smoke + mirrors

government shutdown.

2011-04-05T20:09:00.000-07:00

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.

2011-03-24T20:07:00.000-07:00

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 ...

2011-03-09T21:07:00.000-08:00

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

2011-03-05T18:57:00.000-08:00

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

2011-03-03T22:42:00.000-08:00

...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.

2011-02-25T20:24:00.000-08:00

"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

2011-02-24T22:08:00.001-08:00

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 ...

2011-02-23T22:13:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-21T22:12:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-18T16:32:00.000-08:00

"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.

2011-02-14T21:24:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-09T23:19:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-08T22:55:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-03T21:55:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-02T22:07:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-01T20:18:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-31T21:56:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-29T18:58:00.000-08:00

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....

2011-01-27T21:15:00.000-08:00

.... 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

2011-01-27T20:37:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-24T20:19:00.000-08:00

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

I wanna get physical

2011-01-24T18:47:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-21T22:47:00.000-08:00

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...

2011-01-19T20:05:00.000-08:00

...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...

2011-01-17T19:46:00.000-08:00

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".

anti-GOOP

2011-01-13T14:45:00.000-08:00

In a fit of foresight coupled with crazy insomnia last night, I had today's post pre-written and ready to go at the push of the 'publish post' button.

Then I read this. And I'm sorry Gwyneth, but this new post basically wrote itself:

Really. REALLY? Are you kidding me and the majority of the earth's 'extremely busy working mothers' who have neither the financial ocean from which to draw nor the limitless resources at our beck-and-call?. A busy working mama's day? Are you serious? I really don't even know where to begin. I don't know whether to laugh, cry, muss up your hair or put high fructose corn syrup in your CLEAN smoothie.

My day, Gwyneth? This is what my day looks like: I reluctantly wake up with a grumble and frown after having hit the snooze button for at least 45 minutes. Workout? HA! There ain't no personal trainer on my front porch. The only person knocking at my door is my daughter's classmate who gets dropped off at 7am so HER working mama get get to her job on time. I'm lucky if I am dressed in clean clothes for the day. Scramble to school with coffee in hand hoping my kids have their lunches, homework and a jacket. Hoping, really, that all of the kids are in the car and I didn't leave any standing on the sidewalk before peeling out of the driveway.

Get to work - breathe for a minute - and dive into the gazillion projects waiting for me while wondering if sending the youngest to school with a bad stomach ache was really a good idea and feeling guilty about doing it anyway. Phone calls to make, emails to answer, photos to shoot, copy to write and edit... Lunch? Mine is spent picking my kids up from school 4 blocks away at 3pm. OH!!! You mean the lunch I eat? It consists of a handful of almonds, some water, cold coffee and maybe a salad if I had an extra 2 minutes in the morning to stuff some bagged spinach into a container and throw some olive oil at it.

The groceries get picked up on the way home. By me. With kids in tow. And I'm not the only one with that idea as it is usually crowded and I am usually without a list. Thank god for the Trader Joe's samples...sometimes I call them dinner.

Yes, phone calls get made WHILE I DRIVE because, dammit, I do not have a personal driver (at least not until my oldest turns 16...then I might just have one pegged) and it's TIME I CAN USE.

Once home, I cannot collapse (I cannot collapse I cannot collapse I cannot collapse) because there is dinner to make. Yes. TO. MAKE. I don't have a cook (hmm...my nine year old sure seems capable...) so it is on the grown-ups of the house (none of them on a payroll) to rally the energy to put something edible together. Sometimes it works out well, with an entree, side dishes and even a salad. Sometimes it's scrambled eggs.

At bedtime, we read. To ourselves. QUI-ET-LY. All on the big bed together. If I'm in a good mood, we rub backs, cuddle and talk about the day (but I am thinking about sleep the whole time and am lucky if I can make it until past 9:30).

And the next day. We do it again. And the day after that. Again.

And know what? I count myself lucky to be able to do it under a roof, clothed, and relatively well-fed. I also think about the thousands of women who rock the extremely busy working mother schedule single handed, without family, a partner, an iPad / Blackberry or anything else but a crying kid and pending bills motivating their ass to get to it.

So Gwyneth, are you really that isolated in your world of fame and fortune to think women working outside the home can actually relate to your 'Day in the Life'? I'm really sorry you had to exercise in the shower "doing (the) post workout stretch while the conditioner was doing its magic on (your) hair". Bummer for you and such a sacrifice. But you are a fine actor, can you not use your finely tuned craft to at least pretend you understand what the rest of us extremely busy working mothers must endure to make it through our days?

sick day for mama

2011-01-11T18:49:00.000-08:00

I should have known I wasn't immune.

How could I have been? The guy I share my bed with was puking his guts out last week.

And I thought it was a fluke. An innocent 24 hour thing.

But no. Victim #2 succumbed Friday night and muttered to me as I held her hair away from her face, "Mama, you're good at this," while barfing up her ravioli dinner at 2am. Good at this? I think she meant good at making sure she made it to the bathroom instead of vomiting all over the carpet or my too-expensive bedding. Ew.

And victim #3 of the violent-gut-wrenching stomach flu? Me.

In the seconds between my feverish, toilet-hugging episodes, I was having serious flashbacks to the horrific hangovers of my twenties - memories of barfing bourbon and bile. I HATE throwing up. I hate how out of control and painful it is. I hate seeing my most recent meal defying gravity and exiting my body the wrong way. And, very unlike the horrific hangovers of my twenties, one puke does not make it all better.

After a day in bed, feverish, having crazy dreams and consuming a mere mouthful of ginger ale, I made a slow rebound back to the world of the living. But the thing is, it's so hard for me to let myself rest when I need it. I began to feel better around mid-afternoon today. Why that's a HALF DAY'S WORK left! My mind immediately turned to its default To-Do lists as I began to wonder what I might be able to knock out with the remains of the day. Clean my desk? Tackle some bills? Organize the box of photos from 10 years ago? Answer work emails? Go through my magazines? File?

But then victim #4 was claimed. Not one for expressing herself quietly or without reaction, #4 made herself clear all over the floor of the school office.

That half day? I spent it doing what I'm good at.

family time

2011-01-09T19:36:00.000-08:00

We take it any way we can get it.

And so should you.

This can mean the entire family driving to the grocery store and singing 'TiK ToK' together.

Or cleaning the house. You know, group effort. We all need support when we scour the toilet.

It can mean a game of freeze tag in the back yard ... which last about as long as it can until I pee myself laughing so hard.

Sometimes it can mean everyone crammed into our trailer-sized bathroom brushing their teeth. Each one vying for the sink to spit.

Maybe it means that time all four of us got into a heated discussion about the interpretation of facial expressions and how each of us can be more aware of what contortions our faces are making while we speak - careful not to offend.

Or, on a good night, it's the four of us sitting down and eating dinner. At the table.

Or, on GAME NIGHT (oh yeah...blazers whoopin it up on the heat) - it means dinner on the coffee table in front of the tv watching the game.

And it counts cause we used place mats.

ouch ... stick up my bum

2011-01-05T18:28:00.000-08:00

One reason for this blog was to have an outlet for me to be honest with myself, my life, my expectations and my reality - no matter how ugly it may be - and put it out there.

So today at work, I saunter in to the kitchen where a couple of my ~~underlings~~ co-workers were ~~stuffing their faces~~ nibbling on chocolates and chatting. Somehow, SOMEHOW, we stumbled upon the topic of my reputation of being someone very tightly wound, opinionated, endearingly (my word) abrasive and bossy.

