well past its prime?

Thought not.
Just don't tell me you still sleep with your teddy bear.

APPropriately wasting time

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Sat, 19 Feb 2011 00:32:00 +0000

"God no. I'll never be one of those. Totally ridiculous. Those things are just a big, fat waste of money."

I do believe these words exited my mouth prior to the possession of my first iPhone and introduction to the infinite APPs out there. It was a challenge for me to wrap my brain around not only paying for a service so I could be annoyed by phone / text / email / reminders / alarms at any and every given second of my day, but admitting to and paying for even more distractions from organizing my life? Absurd.

And then I met this little guy:

I named him Loogi and helped him tirelessly bounce, fly and rocket to ... well ... I'm not sure what our destination actually was and, come to think of it, I'm not sure he even knew where the hell he was going... but we tried and tried and jumped and jumped and jumped and if he weren't just an electronic doodle, he'd be broken into a thousand pieces from all the horrible sailing to the ground he did, poor guy.

Then these little creatures won my heart:

Oh little colorful Sneezies with your sweet, innocently blinking eyes, if it weren't for me and my magic touch dispersing sneezing powder in your midst, you would forever be looking wistfully from your tiny bubbles. Forever and ever and ever. So I'm here for you, listening to the repetitive loop of rather fast-paced ambient music you play for me while I try to free as many of you as I can until I fail and the chilly wind and leaves of autumn once again blow you all away.

But sometimes I need a break. I need to work my mind. I need to at least pretend I waste my time being smartish. So I have about 18 of these games going on:

Please take notice of the score. Clearly I need to focus on more educational endeavours. The thing about this game is I can make up words to submit and sometimes, SOMETIMES, they are actual words in the Words with Friends language and I end up catapulting myself into the lead with my imagination. This, however, is not a frequent occurrence. And I have lost game after game after game. Mostly to my husband. And I have become bitter. And tempramental. And have had feelings of rage and thoughts of violence pulse through my body.

So it's a godsend I found this little band of creatures:

They are ANG-ER-YYY. And they should be. Those righteous pigs with their passive-aggressive smirks and black eyes and stupid helmets. Talk about catapults. Shoot, I'd catapult myself right into a box of TNT too, if I needed to get those porky faces out of my buildings. And I'm sorry, this game is not about physics, the geometry of arcs or the ability to judge minute distances between objects. It's alllll about wasting time and pretending to be productive doing it. Oh, it's also about getting those pigs and YES. I BOUGHT THE GODDAMN EAGLE. Throw a can of tuna out there and SWOOOOP, my friend the eagle takes care of it so I can move to the next level.

At 2:04am.

Buuuye-bye.

be mine.

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 05:24:00 +0000

Ugh. The quintessential Hallmark holiday rears its ugly head once again.

DECLARE YOUR LOVE everyone! Because if you don't express your romantic sentiments ON. THIS. SPECIFIC. DAY. it certainly means you don't love the one you're with. At least not enough to buy them cards, jewels and / or flowers. And, in our grand country, if you choose to not partake in this, one of the most commercial holidays ever, it is pretty much equivalent to fast track divorce.

And isn't it interesting that the pressure of it all falls on the man? A little afraid. A little nervous. A lot unsure of how to express his love in material form. And the woman? She just sits their full of expectations. Waiting for him to fail.

And I feel bad for all of those guys out there. Buying flowers that have been marked up 349% just for the day. They are kind of gullible. Kind of under the spell of a materialistic society and demanding significant other. Kind of being given an ultimatum to BRING. HER. FLOWERS. Kind of romantic in a very predictable way.

Oh I know. I know. I'm a bitter buzz kill to all of you in the throws of your ~~blind~~ blissful enchantment. I'm sure there are the sweet, well-intended gestures of love out there in the form of roses and diamonds and tear-inducing words from the heart. And I'm all for it. Just do it on your own time and, for godsakes, on your own day. Is that such a challenge?