"HAAAA ha ha!" I had to laugh. "You have me allll wrong!"

"Oh?" said the ~~ever innocent~~ always kind Renee. "OHhhhh. Right!" she corrected. "You are soooo go with the flow / whateeeeever works / I-don't-care / I'm all chill..." (please add dramatic, gestural flourish when you mentally create this scene).

" I AM...... about some things."

"Oh really? Like what?"

I stood there, my brain scrambling - really scrambling - to think of something, ANYTHING I am relaxed about. And I stood. And stood. And for once, not a word came out of my mouth.

"I am."

"Well...why don't you think about it and when you come up with some, make a list and give it to me."

Still working on it.

Oh oh ... just thought of ONE, Renee, oh yes I did ... these pictures here?

I don't straighten them each and every time I walk past them.

Only some of the time.

Like I said, "Ouch."

pay attention

2011-01-03T20:31:00.000-08:00

Life moves quickly. I swear I was just seventeen the other day. And then yesterday, I had my first baby. The day after that, my second was born. And then last week, I think I was two.

Really, it feels that way. I'm kind of amazed I can drive as well as I do considering I just learned how to walk.

In all seriousness, life is feeling more and more like a blur of days the older I get. I wake up in the morning, get the kids to school in the usual mad rush ("GET UP NOW!") - dropping them off while the car is moving, slurping my coffee while I dash up the stairs to my office, work/multi-task/daydream/work/compose lists of things I need to accomplish in my head (while working/multi-tasking/daydreaming/working), pick up the kids from school (while I am at work - I KNOW - I can multi-task like no one's bidness), go to the grocery store on the way home (while the car is moving), eat dinner (we actually sit down for this), put kids to bed (which actually seems like it takes about seven years each evening, thus negating the point of this whole post) and start all over again.

There is a point each evening, while I am in bed reading (my nightly ritual), where I feel like I WAS. JUST. THERE a minute ago. It's eerie and very much like Groundhog's Day. And then I panic because I think to myself, "Oh god, tomorrow I WILL BE EIGHTY!"

It's crazy-talk, I know.

When you are three, one year = a third of your life.

When you are in your forties ... well you do the math.

The years are proportionally faster the older you get.

So I have to constantly remind myself to stop and smell the roses (literally, as there are a gazillion roses in this city), slow down, pay attention to the details of life, of my day, of my surroundings. The textures, colors and sounds around me everyday.

Because each moment I break down into individual, slow seconds seems to extend the boundaries of time just a little it more. And if I can mindfully do this, maybe tomorrow I will be my actual chronological age instead of ninety.

new year's eve, faux 70's rock and resolutions

2010-12-31T20:58:00.000-08:00

The older I get, the less important it is for me to whoop it up on New Year's Eve. Because isn't every day new? Isn't every day a celebration? And why would I want to be out and about dodging drunken idiots on the road? Or are these just the things I tell myself so I don't feel so lame about not being invited to any parties? Surely a little of both.

Now, my entertainment is actually a direct derivative of watching how excited my kids get at the prospect of staying up to WATCH THE BALL DROP!!! I'm not sure they have fully grasped the concept of the three hour delay between the actual ball dropping in Times Square and the ball dropping here on the west coast. I actually considered turning the clock back for accuracy. Ok...I also wanted to hasten the whole shebang so I could get to bed at a reasonable hour.

But they are so excited. UP. UNTIL. MIDNIGHT. Lemme tell ya, we are taking a walk on the wild side here.

So in celebration of scraping 2010 from the bottom of our shoe, we feasted on delicious, buttery, moist and delectable Dungeness crab, Caesar salad, baked potatoes, and a healthy dose of faux 70's rock. You know, a little Journey, Boston, Fleetwood Mac, Kansas, Jefferson Starship, Heart and some ELO for good measure (thank you Pandora).

Oh the fun never ends in this house...

And if I can escape the ghosts called forth by my daughter and her friend and the Ouija board I might be able to fall asleep before midnight.

If I'm lucky.

As for resolutions?

I don't play that game anymore either.

Happy New Year.
Again.

back to life ...

2010-12-29T22:24:00.000-08:00

... back to reality ... back to the here and now ... (and yes, that late 80's soul II soul song is now running through my head - and it can be in your head too if you click the link and listen while you read the rest of this).

Our brief vacation came to an end yesterday and real life smacked me in the face the second I entered my house last night.

OUCH! Smacked my right on this cheek:

And OUCH! On the other :

And another smack would have been a welcome treat to the violent gagging and gasping for air which occurred after making our way into the kitchen where we found a ~~spattering~~ smattering of little presents left by our five-too-many-feline-friends. I was very close to throwing us all back in the car and making the 4 hour drive back from whence we came. Really. Re-entry is just too hard.

Then there is the stack of mail to deal with, the holiday detritus, the clothes to put away, the food rotting into sculptural science in the fridge, the recycling we felt compelled to bring back home with us rather than toss in the garbage at our rental house (there's something in the Portland water that makes us this pc, I swear), that fact that there is no hot tub out the living room door here at home, no library of DVDs I haven't watched, no balcony upon which to stand and admire the snow covered pines and breathe in the cold, high desert air, no free naps .... NO. MORE. VACATION. TIME.

Acclimation is hard. It kind of requires a day to itself. To slllloooowwwwly ease back in to the pace of the madness I've created for myself.

But really, I don't mind the day-to-day most of the time as long as I can get a nap in once in a while. And I think if I had spent one more day lounging around in my pjs, bedsores would have developed. And just how long can you pretend soaking in the hot tub is the equivalent to bathing properly? And how may days would my kids want chips and salsa for dinner?

For those reasons alone, it's probably good for all of us to be back home.

And if I need a place to go when the going gets tough, I have this soothing scene of serenity to visit before reality once again kicks my butt:

vacation = throwing caution to the wind

2010-12-26T21:30:00.000-08:00

For me, vacation is not a time for an agenda, a plan or any kind of serious activity. It is a time to unwind, relax, nap and, quite frankly, to behave like the average American.

It means letting myself watch whatever pro-sport happens to be on TV at any given time, eating PROHIBITED food (see image above) and residing for a few days in a home with a lot of faux pine, too many framed images of snowy mountains and/or fish and/or pine trees and kitchen curtains with a wine-cheese-fruit design.

It means spending time with my family playing Bop-It, watching the Jason Bourne trilogy, playing Marco-Polo in the hot tub under the stars and noshing for dinner on ham, chips and salsa and a bottle of good red wine and/or beer.

No alarm. No place to be.

I must admit, it's easier said than done. Ever few hours, I am hear my inner-over-acheiver with the voice of a silver-tounged devil telling me I should be hiking in the alpine or taking my family sledding or ice skating or visiting the high desert museum or creating some kind of distraction to prevent me from basking in the silence of nothingness.

When my youngest daughter moped around, splaying her body upon the couch in every imaginable angle, whining about how bored she was, it was music to my ears. I relished in my response of, "Hmmmm, I'm sure you'll find something to do....." and, after another hour, "It's a gift to be bored...it gives your mind something to figure out..." and, after yet another hour, "GO MEDITATE!"

How often do we allow ourselves the luxury of time? The open expanse of moments unplanned? The spontaneity of allowing ourselves to do what we want? How frequently do we look at our kids and reflect upon the quick passage of time - the crazy speed with which their little bodies stretch and expand?