I also wondered today what it is that possesses men to send women monumental flower arrangements to their place of employment. Ones they will have a car accident trying to transport home because their vision was so impaired by long, sculptural leaves, branches as wide as a thigh and open lilies larger than an ice cream cake. Why, I pondered, didn't they simply send these towering compositions of flora directly home? It seems like the safe and loving thing to do, no? Because it requires talent, skill and a high degree of dexterity to operate a car safely without spilling water from a vase or damaging a precious bloom. I mean if a man really loved his woman, wouldn't he be more concerned for his safety than proving to all her colleagues that she is LOVED?

Hmmm. Didn't think of that one, did ya hon?

Maybe I'm so grumpy because I kind of forgot about Valentine's Day today. I totally blew it with my kids this morning. I really do try not to be so ~~bitchy~~ cynical around them. And though I stayed up way too late with one of them last night, assisting with the assembly-line creativity and crafting her sweet, homemade cards, I completely forgot to even WISH them a good day above and beyond my normal, "I love you. Remember who you are," good-bye before dropping them off to school.

So yes, they received flowers. Hand-made. By a local artist. Ones that will not wilt or die or topple over when I slam on the brakes.

status update

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 07:19:00 +0000

Oh Facebook Facebook Facebook.
When will you be so two-thousand-and-late?
I'm thinking probablyyyyy ... yesterday.

Initially, I was all excited about you, Facebook. It took me a while to jump on the page a couple of years back. After all of the rumors I had heard and all. You know, how you were supposed to be the next thing, better than email, all real time with your instant updates, the link to EV-ER-Y-ONE I know. Yeah yeah yeah. And of course I jumped right on in. Or on. The page. With my tweaked out profile pic all touched up and blemish / wrinkle / age spot free so I could attract EVEN. MORE. FRIENDS.

That is not really me. Or the me I see in the mirror. Or the me in real life. Or the me you would see if you bumped into me at the grocery store.

No my friends, that is my Facebook me. The one I want you to see. The one with photoshopped skin and a retouched face. The one who mothers the children all cute and smiley in the photo albums I have so carefully created. The one who lives in the clean house in the pictures I've posted. The one who gets to imagine, orchestrate, edit and pose the presentable life. HAHAHAHA. Is the joke on you or me?

Ahhh, the tangled webs we weave.

You will not ever see the singular face one of my children as my own profile pic. That is just down right creepy. Are those people so immersed in the lives of their children and removed from their own identity that they actually picture the cherubic faces of their offspring as their own? I haven't really gotten past that phenomenon yet. Maybe someone can explain that one to me 'cause I'm not gettin' it ...

Ohhhh yeah ... so when this all began, I got completely lost in a popularity contest of it all. How many 'friends' do I have? How many people do I know? Where do you draw the line? Do you limit it by number? By a private set of guidelines governed by personal knowledge? Or do you just say yes to each request that pops up all cheerful and enthusiastic in your IN-box? Initially, I accepted all friend requests that came to me ad nauseum. Until I realized I was in wayyyyyy over my head with 300+ so-called friends / relatives / classmates / colleagues / ex-boyfriends / familiar-ish names and faces.

Oops.

It was fun at first. I wasted way too much time being a voyeur into the tidy, picture perfect lives of people I knew ... high school frienemies, ex-boyfriends, colleagues, acquaintances. Over and over again I would check out their wall, their pictures, anything giving me a clue into their lives. Because how fun is it to escape your own reality for a few minutes to check out the reality of others, right? Or maybe you don't care so much about being a viewer. Maybe you are a Facebook performer - interested only in the narcissistic action of posting your every move, family outing, fart and meal.

Never fear, if it gets too out of hand, there is that whole de-friending thing (I LOVE that word!). If only it were so easy in real life. And believe me, I have made use of this not-very-kind feature. Only to be re-friended by the same people I have tried to ignore and scrape from the bottom of my shoe.

There are now several of them waiting in the dreaded friend purgatory... waiting for me to click on that 'confirm' button. And I'm not sure what to do with them. Do they know they are there? Do they know I haven't accepted them as friends? Are they hurt? Do they even give a rat's ass? They are there because I don't really know them. I may have seen them or spent time with them at some point in my life or maybe they know someone I know, but would I go and hang out with them? Probably not.