It's time to slow down, let them eat candy and stay up late ...

all is calm ...

2010-12-24T23:42:00.000-08:00

... all is bright.

chestnuts roasting ...

2010-12-24T01:00:00.000-08:00

... by the fake ass fire.

Never did I think for a moment I would live in a house without a hearth. A hearth. Pretty much what it means - the heart of the house. We are heartless in our habitation. No place to hang the stockings, no place to toast our feet when the weather outside is frightful, no chute down which Santa drops. Good thing my kids are on to this whole Santa-is-not-real-if-you-are-over-the-age-of-seven thing. Because if they weren't, I'm not sure what I would do other than leave the door open a crack. And then I would have to explain why Santa took all of our electronics and replaced them with the feral, neighborhood cats.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Call in Xfinity's oh-so-real yule log. Who needs spider-laden wood, pesky smoke and messy ash when you can just flip on the tv?

"But what about the nice, cozy warmth that only a real fire can produce?" you ask.

Well, the heat radiating from the energetically inefficient plasma screen is probably enough to roast marshmallows to a perfect, almost-on-fire brown.

I kid you not.

(painting above hearth by Megan Heekin Triantafillou)

everything in its place

2010-12-22T22:14:00.000-08:00

... and if it isn't, chances are it's in this drawer.

"Mooooohhhm? Do you have a safety pin?"
"Check the Everything Drawer, honey."

"Honey, I really need a AA battery."
"Oh, I'm sure there's one in the Everything Drawer."

"Mama, I just need one more quarter to get a pack of gum."
"I'm sure there's one in the Everything Drawer."

Need a nail?
Looking for a needle and thread?
An aluminum foil ball?
A cat stool sample test vial (not used)?
Burnt matches?
Dried up super glue?
Actual rolls of film - some used and some not?
A tooth?
A circa 1981 ribbon?

Medical tape?

The instructions for the computerized photo locket?

A first AND second generation iPod? (not even kidding)

All. There. In the Everything Drawer.

When I am looking for some kind of tiny random thing and I need it At. That. Very. Moment. I swear to the Goddess of Domesticity I always always always find what I am looking for here.

And oh, if I need a place to quickly hide something in the midst of one of my frantic clean-up moods, it gets deposited right in the drawer. Easy-peasy.

And oh, the tooth? I was looking for it because we were doing arts and crafts. VooDoo dolls.

the crack mama's solstice stamina

2010-12-20T21:46:00.000-08:00

Seems like every year, on solstice, I have a mad rush of non-caffeine induced energy to accomplish the 79 out of 103 things I need to get done prior to Christmas.

This year, it was deciding to tackle my annual job of preparing my signature, highly addictive Crack-in-a-Can (a very high-cal, but delicious combination of popcorn, caramel, macadamia nuts, almonds and pepitas). I have made this for friends and family for about 7 years now. I can't stop. It's crack. My addicts depend on me to help them through the holidays.

I do have it down to a science though - no time wasted - pop corn, bake popcorn and nuts with special spice blend, make caramel, mix up, break into chunks, clean up as I go, fill cans, hammer on the lids, eat leftovers, repeat.

Must be the lunar eclipse coupled with the solstice this year because in addition to my crack-making, I decided that it would be nice to make a nice Braised Beef Stew at the same time. A stew that takes a good 3+ hours to cook to delectable, tender completion. A stew I thought would be fun to make. A stew I began to prepare at 10pm.

That there? Not tender completion. That should occur .... oh ... around 2am or so. Did I mention I work tomorrow? Yeah.

And oh, I also took on the added responsibility of babysitting my most-~~needy~~ awesome neighbor's adorable almost-two-year-old.

I'm pretty sure the ensuing chaos caused him to escape into slumber.

Someone please save me from myself...

teamwork

2010-12-17T19:08:00.000-08:00

I think it has taken me the full seventeen years I have been married (god, could that be true? ... wow, longest relationship I've ever had without cheating ...) to realize it's all about teamwork. I was kind of thinking having a husband and being married was all just fun and games: the well-planned wedding, pretty ring, adventurous honeymoon, spending all free time together ... a welcome change-up from the dating/dumping era of my 20's. A logical 'next step'. Besides, you can have a way cooler house when there are two people contributing to the mortgage.

But what you don't get told prior to the walk down the aisle is how hard it will probably be. Sure, there might be the priest or counselor or friend or parent who will sit you down and give you a talk about the commitments, sacrifices and hard work. But do they tell you that you will never EVER again be able to have all the decorative pillows on the bed you like? Or that the forest green shag carpet in the hallway will have to stay because your spouse 'likes it'? And whoa, I thought he liked going out to eat. You mean that was only part of the mating dance? Shoot, that crazy dance is more complicated and mirage-like than these guys dancing - thrilling while you're watching, a little mind-boggling when you try to analyze it and sort of like a dream you cannot accurately recall. Throw kids into the mix and it's chaos in a blender.

The divorce rate could probably be cut in half if everyone getting married were forced to sit in a room full of married-for-over-5-years women and/or men spewing the reality of the sometimes-unnatural institution of long-term monogamy. But then again, the wedding industry would consequently crash.

I have to admit, there have been times I have encountered the silly-giggly, google-eyed, dreamy-drunk brides-to-be with their cute little veils and 'bride' t-shirts at bars and have wanted to shake the shit out of them and tell them to stop being so darn happy. Because it WILL NOT LAST. I'm kind of mean that way. (Don't worry, I also have good friends who have kept me from doing it).

All I'm trying to say is that living with ONE person for a long period of time requires a zen-like approach to getting along. Especially when you live with someone who calls you out on your selfish bullshit behavior on a regular basis. It requires acceptance and understanding, the ability to shake things off and letting a lot of water rush by under the proverbial bridge. If there is trust, honesty and respect, this will be much easier. If not ... see a counselor. ASAP.

It wasn't until maybe two weeks ago when my husband and I were out raking leaves, dismantling our vegetable garden for the winter and cleaning up the yard when it hit me like a bad hangover: I was off on my own, with my own agenda, doing my own thing (per usual) while he was doing something completely different (also per usual). He stopped, looked at me and said, "You know, this would be much easier for both of us if we were working together. You know, teamwork. I know it's a completely foreign concept for you, miss-do-what-you-want-when-you-want, but you need to try it."

Uh. OK.

And you know, while he turned the soil and I covered it with leaves, it became a joint effort - a very efficient process. And when he raked leaves into a pile and I pitch-forked them into the yard debris container, the job became so much easier, the effort more productive.

And, actually, fun.

sugar booger

2010-12-16T22:06:00.000-08:00

content removed due to objectionable material (as per one child)

all I want for christmas is ...

2010-12-15T21:27:00.000-08:00

... my one side tooth. No. Really. I want my side tooth for Christmas. I wish I was kidding. But I'm not. Number one on my list this year is for Santa to quietly implant that little cube of white enamel back into my jaw while I have visions of sugar plums dancing in my head.

I lost it over a year ago after it just about fell out of my mouth. Actually, it was pulled by a paid professional, but only after a hell of a lot of Oragel and much coercing by my loved ones not to rip the little bastard out myself. One day it just started to hurt like a piece of popcorn was stuck and after shoving everything from a toothpick to dental floss to a fork to a crow bar in my mouth in a vain attempt to rid myself of whatever was stuck, it broke in half. While it was Still. In. My. Gum. Gross, I know.

When I went to have it officially pulled, I almost fainted. It was the teeth-falling-out-of-your-head-nightmare-turned-reality. And that was the easy part, according to my oral surgeon. The next step was to drill and clean out the socket (aka the hole left in my JAWBONE) and implant a titanium thing. IN MY JAWBONE. A thing costing as much as a small, fuel-efficient European car. Shoot -I probably could have fit one of those in that empty space for a fraction of the price. Nothing like seeing a drill the width of your pinky finger going directly into your JAWBONE. I could even hear the sound it made over the carefully selected JAWBONE playlist I was listening to on my iPod. Next thing I knew, there was a piece of metal wedged into my ... yes, my JAWBONE.

And that's where the whole implant process thing came to a screeching halt.

Every three or four days, one of my friends will say, "So when are you gonna get that tooth?" I know they mean well and they're tired of seeing me conveniently carrying my pens around in that handy little spot or watching me contorting my face to keep that side of my mouth closed when I'm busting out laughing (a challenge, I tell ya), but truth be told, I really have no desire to have any more hands, jaw supports, drills and man-made objects up in there.

It will happen one of these days. When I have the time, money and drugs to go through with it. Until then, I'm thinking about trying out for the sequel to this movie. Why I think my smile would fit in beautifully.

santaland disclosures

2010-12-14T22:23:00.000-08:00

This Christmas marks the very first of being outed.

Sure, they had their suspicions. There were hints detected in my behavior, careless traces left behind, accidental slips of the tongue and concrete evidence stuffed in the basement closet. I tried in vain to perpetuate the myth, live the lie, act as though I was someone very very different, but the truth is stronger than any charade.

I have finally admitted to what they have suspected for years.

That man right up there in that photo? He's a farce. It was all fun and games while it lasted. In fact, it was beautiful magic. But no more.

On the positive side, there was no sitting on Santa's lap this year which was fine by me. It's a very strange and creepy tradition I never really warmed up to anyway what with all those little kids sitting on some strange man's knee. And have you ever really studied the faces of the parents? All smiley and anxious? Creep. Eee. We were never those parents who dressed up the kids and forced them, screaming, to sit there, inches from a strange guy's faux-bearded face just for a photo. I suppose we were too traumatized by our childhood memories for that. I am certainly not the only one with ~~burned~~ snapshots tucked away somewhere of me as a toddler, mouth open, face red, eyes squeezed tight and arms reaching away ... or am I?

I even told my kids that I was going to the mall tonight. To shop. For their presents. They still wrote lists to Santa. But I think they're just messing with me. Maybe I should have them wrap their own gifts this year.

( me: age six; creepy eyed santa: ageless)

frantic at 57 mph

2010-12-12T19:59:00.001-08:00

Most of my friends know me as a wild and crazy, caffeine-addicted multi-tasker.

They know me as someone who may or may not talk on the phone while I drive ... maybe or maybe not steering with my knees ... maybe or maybe not while I'm holding a coffee ... but usually making direct eye contact with my back seat passengers during a conversation.

I am always looking for my keys, my phone, my wallet, my purse, my scarf, my coat, ~~my child~~, my pen, my sanity.

While I present an excellent front of being highly organized and efficient, part of me has a constant pit in my stomach thinking there might be something crucial I have forgotten to do or something very important I have lost somewhere. Nothing is ever really accomplished with ease and predictability. Not even finding my debit card in my purse.

Much of this has to do with my resistance to any kind of routine. Give me structure and I'll reconstruct it. Give me a time to be somewhere and I'll either be early or late. Tell me to put something somewhere and I'll find a place of my own to put it. Make a rule for me to follow and I'll break it. Ask me to be quiet and I'll probably yell at you.

Are there really people out there who adhere to routine (and I'm not talking about those of you in prison)? Does order and predictability lead to a calmer way of life? Would knowing what was at the bottom of my purse (besides the makings of a well balanced snack) give me peace of mind?

I don't know. But I'm kind of content with the chaos of a quad soy latte in my system, a meal to prepare, some bills to pay, a holiday to fret about and a disgusting litter box to clean ... all in my own time. Because part of this whole working-mom / parenthood / living-with-a-million distractions thing is about making it work for you. Even if it means leaving the phone on top of the car while you peel out of the driveway to get the kids to school on time without being late for work while your coffee is still warm ...

And oh...this song was running through my head the entire time I was writing this ... gloriously cheesy 80's video, but watch it anyway :

cinderella, the winter fairies and us

2010-12-09T21:21:00.000-08:00

When my oldest daughter was about three and a half, she looked me in the eye and said in her most serious, honest-as-all-get-out voice, "Mama? You are a lot like Cinderella. You clean for us. You cook for us. You do everything we need you to do," and she went on her merry way and continued to play. Just like that. BAM.

My reaction? Sadly, it wasn't to sit her down to tell her the next time she would watch a Disney movie would be with her grandchildren. It was to stand there and stare at her in wonder and amazement which quickly turned into panic and acute anxiety. I had only been out of the full time work force for about four years, but I knew the challenge of finding something would continue to grow the longer I waited. I couldn't be Cinderella forever. My prince charming had already arrived. And he didn't live in a castle. And he drove an old Saturn. And wore Carhartt's. I needed to rekindle my career. Besides, my fingernails were a mess from all that scrubbing and scouring.

I also didn't want my girls to grow up thinking my only ability and interest in life was to raise children and take care of a home. Shouldn't that be the joint effort of both parents? Shouldn't my prince charming be equally responsible for maintaining the house and making sure diapers were clean and dry and knowing we were dangerously low on toilet paper? I was kind of thinking so too. And shouldn't I be able to carry my financial weight and put my education to some use? Pretty much.

Back to work I went. Full force. Full time.

The insanity of this juggling act has been one of the most challenging and fulfilling things I have ever done. Yes, it has led me to drink a lot more bourbon than I would have imagined. Yes, I am sometimes in bed by 7:30pm. No, I no longer know the names of the hip and educational PBS eeeearly morning shows and my children's breakfasts sometimes consist of a cold bagel in the car on the way to school rather than homemade pancakes with smiley face syrup. But it's all about trade-0ffs. It's about maintaining the things that are special and letting go of the minutiae. And my girls know their mama and daddy work damn hard, but love them no less.

We try our damnedest to keep the magic alive in their lives. Right now, we are the Winter Fairies - leaving little treats in the advent calendar and hiding special messages for them to hang on the tree. I'm sure prince charming and I will be up into the wee wee hours of Christmas Eve (with the help of bourbon) wrapping and arranging and making the holiday special. Because it will probably be the only night we will have time to do this together - sharing the load of it all.

lean green slush machine

2010-12-08T20:19:00.000-08:00

The title of this post indicates that, perhaps, you are about to read a review of the recently purchased, ultra-powerful juicer I just bought today and revel in the recipes I avidly share with you. Or maybe it will be about my recent discovery of a vitamin-packed leafy-green-veggie flavored, yet totally delicious ice cream treat in the frozen section at Trader Joe's. But alas. It is not. It's about the two drawers in my refrigerator that seem to transform even the most hearty vegetables into stunning and surprising exhibits of science.

The lean:

Because this ultra-thin package of organic micro-greens took up such a teeny amount of space in the drawer, it was sadly forgotten. So instead of being packed into the makings of yummy, healthy garbanzo burgers, they morphed and grew and partially froze.