I have a bold cousin who has whittled his way down to a chosen 50. He posted at each cut. He had nothing to hide and was honest and transparent about the whole contradictory action of eliminating friends (yet continuing to participate) on Facebook. I assume I have made the cut as I still see his posts ... whew ... yay me. He's on to something in the shortening of his list. If I were faced will all 300+ of my friends in one room, I would be doomed, embarrassed and look like an idiot if they were not wearing both their profile pics and their name tags.

Or would I? Since I spend way too much time trolling and being a total voyeur on this damn site, maybe I would recognize not only each and every one of them, but their friends and cousins and colleagues and ex-boyfriends and ex-husbands as well.

The crazy thing is, the ones I really wanted to know about? The people from my life who really keep my curiosity sharp and alert? They will never in a million years create a profile.

And you? If you choose to de-friend me after this? I will totally understand.

aiming high

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 06:55:00 +0000

I've written about this before. And I'll write about it again.

And probably some more after that because I'm not sure there are many things in this world which give me more pleasure than this, the simple act of lounging.

All day, in the back of my mind, while I write copy, compose and take photos, act as a retail therapist (I swear, I should be permitted to prescribe meds), my goal for the day is to come home without running out of gas or acquiring another dent in my car, double check that the two kids I brought home are indeed my own, slip upstairs and out of my clothes and replace them with these two (yes, I said two - braless and commando - thank you very much) items of clothing:

A soft, circa-2001 black Gap tank dress and these super-comfy pj bottoms.

From the moment I begrudgingly remove their warmth and comfort from my body in the morning until I revisit their softness in the afternoon, I am pathetically preoccupied with ripping off my Spanx, jeans, and shirt concoction and returning to the womb of my slumber attire. Thinking about being supine on the sofa, book in hand, and a bourbon on the table certainly increases my anticipation for the end of the day to roll around.

Do I think about taking a class in the evening? Or going to a photography show at a gallery? Do I ponder other ways to grow my intellect or athleticism? Am I spending time crunching numbers to see how I can retire early?

Not so much.

I pretty much just want to be here:

Braless and commando.

dethroned

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 05:55:00 +0000

My child: "Mom, sometimes you scare me."

Me: "Why?

My child: "Because sometimes I think you're not who you think you are."

Me: "So ... Who do I think I am?"

My child: "The queen of everything."

Me: "And who am I really?"

My child: "Not the queen."

uh.
oh.

fail

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 06:07:00 +0000

DE-pressing.

I was all motivated to kick some butt, sweat a little and feel like I burned some calories. I warned my kids as soon as we got in the car to go home that I was ... ahem ... going to WORK OUT! for a half hour before getting dinner together. (Unfortunately, they are a great excuse as to why I don't exercise after work: I have to help with homework, I need to get dinner started, I need them to wake me up from my nap, they need to monitor my wine intake...).

Since my Pilates sabbatical, I have been searchingsearchingsearching for a less expensive, yet highly effective means to rid myself of the softness surrounding my waist, get my blood circulating and regain my once svelte physique. I miss my hard, sculpted abdomen (hahahaha! Who am I fooling? But it sounded good, didn't it?) . And I'm pretty sure getting your heart rate up has all kinds of health benefits.

So after reading this cool mom's blog, I got all inspired and thought, "Day-um, I can do that!"

Oh really?

Not really.
Not even one bit.

But my enthusiasm alone probably burned a lot of calories. The second I walked in the door, I said to my husband in quick, frantic chatter, "IHAVETOCHANGERIGHTNOWORIWILLLOSEMYMOTIVATION. BEBACKINAHALFHOURbyebye!"

Tied my shoes, grabbed my running jacket, my iPhone/Pod/thing and ran out the door while I heard my oldest say, "Isn't it funny when mom gets all dressed up in her work out clothes?!?!" Giggles from all.

Turned on my Nike + GPS app only for it to inform me that it had been FOURTEEN weeks since my last run. Great motivation there Nike...there should really be a statute of limitations to how cruel your app can be. Maybe an, "It's okay if you've been a lazy ass for a couple of months. C'mon! Give it another shot!" would have been more encouraging way to go.