The green:

Marvel in the the array of cool shades! There's spring bud green, deep forest moss, lime, emerald and I even spy a true chartreuse in there amongst the Italian parsley (or... is that ... cilantro???).

The slush:

I'm pretty sure I don't need to explain the contents of this bag. Every time I purchase two bags of organic greens with great intentions of eating them THAT. NIGHT. My family really only uses less than one of them per meal. And once I see a tiny drop of water collecting in the remaining bag or a splotch of anything brown and gooey, I'm done. WITH OPENING THE DRAWER.

The machine:I would have really like to have one of those Dr. Seuss-like hand contraption thingies to put this into our compost bin (what? your thinking. isn't THIS your compost bin???)

Those drawers. Not sure why they are so challenging to maintain. Maybe because I have to bend over to get to them? Maybe because the fronts are opaque? Maybe because I'm lazy as hell when it comes to my fridge? All of the above.

Funny thing is? After I took these photos, all of that soupy-gloopy was tucked quiiiietly back into the darkness of those produce drawers. With my family silently watching me, jaws dropped in utter disbelief.

super-size me ...

2010-12-07T23:01:00.000-08:00

This was one of those nights. Past the normal rooting-through-the-fridge/pantry-hour, a little pissed at myself for not making a menu this week and dark, dark, dark. Making a 'real' dinner was simply not in the question what with a Trailblazers game on at 7 and then Glee at 8. So in an effort to keep our family priorities straight (ahem), I headed straight to Burgerville on the way home.

Several of you may have just thrown up in your mouth a little bit. And I'm really sorry for that (I'll wait while you go do a quick toothpaste rinse ...), however I will not apologize or even pretend this was a one time occurrence. Faaaar from it. Our family? We can crave a good, quick burger and hot fries every once in a while. And when we are feeling really decadent, maybe even a milkshake. In the Midwest and pre-Fast Food Nation, it was the McDonald's drive-thru. Here in the Northwest, it's Burgerville and I convince myself to feel a little bit better about supporting a local fast food chain with sustainable (not completely, I'm sure, but better than most) practices and food from local farms.

No, I don't feel like I have pushed my children any closer to adult-onset diabetes or threatened their long term health. I feel like I have given my family an unstressed mother for an evening who doesn't have the pressure of making dinner on her mind.

Yes yes yes. I know. Eating as a family is very important. And tonight probably wouldn't really count as I was standing, my husband and oldest were sitting and my youngest was up and down and in and out and here and there. We sit down to a properly set table and mostly homemade dinners nearly every night. I serve vegetables at those meals. Organic ones. I make food too. Prepared with love and good intention. Again, mostly organic. Sometimes we even light candles. And we talk and laugh while we eat.

So I'm going to try not to beat myself up for these evenings where french fries and a greasy cheeseburger taste amazing and there are no dishes to clean up (you read that napkin in the photo ... recyclable ... so don't start with the litter issue please). Because it's not like I'm pushing my children to an early death or imminent high cholesterol. If we did this night after night after night, why yes, I would be doing them and their growing bodies a horrible horrible disservice. But we don't.

I'm learning more and more that life is about moderation. And while I would love love love to dine on french fries and martinis most nights (dead serious, I am) and make meticulously prepared, perfectly balanced, color-balanced meals on the others, it is simply not possible in my reality. Not everyone has the grand luxury of time, nor the where-with-all, energy and, frankly, desire, to cook a fabulous meal every night. And if you do? I'll email you my address and you can be on call to bring us dinner next week.

madness : our house

2010-12-05T22:45:00.000-08:00

Please do not focus on the titles of the books. They are only there to provide a sense of scale to what is going on in front of their spines. There. On the shelf. The one that apparently has been collecting dust particles for some time now. Where a small colony of 'fairies' (ahem ... dust mites) has developed. Of course you may comment on my literary taste if you like. That's fine too, and would provide a welcome distraction to the reality of it all. But that dust? It stopped me in my tracks yesterday. Enough to cause me to find my camera and snap a picture. Because damn. How does one keep up with it all?

There is a balance between maintaining your house (read: keeping it to a standard suitable for and approved by Child Services and / or the Board of Health) and getting a little crazy about it. I used to be all crazy about it until I realized that unless I quit my rockin' job and dusted shelves, baseboards and that awful crevice between the shower and bathroom floor full time, I would need to breathe in and out (albeit with a dust filtering respirator) and have compassion for those hard working house fairies. They're just trying to make a home for their children. In my dirt.

Yeah, I've thought about hiring someone to do the dirty work. But for some reason, that seems wrong too. If I cannot clean my own goddamn house, then why the hell am I living in it? Sure, I'd be employing someone who may need a well paying job, but it's just an odd concept to me. (Even though I grew up with Elizabeth, the sweetest, most hard-working-hard-core black-momma-once-a-week housekeeper you'd ever want in your life who smoked her cigarettes, left the long, crinoid-like ashes in our plants, watched her 'stories' in the afternoon and fixed us burnt bacon per request, it still felt weird to me).

So I suffer the consequences. The dust. The laundry. The spots on the kitchen floor. The dirty windows. The smudged mirrors. The scummy sinks. The reality of living in a house.

We all try our best to keep up with it all. And it's hard. And I have had many a freak-outs about it. I once had a therapist (different than the one who said I had a 'tall' personality - this one was bound and determined to help me reveal my 'core wound' .... oy.) who told me, among other things, that I really needed to chill the heck out about the state of my house. That my kids were only going to be young for a short period of time and I didn't want to have to look back years from now only to remember the manic vacuuming / cleaning / dusting that went on rather than spending time with them. And I think she may have been right.

This may be another lesson about not sweating the ~~small~~ microscopic stuff. Because, who, on their death bed says to themselves, "Damn, I should have dusted more shelves!" ???

once i was a wow widow

2010-12-05T21:36:00.001-08:00

Not sure if any of you know what that means. And if you do, I'm sorry. You have my sympathies.

I suppose you could be a G widow or a WDW widow or a CF widow as well - golf, working during weekends, college football - suffering the loneliness and frustration of whatever it is that takes your significant other away from time otherwise spent with you or the family. And if you are one, you probably need to take a few moments to step outside the situation and ponder.

I happened to marry a guy who loves his fantasy video game (and I know, it could be a far worse internet addiction so I should probably just shut the hell up right now...). It's his outlet after a rough day. It's where he goes early on the weekend mornings before the rest of us have even opened our eyes. And for years, I have resented it and gotten all up in his business about it. Like he should be doing something more 'worthwhile' or more 'serious' or 'productive'. But why? If he were reading Michael Pollen or furthering his interest in the Cat's Eye Nebula or diversifying our retirement portfolio, would I be so harsh and judgmental? I think not. Does he give me crap about what I choose to do in my free time? I know not. So what is my problem?

Pretty much just self-centered righteous snobism is all.

I love my moments to myself. I love my books, I love my Words with Friends, I love my special TV show. Does he walk in on these personal moments of total, mindless, relaxation with attitude and a frown do deep I'd be tempted to suggest Botox? He absolutely does not. And I have begun to think about this. And about how different we are. And how that's probably a really good thing.

So I have come to accept. Accept that for my spouse, World of Warcraft holds his interest and allows him to escape and relax and forget the troubles of adult/parenthood for a short time. And I remember that it's good that I have my own method for escape. Because two of us a little wobbly from bourbon wouldn't be so responsible now, would it?