Anyway, I was determined to follow the program Wendy had so effortlessly outlined in her post and video with her ripped body and cuteness all over the place (please check out her posts for great suggestions on health, fitness, food and her other basics). Her excitement for the program - which suggests results of inches lost, better skin, more energy - sounded sooooo goooood. But OH. MY. GOD. am I out of shape.

I made it one through the three minute warm-up just beautifully. Probably because I was walking. Then I hit the first 30 second sprint and felt like I was going to vomit. On to the 90 second mellow run... (one is supposed to run, walk whatever as hard as possible for 30 seconds followed by a 90 second interval of a regular pace. Rinse. Repeat 8 times. Without stopping.) Well shit, how the hell am I supposed to breathe, keep track of time, run without falling AND count my intervals???? Take THAT Nike and make an app!

So not to re-appear at my doorstep before my 30 minutes was over, I did a walk-run-saunter-joggle in the park....and pretended I knew what I was doing ... like my sporadic run-stops-lean-over-and-pant segments were all part of the program I was following. And I only had to stop three times due to a severe leg cramp! Fortunately, I didn't fall during my limp home. Fortunately, I made it home.

My body aches. My knees feel week. And I'll be lucky if I can walk properly tomorrow. But I ain't giving up. I'll be out there again on Friday. My stupid app will congratulate me for reaching my 30 minute goal on my last attempt and hopefully I won't permanently damage my aging body.

welcome to the dark side, honey

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 04:18:00 +0000

Tonight marked a milestone in my marriage. A long and happy marriage punctuated by many good times, two cool and sassy daughters and five frickin' cats. Good times made easier with healthy does of laughter, a decent, if not inconsistent sense of humor, living in the moment and sometimes, a couple of Rolling Rocks.

Well tonight, as I was reaching for my nightly glass of mama's medicine, I noticed the bottle had already been opened. "Hmmm", I wondered, maybe or maybe not aloud, "Did I do that last night and completely forget my struggle with the cork?" Highly possible given the mental space left in my mind after a long day at work, juggling kids, dinner menus and my own nap schedule.

As we sat down for a dinner of leftovers he confessed. "I had a glass of wine last night."

"Oh, really?" I asked.

"Who do think opened the bottle?"

"Uh...not sure about that one....Maybe the cat? Or a sleepwalking child?"

A wink, a sly smile later and next thing I know, the bottle was on the table.

You must understand the surprise of this situation. This action was made by a man who has never ever ever liked wine. He's a beer guy. And a tequila guy. And a sometimes-vodka-if-it's-with-something-sweet kind of guy. But not, NOT a wine guy.

"It's kind of like water," he says as though a revealing something new and unknown to me.

"Duh." It required much self control to not roll my eyes.

And so, over dinner, we split a bottle. Happily. A wine from Argentina that fit my under-$10-a-bottle / good graphic label requirement. A wine from grapes grown at the foot of the Andes - the mountains over which we flew during our honeymoon.

I'll know he's really with me on the dark side when I can write about splitting a bottle of bourbon.

But don't hold your breath.

prepping for pretty

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 05:56:00 +0000

Today, I treated myself to a relaxing pedicure. A much needed one for reasons both physical and emotional. And while my feet will most likely be covered in socks and boots until mid-July, I know for the time being they'll look great and maybe smell a little less. And thank you living social, for I never would have gone out of my way to pay someone full price to torture me by buffing my calloused feet, shaving as much off of my bunions as physically possible without surgery, slapping some highly toxic polish on my toe nails and plop my feet under a very scary and mysterious infra-red drying light. The only thing that would have made this deal better would have been a bourbon on the rocks and a bag of chips.

Usually, I am very meticulous about my pedicures. I do them myself and take great pride in the perfection of each line. It's one of my only artistic outlets these days.

Another reason I rarely venture out to the pedi salon is fear of embarrassment. I mean come on, look at the sad state of my mid-winter feet.

Yeah. I did say sad state. And if you zoom in carefully, you will notice the hair on my legs is roughly 1/2" in length. And that's not because I live in the crunchier-than-your-average-city of Portland, it's pure laziness and the direct result of being married for almost 17 years.