PS - And oh, that thing I said about (almost) never on Sundays? Make a rule and I'm the first to break it....

aw lordy ... no more top 40

2010-12-02T20:07:00.000-08:00

If you are the parent of anyone age 15 and under, don't pretend at any point during the day you do not have the bridge or chorus of Like a G6 or Teenage Dream running loops in your head. And if you work with someone who gets on your nerves, just kind of mutter-sing one of these two 'songs' and watch them jump out the window. Or stick a pencil in your eye.

I swear Rob and I did our best to expose our kids to the best of classical, jazz, classic rock and old school hip-hop. But something went horribly wrong along the way. Maybe it was the Honeycombs they ate for a while a few summers ago. Or the seed could have been planted even earlier than that - perhaps during one of the many episodes of Teletubbies I let them watch so I could get a little shut eye. Or maybe it was when we stopped using Tom's toothpaste and began using Crest. Something less edgy and more mainstream seeped into their mental make-up and one day, with decisive clarity, my girls knew the numbers of the Top 40 radio station. And they demanded to listen.

Quite frankly, I think I blame it on the old-school hip-hop. It was the gateway music. To the lowest-common-denominator of all music: Top 40. First there were the Black Eyed Peas. Then there were the Black Eyed Peas. And there was nothing we could do about it. I thought it was a passing phase and if we just listened to a little more Massive Attack, Simon and Garfunkel, Spearhead, Zero 7 or The Roots, our girls would remember their roots. But no. They never went back. And now...well, I'm feeling so fly like a g6.

Of course I have selective amnesia about my Top 40 years of listening to the Bee Gee's, Peaches and Herb, Captain and Tennille and Air Supply. But that was different.

cat stew and other adventures

2010-12-01T20:23:00.000-08:00

As if mornings aren't hectic enough. Between waking up late, getting myself somewhat dressed in clean, semi-presentable clothes, being ref to any sister spars, packing lunches, acting as breakfast-commander, and trying to convince my eleven year old that yes, her (twelfth) outfit looks great, I get to deal with the ramifications of having five (yes, five. I know...bad mom. Again.) cats. This means territorial skirmishes with less than desirable results for us humans. And I'm gonna be frank: pee.

It's here, it's there. And oh! Look! This morning it's over here, honey! IN YOUR SHOES!

Gross. I know. Believe me, I'd love to be having June Cleaver / Carol Brady mornings instead. But no, I've chosen to home a colony of felines. And have to deal with the good, the bad and the utterly horrible.

Like telling the child whose shoes have been 'marked' that she must wear another pair:

And dealing with the resulting tantrum.

Who needs turkey or ham for the next holiday meal...I'm penning the recipe for a really delicious, rich and tasty stew.

What? Missing cats? No idea what you are talking about.

SA

2010-11-30T20:49:00.000-08:00

Hi. My name is Akira. And I am a sleepaholic.

There are days (ok, most days) when my entire body instinctually resists waking up and my brain only seems capable of manipulating reasons why I should remain in my soft, warm bed. Just one more minute and then I'll wake up. Then once awake, my day seems shrouded in fog and mist and visions of fluffy clouds and all I can think of is feigning illness and crawling back into my soft, warm bed.

Alarm? Phfff. Haha, that's funny! Has never worked. EVAH. I'm all about the sleep / snooze button. Even when I used to have an actual clock (as opposed to the iPhone that shares my pillow) on a shelf across the room, I would wake up to the alarm, press the snooze button and walk with purpose right back into my bed. Ten minutes later. Repeat. Ten minutes after that, repeat. Ad infinitum. Or until I had 20 minutes to be somewhere. I did find a jigsaw puzzle alarm clock that violently erupts and scatters the pieces across your room when the alarm goes off. Peace and quiet is yours when the puzzle is put back together. Had that thing down in two days flat. But good try puzzle-clock-company.

I heard something on NPR once time about sleep being much like a bank account you can replenish. Uh-huh, just what I thought! I can sleep really late during the weekends to make up for lost sleep during the week. Right? And I can take a little cat nap to accrue the hours I need to meet my required ten hours a night. Perfect! Finally I have scientific back-up to encourage my addiction.

And as much as I fantasize about being a morning person -all bouncy and perky and ready for the day - I am most certainly not one. Ask anyone who has ever had to deal with me in the morning. (Though there was that one time in college where I did get up early and went for morning runs. Quiet Amy, you were living in Boston that week). It is not when I shine.

Is requiring less sleep something you have to practice? Are you born waking up easily and right when your alarm goes off? Do you start easy by waking up at noon and then slowly but surely set your alarm earlier and earlier everyday? What is the big secret I'm not getting here? Is there a pill I can take?

Well...I'll be in bed pondering. Until my kids are standing at the end of my bed dressed and ready for school and begging me to get the hell up.

when, what to my wondering eyes should appear

2010-11-29T19:26:00.000-08:00

... a miniature sled near my hearth? Eight tiny reindeer in my yard? Not. Even. Close.

Mainly because it's NOT DECEMBER YET!

Everyone and their step-brother has been decking the heck out of their halls.

Did I miss the memo about having the tree cut, decorated and lit to perfection the weekend RIGHT AFTER THANKSGIVING? 'Cause that's pretty much what everyone did in my neighborhood this year.

On the way home from work today, I kept screaming, "Lights? Holiday lights? At their house???!!!" Drive drive drive. And then even louder, "What? At THEIR house too???" Drive drive. "WHAT? They have theirs up? When did they find time???!!!" Drive. "UARGHH!!" Either these people never took their lights down, kept them cleverly camouflaged in the flora living on their roof and simply flipped on the switch or they played hooky from work today to up-one-on-the neighbor. Either way, I've been left in the dust.

For I am still cleaning up from a couple of holidays ago:

Why this? This is Pierre, Cassin's jack-o-lantern, just shoveled from his perch on the front porch and moved to his new home in the compost last night.

But I kind of have a (lame) excuse as I believe it is in my genetic make-up. I recall with great clarity my mother leaving our holiday tree up until Valentine's Day. Either I had dared her to do it or she finally went on Holiday Strike...which is really not such a bad idea...

(almost) never on sundays

2010-11-28T17:23:00.000-08:00

As OCD as I am (read: if I don't write and post something everyday, I think something bad might happen to me, my family, or you), Sundays are going to be my day of rest. Truth be told, they are the days I panic trying to organize my life, house and finances. So you probably won't find me here.

I'll be quietly scheming how to best get through the upcoming week without selling my kids, cats and husband on eBay.

if a picture is worth a thousand words

2010-11-27T17:45:00.000-08:00

...then I am really in debt.

Once upon a time, I collected shoebox upon shoebox of actual photographic prints I took. With real film printed on actual paper - ones that never seemed to make their way into any semblance of a photo album or became organized in any way. Then, about seven years ago, with great hesitation, I made the digital leap. I swore to the woman at the camera store I would be back, bringing with me my little cylindrical rolls of real film to be developed because surely, digital pics would not nearly be as rewarding. Her last words to me were, "I know you will." I was afraid to ever return for fear she would look upon me with utter disgust and disappointment as I had become another casualty of the digital age.

As a result of my first Nikon DSLR, thousands and thousands and thousands - literally around 20,000 - photos from the past seven or so years lived on my laptop. Note past tense. (You can see where this is going, can't you?)

Regularly, I would lay awake in bed covered in sweat and full of anxiety about what to do with all those pictures. Surely I had reached the point of no return to actually sit and organize them. As if I had extra time in my life to make and order photo books from iPhoto. I was panic stricken. Should I tackle a roll a week? Deleting the pictures I never would have taken with a film camera and making general folders? Should I, from that point forward, make sure I culled through each download in a responsible and mindful manner? These thoughts played an endless loop for another year or so without any productive action on my part. And backing them up? On what? I had no idea how to use the iDisc I had. (What is that thing anyway? Some kind of empty disc out in cyberspace?). It all seemed so very time consuming and so utterly complicated.

Until April of this year.

Phone call from Rob while I was at work (I knew it was serious because he's not one of those guys sho calls just to hear my voice): "Akira. Akira. Our house has been broken into. It's okay. But they got a bunch of things."

The list included our flat screen tv (ripped right out of the wall), iPods and nanos, my kids money (they kept it in the dining room in their little 'give', 'spend', 'save' boxes), my laptop and my digital camera. Well shit. But no one was hurt and they were rather tidy burglars and we have homeowners insurance.

Then it occurred to me.

The pictures.

All. Of. The. Pictures.

All gone.

Part of me freaked the fuck out.

The little part.

The other part of me - the bigger part - realized how much we depend on trying to capture every moment without living it to the fullest. The part of me that knew I would no longer have to experience the anxiety about what to do with all of those digital memories.

I now had a beautiful clean slate.

And I breathed a sigh of relief.

Be not so lazy, or uninformed, or confused.

Back those suckers up.

I still don't know how to do it and have some kind of automatic thing going on (at least that's what the nice mac guy told me).

DIY MIA

2010-11-26T18:11:00.000-08:00

They are here. Those days. Pressure filled, fast-paced and over-the-top decorated.

The holidays have become so in-your-face they are nearly unbearable. For me, the anxiety begins at midnight on October 30th and it doesn't really end until after Easter.

It's really hard to embody the Mama Witch, Thanksgiving Chef, Santa and all the elves, the Winter Fairies, and the Easter Bunny and the Spring Fairies all within the span of five short months. I feel like I should be simultaneously knitting, sewing, baking, creweling, painting, shopping, planning, decorating, making holiday cards, shipping holiday gifts across the country while also teaching these skills to my children, running a retail website (read: November and December are CAH-razy), dashing to holiday performances during lunch, running a household and smiling the whole time.

There was a time (long long ago, it seems) when I did knit. And sew. And felt. And paint. And felt inspired by She-Whose-Name-I-Will-Not-Say (even though I did in my last post). I have the artifacts to prove it - really I do. But my time to rest and relax and just be has become more important in recent years.

And so, my crafty energies now reside in places like this:

And it makes me kind of sad.

So then why do I find myself attracted to the magazines by She-Whose-Name-I-Will-Not-Say like they are the strongest magnets known to humankind?

... so sorry martha

2010-11-25T20:56:00.001-08:00

... my Thanksgiving table was not set with these ... for the love of it all ... as if I had time to pleat napkins into turkeys IN ALL THE SPARE TIME I HAVE ...

Happy day of thanks to everyone ... spend it with the ones you love ... and not trying to impress ...

bearded ladies unite

2010-11-25T19:44:00.000-08:00

At some point during each day, my fingers absently feel the bottom of my chin. I might be on the phone, I might be in the middle of a great novel, I might be cooking dinner (just kidding on that one). What do they feel? The baby goatee I am growing against my will. I'm sure there are teen boys out there dying to have the facial hair I have. They can have it. All of it.

I'll never forget my sweet grandmother, Janie, very seriously and very anxiously fretting about who would pluck her chin hairs after she went 'to the home'. I kind of thought she was full of malarky. She was not. And I, too, now have that fear.

Rob knows where to find me in the evenings after the kids are asleep. In our downstairs powder room where the light is good, the mirror is close and where my prized tweezers live. Yes, it is there where I pluck pluck pluck.

Why don't you get laser hair removal? I can hear you asking. Well, my skin is darker than your average white girl, I scar easily and would prefer a temporary goatee of hair than a permanent one of darker skin. Plus, the ads for those places really freak me out. Mostly it seems like those 'medical offices' remove body fat and the facial hair thing is just a way to lure you in. You know, first it's the smooth arm pits and then you pick up the brochure for full body hair removal and then, with your newly hairless body surely you would want to get rid of that muffin top. And before you know it, you are Heidi Montag.

I think I'd rather keep it natural. At least until I get to 'the home'. Don't worry - my daughters already know what their job will be.

holiday orphans

2010-11-23T22:00:00.000-08:00

Don't be sad for us. We chose to live on the other side of the country away from every single family member on both sides. We were the ones who picked up and drove across this great land to start new lives. We decided if we didn't leave the Midwest in the late 1990's we never would. We were the ones who wanted ~~to escape~~ an adventure. All. Our. Fault.

Away from our families all these years, we have since become holiday orphans. Ones that no one has really ever wanted to adopt. It kind of makes me sad and I start to conjure images of The Little Match Girl and her cold, endless slumber. The forlorn way she peered into the warm homes with big, joyful gatherings. But then I remember. All. Our. Fault.

Long ago, after several Thanksgivings and Christmases of trying to satisfy everyone by running around the city and eating at every house we visited we decided it was best to just escape altogether. We began by alternating Thanksgivings at our family's houses and skip out on Christmas with the intention of making our own traditions.

And look where it has gotten us. 2358 miles away from perfectly cooked turkey, the delicious stuffing of my childhood, crunchy cranberry sauce I never really liked and family members who love us.

I've tried - looooorrrd I've tried - to make a decent holiday dinner all these years. Turns out, Rob and the girls don't really like the traditional meal anyway. Last year we went Mexican. One year was pancakes and bacon. And I think there was take-out Chinese pre-kids. This year I was so close to buying the whole meal - ready made - and calling it my own (I can hear you gasping. Just stop it.). But the BAD MOM! voice inside my head started in with the guilt. So our little family of four collaborated on a menu for just us: a ham (it's a meat you don't have to obsess over - is it done enough? is it raw on the inside? will it be dry? what about the pan drippings for gravy? - and everyone likes it), mashed potatoes (well...because they kick ass and are a stealth way to deliver butter and sour cream to my arteries), roasted brussel sprouts and cauliflower (I had to stick the brussel sprouts in there for color balance only), a big salad (more green balance), crusty bread and apple pie (thanks in advance, Rob).

And if it sucks. I know. All. Our. Fault.

But we will be cozy at home and together and thankful.

walking the talk

2010-11-22T11:21:00.001-08:00

Circa 1978. My hippie aunt's wedding. And I saw one for the first time. It was a little blue bird on the shoulder of one of the cool-looking guests. And I knew at that moment I wanted one. So in the early 90's. I got one. All the super models had one. A tattoo.
Mine was a little peace dove (thank you Picasso). Wimpy and easily covered, but to me my tattoo felt so very rebellious.

Circa 2010. Sunset Strip, LA. Me and my soul-sister friend. Sunday afternoon. Not messing around this time.

Those dusty super models? I'm sure they've had their body art laser removed.
Me? While my little peace dove fades underneath jeans and boots, this one is fresh and bold.