So the night before the pedi, I kind of freaked out and wondered if I should lessen the shock and clean myself up a little. My thinking was, quite frankly, that I didn't want those lovely Asian ladies with their conspiratorial snickers talking about my horrendous feet and hairy legs in a language I could not comprehend, much less gag and moan while they worked their magic.

So I shaved and did a foot soak.

Much the same way I wash my hair before getting it cut, brush and floss thoroughly before seeing the dentist, take an eeeextra long shower before my yearly visit to the lady doctor, and pluck my chin hairs before getting a facial. A little pre-emptive action goes a long way...

It can only enhance the outcome, right?

Or am I the only one who is crazy enough to prep for these things?

date night

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 02:58:00 +0000

Uh-huh.
Oh yeah.
Here we go.

Out.
Thas right.
On a DATE.

Wish us luck. There is a lot of pressure riding on a night like this. And the pressure is on me because I usually make some abrasive remark to sabotage the mood.

Obviously we don't get out much.

and oh....

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 05:15:00 +0000

.... hey... can you leave some kind of comment thing or whatever? It would be kind of cool to know that maybe, just maybe, someone is reading my crazytalk...

merci y'all.

listMANIAC

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 04:37:00 +0000

There. I said it. I am a maniac about lists. They are everywhere. In the kitchen. By my bed. On my desk. In the car. At work. Crumpled up at the bottom of my purse. And, every so often, you can find one scrawled on my hand. In Sharpie. I kid you not.

(Gasp) I am a list hoarder. Because not only do I create these lists on a near-compulsive basis, I also do not rid myself of them. They are saved. In little books of lists. Because who knows WHEN I will need to repeat the same list of tasks, buy the same combination of groceries, or send the holiday cards to the same group of friends and relatives.

I love my lists.

At work, in the midst of a ADHD brainstorm, I'll grab one of my many Post-It tablets and jot down the list of phone calls I need to make. You know, calling Comcast to re-negotiate my rate, call my therapist to reschedule my next appointment, call my friend to see when she can watch my kids.

And lo, another list is born.

And what about all the questions jumbled up in my head that I want to ask our retirement guy? How could I possibly remember them all without seeing them in the written word? There is NO WAY. I like to be armed with appropriate questions when necessary. I like to be prepared. I like. TO. MAKE. LISTS.

And sometimes I will even add something to a list I have already done - just for the pure satisfaction of being able to cross it off. Yes, I know it has already been accomplished, but writing it down also proves that I have actually done it. Actually achieved something.

I even impose my lists on my husband and regularly text him images of actual, hand-written scraps of paper on which crucial grocery lists have been scrawled. Believe me, it's much easier than a verbal list.

My most favorite lists were the ones of names for my kids. Of course none of the items on that list (Isabella, Chloe, Ava, Marley, West, Clifton, Walter...) ever made it on the birth certificate (probably a good thing, no?). But I still have the lists. And my kids ask to look at them ad nauseum. At least there is an appreciative audience out there.

PEE. ING. IN. MY. PANTS.

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 04:19:00 +0000

(or maybe it's the bottle of wine), but just had to share this, this, this and this...

I wanna get physical

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 02:47:00 +0000

Deep inside me, there is a tri-athlete waiting to burst forth and run herself into a drenching sweat.
She's just way in there.

Yeah, I know exercise is crucial and important and if I want to avoid heart disease and live longer, then I should get my ass in gear. Literally. But then I think of my chain-smoking, breast cancer surviving grandmother on one side who didn't run if she walked and lived to be 95. And then on the other side, I think about my under-100 lb grandmother who was black-tan every summer, never wore sunscreen, also a breast cancer surviver, professed to touching her toes 10 times each morning and lived to be 95 as well.

So you see, in the back of my mind, I know I have genetics on my side.

Once I was a competitive swimmer. Well, sort of. I swam during the summer on a swim team and then tried to compete on the team in high school. Truth be told, the practices at 7am were just too damn early for me and the afternoon ones (yes, there were both) left me too exhausted to do anything other than nap well into the evenings.

Then, in my twenties, I was a 'runner'. It was a great outlet for de-stressing after teaching all day, I lost weight and reduced my bra size to a lovely 32B (ahhh, those were the days) and re-kindled my relationship with my childhood boyfriend / now husband. I have dabbled in it now and again and even trained once for a marathon. A training ending abruptly after two weeks when I got a bad case of shin splints. I ran a couple of months a go - regularly. For a week. But then ~~I was too lazy~~ it was too dark to do it after work and we all know I'm anything but a morning person.

I practiced yoga too. And was good. And loved it. Bikrim. Ashtanga. Hot Flow. You name it, I was there on my mat, present, in-the-moment and with my breath. Not sure why I stopped. Boredom maybe. That and the sweaty, shirtless men with tight pants who kept turning up in my classes slipping all over their mats and stinking to high heaven. I think it was the class with the beer-gutted, tattooed instructor when I decided to call it quits.

The most successful exercise in which I have participated was by far Pilates. Private, one-hour sessions twice a week, coupled with biking to and from work and a low-carb diet whittled my belly away to a hardened core. By golly if it weren't for my 32DDDs I would have blown away. It wasn't the most satisfying work out - meaning I never had the 'running high', but damn, it was a challenge and the results were almost immediate. I loved being accountable to attend my sessions (she charged me if I didn't show, very opposite the gym 'membership' route when it is so very easy to come up with every excuse NOT to go to class / work out) and I loved (and still love) my instructor. Trouble was is drained my savings account. Completely. I was left brainstorming of ways to make extra cash to be able to pay for them again and the only thing I could think of to come up with enough money was to sell my kids on eBay.

So now I am a mere slice of bread or M&M away from a muffin top. Sure, there are Spanx and I love my Spanx, but I feel much better when I know I have actual muscles and not just extra skin being held so tightly together by elastic and spandex it fools me into thinking I'm in shape.

A B OCD E F G

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Sat, 22 Jan 2011 06:47:00 +0000

Or maybe all mothers have some form of neuroses.

That last post I wrote? The one about the end of the world? BAD. IDEA. All I can say is that my mind took the not-so-uplifting subject and RAAAAAAN with it. To the hills. And then through the meadow beyond. And then all the way across the country. Then over the water. And then it ran right to this website and printed itself its very own emergency preparedness checklist. And my mind? It hasn't really returned yet.

Because then it went to the store to purchase large Tupperware containers in which to store my imaginary supplies. And please take note of the plural...for what good is a week's worth of dried food, bottled water, extra glasses, matches and a whistle if they are my basement and I'm at work? Not a lot of good. And then what if I am in my car and my kits are in my office and at home? SOL, baby. You have to see where I'm going with this. What if I'm on a walk? Or walking FROM my car TO my office? Hmmm...I need a paranoia pack. One I can incorporate into my outfits. One that will insure my survival no matter the catastrophe. Right?

The funny thing is (IF you can find a shred of humor in a natural disaster which leaves hundreds of thousands dead and / or injured) there is NO INSURANCE for survival no matter what. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow and there ain't no survival kit for that. Or, a tree could fall on my car while I was driving home (like it did one unfortunate woman in Portland last year).

And no matter how my anxiety disorder wants to cut it, I have to learn to deal with the unpredictability of life. This sensation of helplessness is multiplied by a gazillion once you become a parent. Because then I obsess about how I am going to walk the four blocks to my kids' school to drag them from the rubble of their school. (I swear I chose their school because of the proximity to my office AND it is on the same side of the river as I am. My husband? He's a good swimmer ... crossing the river should be no problem for him).

I printed out the list, took it home, looked at it. Looked at it some more. Obsessed about the whole situation to the point of laughter. Seriously? I'm going to need a spare credit card because my dried-food-hoarding neighbor will be taking AMX? I think not. Make arrangements for my pets? Ha! They are the first thing to be roasted on the spit!

So no...I did not compulsively go out and purchase survival kits and paranoia packs. And I tried my hardest to stop obsessing about The End.

What I am trying to do instead is to go back to living each day as it comes. To the fullest. Even though, in the back of my too-active mind, I know I can really never be too careful...or too safe...or too crazy.

it's the end of the world as we know it...

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 04:05:00 +0000

...and, frankly, I feel quite fine (after I've talked myself down).