The meaning of these four Tibetan words - love compassion joy equanimity - remind me to stay sane and in the moment when I look at them.
And this time, I can't cover it up as easily.
I also feel just a liiiiittttle more bad ass.

short people got no reason to ...

2010-11-19T22:34:00.000-08:00

One of my past therapists once told me I was a tall person trapped in a short person's body and that I had a very 'tall' personality. She even stood me in front of a mirror and showed me how long my torso and neck were compared to my short, muscular legs. "A mismatch of physical characteristics which have created internal conflict within you." I did specify past therapist. For good reason.

Of course I have always wanted to be taller than my 5'3" (I swear I'm that tall. My driver's license says so.) Who wouldn't? I could have jeans that were actually the right length, not worry as much about my thighs and would really enjoy physically looking down on a couple of people (though my ability to do so with my 'tall' personality has worked out just fine).

So unless someone comes up with a way to gain height naturally, I have to rely on my very important props. No, not stilts, but shoes like this:

And while I may call these my 'Brazilian Slut Shoes', they get me right up there with the rest of the 5'5" world. And I like life from that height.

leaving on a jet plane

2010-11-17T20:16:00.000-08:00

... and sometimes I wish I didn't know when I was coming back again.

Traveling solo is a double-edged sword.

It reminds me of my early twenties when I maxed out my intro-credit cards (how could ANY 22 year old pass up all of those credit card offers? Me, I fell for every one of 'em) flying or driving to see various boyfriends in their different locales. I'd hope on a plane, spend a weekend ... um ... going to museums (ahem) ... and fly back home only to do it again a couple of weeks later. Cincinnati to New York, Cincinnati to Raleigh/Durham, Paris to New York, Cincinnati to Chicago. Complete freedom and no responsibilities other than my low maintenance cat.

Now when I travel alone as the mama of two kids I drink up every moment of alone time, but also panic about the possibility of a horrendously slow and painful plane disaster, the sweaty, twitching woman in the seat behind me who I'm convinced is the female version of Osama Bin Laden, forgetting extra contacts, my anti-anxiety pills and being completely convinced my husband will forget to feed the kids opting instead to let them forage on their own. Seriously. In the past I've come home from short little trips only to find the flowers in the vase on the kitchen table dried to a crisp, beds unmade and all helter-skelter and the food in the refrigerator looking suspiciously in the exact same places as when I left. I'm always a little surprised to find both kids home, happy and somewhat well-fed.

But to have a few days of uninterrupted time to myself to think without bickering in the background, to sleep late, to savor my coffee in silence and to hang out with my sister-soul-friend in L.A., I can let my control-freak-self mellow out a little because it's all worth it.

all we are is dust in the wind

2010-11-16T20:09:00.000-08:00

On the whole, my house is what I would consider presentable. But ask my family, every once in a while (like at least once a week) I am blind to the positive and can ONLY. SEE. THE. DIRT. It's like I have telescopic vision and all I can see are corners like this:

And then my eye goes straight up vertically to this:

And then directly across the floor to this:

And then straight up the vanity to this on the counter:

And this is only the bathroom.

The fury of my cup-all-dirty vision continues throughout the entire house.

Frankly dust in the wind would be welcome in my house. It takes way less elbow grease to clean.

And oh, yeah...that was a stray piece of hair dried to the corner of my poorly caulked bathtub.

Take that, Martha.

do as I say, not as I do

2010-11-15T18:56:00.000-08:00

I work for a wonderful, small business in Portland, Oregon with an internationally recognized website.

My job: to run it.

I write all of the copy as well as a product-related blog, keep our social marketing plan on track, deal with all of the customers via email and phone, manage a small staff (a curmudgeon of a phototgrapher and a rockin' assistant), represent wonderful jewelry artists from around the world and bask in the beauty of their creations.

Over the years, I have procured a lovely collection of jewelry - both purchased and given to me as gifts.

The problem is my horrid lack of a decent jewelry storage system. And so, it looks like this:

Please don't tell my bosses.

more than skeletons in my closet

2010-11-12T17:41:00.000-08:00

I can put together a pretty good look. I have a distinctive style and dress with intention even if it means wearing my only clean, presentable clothing. I work everyday in a fashion-forward environment so the pressure it on. Here I am at work (and no, I cannot help that 'mirror' face ... I believe it is a genetically programmed reflex):

Anyway, cute, huh?

The challenges I face to put something like this together are pretty intimidating first thing in the morning. And they look something like this:

Yes sir, that's my closet. And I'm proud of it. Not really. But it's my reality. My closet has skeletons, spider webs, dust, and apparently some old issues of domino magazine (damn, I miss you domino!)....

good mom

2010-11-10T22:07:00.000-08:00

Wednesday night. 5:30pm and minus one daughter - the one who loves Annie's mac and cheese but despises my wholesome, homemade version.

I'm tired, would totally settle for a glass of wine and some nuts for dinner but the daughter at home is the one who loves my labor-of-love mac and cheese. The version with the roux, special extra-sharp cheddar and crispy panko.

So rather than sigh, moan and try to placate her with this:

I ran to the store, picked up the remaining ingredients and made this:

Delicious.

And I couldn't have done it without her. Not only did she learn about the extra effort it takes to make a good meal, she also climbed up onto the counter, got a bottle of wine from our wine liquor shelf ("No, not that bottle...over one...the dark one....Yes! That one, honey!") learned how to operate a cork screw from my verbal instructions and pour me a drink while I frantically whisked the roux for the cheese sauce.

Win. Win.

bad mom

2010-11-09T19:50:00.000-08:00

Every year, we host Spookfest - a lively Halloween gathering full of children in costume, adults imbibing and a delicious burrito bar to which all guests contribute. This has been going on for about ... oh ... seven or eight years. It used to be super cute with our clueless toddlers roaming around, frightened of the older, neighborhood kids and stopping after three houses (max).

The kids have grown, the group has grown and this year, because half of my oldest daughter's 6th grade class showed up, it turned into the full-fledged Pahhrr-tay.

In a mad rush to hold tight to the days of yesteryear and to prove to my Facebook friends that yes, I am a good mom, I forced all fourteen 'tweens, two or three (never really got my count right) fourth graders, a kindergartener or two outside for a PHOTO! A PHOTO! everyone! Imagine the collective moans of the sugar-deprived. They wanted out.

So the next day, while all of my perfect-mom friends posted their cute pictures of their sweet ghouls and goblins, I had this:

And no, it didn't show up on Facebook.

BUT, I did come across this article. Which made me feel a lot better about being a bad mom.

reality

2010-11-05T20:37:00.000-07:00

No one is perfect. Except maybe Martha Stewart. And all those crafty bloggers who publish books, home school their kids, eat all organic food and raise goats.

I wish I had it all together. Most people think I do. My house is nice. My children are fed and arrive at school on time. My husband is happy. I am successful as the director of an internationally recognized website. And I look damn good for my age.

BUT. No one is perfect and a shit load of work goes on behind the scenes. In everyone's life.

There are tricks.

There is magic.

There are tears.

There is frustration.

There are too many expectations and not enough time.

And life is too short to be constantly feeling out of pace. Keep it real for yourself by doing the very best you can.

Everyone has dust and laundry and dirty dishes.

And see that picture down there? That's me. But really not.

See that picture up there? That is the real one. A little touch up here, another one there, iron out a wrinkle, blur a zit, add some high contrast black and white confuse the viewer and there you have it: a quick fix and desired illusion.

It's all about the smoke + mirrors, baby.