But every so often, when my bearings get loose due to stress, hunger, an unpredictable day or not enough caffeine, I start to freak out about doom and destruction. The end of the world. The carnage of our crumbling civilization. And there I am, bearing witness to it all. Pretty much a mood when this movie should be avoided at all costs.

How could I not be having such thoughts what with birds dropping from the sky, cows dropping dead, floods, and unchecked mental illness resulting in tragedy?

I mean, what's the countdown to 12-21-12? You know, 2012?!? THE END? (Not soon enough, according to my dear friend and co-worker who turns - or maybe doesn't turn - 60 that day.) If I allow myself down this slippery slope of senselessness, I begin to wonder how I should be spending this last year and a half.

Should I be stockpiling canned goods? Crates of food and medical supplies? A hearty supply of army grade blankets and propane? I will admit, I did have a Y2K kit with canned stew, bottled water, a first aid kit and extra eye glasses.....Not sure why....It's not like I had a better chance making it to the basement than to the pantry which, logically, contained much more food. Or to the bathroom where the real first aid kit is stored. I mean on an average day, the kitchen holds enough food to keep us going at least until we make friends with that reclusive neighbor who owns the bunker, has fierce hunting skills and parks his revved up Hummer in the driveway.

My greatest fear in this scenario is loosing my glasses. There I am, fumbling around in the rubble and remnants of my house...mistaking cat vomit for oatmeal as I try to feed my wailing children ... - a fear so real it has made me consider Lasik surgery just in case my contacts dry up and I can't find any of the seven pairs of glasses I own. Oh...that fear ties with watching my kids have to eat their cats in the wake of our bare pantry, being kicked out of the neighbor's bunker and running out of anti-anxiety meds. Seriously.

If I was like my co-worker (actually, TWO of my co-workers who are...believers) I would have ample time to build my own bunker, stock it well and prepare.

BUT. BUT. BUT. Are you ever really prepared for what life throws your way? Are you ever really ready for the end - whatever that may mean? Is it really sensible to adhere to a calendar created by a civilization which collapsed upon itself? Would it be wise to frantically spend the next year and a half creating a supply inspired by ~~foresight~~ madness and ~~rational thought~~ paranoia?

Or. Or. Or. Is it wiser to live each day to the fullest and maximize every interaction with the ones you love? Neither sweating the small stuff nor the end of the world?

one of those days...

noreply@blogger.com (the real me) — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 03:46:00 +0000

A day when it took me a total of 20 minutes to get from bed to front door (bathing included). A day when my quad soy latte could not even touch the fatigue in my bones. A day when my sweet assistant had to do a double-take when I entered our office. A day during which I felt stuck between wanting to crawl back in bad and wanting to plow through just to get it finished.

I even pulled off wearing my pj top over jeans today and not a single one of my co-workers blinked an eye. Maybe that's because the shirt used to be a regular shirt but became a pj top JUST LAST NIGHT because I was too lazy to find my flannel shirt and simply went to bed in the one I had on during the day. Hence pj top transformed into work shirt. Shower, wash hair, apply perfume and a fresh coat of make-up and no one knows the difference.

It totally worked.

As the day continued (a day when the balance of my family relaxed and did whatever they felt like at home in celebration of this man's birthday), I became more and more convinced about the importance of breakfast and realized my coffee drink was indeed a poor and desperate substitution.

It was another day when I dreaded my after work task: going to the grocery store. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, that you can't possibly relate. You know these days. Your vision is so blurred with hunger, the desire to put on sweats and a tee so strong, your only thought is to JUST. BE. HOME. A late afternoon when you not only like the sample served up by those luau-happy employees at Trader Joe's, you not only consider their edibility, but you actually purchase the whole deal, flash-frozen quinoa pilaf and all.

It was a day when I seriously pondered the possibility of drinking a glass of wine while driving home. Key word: WHILE, as in 'drinking the glass of wine WHILE I was driving home'. (Don't worry, Pop, I would never EVER do it...unless it was to preserve my sanity of course).

A day that ended in perfection when my kitchen-fearful husband said, "Let's just go out to dinner tonight".