Happy New Year!

I finally dug my way out of the wrapping paper, travelled through the snow and made it home for just a couple of hours-- and then it's off again. But you all are so incredibly important to me, I thought I'd wish you all a Happy New Year before I dash out the door. Here's to good blogging, good fun and lots of laughs in the new year! But for now, I'll take another round of egg nogs (picture this: 8 people-- three of which are small children--, one bathroom and two tiny bed rooms. It's snowing outside and my GG -- G-d love her--wants it 82 degrees inside the cabin).

Merry Christmas !

Just popped in to wish you all a Merry Christmas!

I am one foxy mama

When you get to a certain age and the top half of your body starts to converse with your lower half, any amount of attention from the opposite sex is greatly appreciated. Heck it is revered as a symbol that “you’ve still got it.” If a train should strike your spouse dead, you won’t die surrounded by 40 cats.

I reached this age about eight years ago. In other words, when I was eight months pregnant, guys would still pump gas for me-- a week later with a kid in tow, I had suddenly become invisible. With three kids it is different because you can never be truly invisible with three little darlings around (though there are times I wish the floor would swallow me up). No, now I am like a communicable disease that must be avoided at all costs-- which reminds me I need to up my husband’s life insurance.

Things were different last week though. I was a new woman, a kid-less foxy lady dressed in stripped shirt, velour grey “yoga” pants and a zip jacket (also known as the hip six month expecting mom outfit as I realized at the end of this story). But for now, it is 4 a.m. on the day of my flight to Texas. I had stayed up all night because I was afraid if I went to sleep I’d be too tired to drive (ignore the logic and just go with me). I’m bedraggled. My hair is a mess of curly knots and I’ve yet to “put my face on.” Plus, I’m carrying a big pillow, a blanket, a hardbound copy of Harry Potter and a carry-on bag. There is no way I am sexy or cute. Actually I wasn’t even thinking about it (obviously). I just wanted to catch my plane.

So as I wandered through the Sacramento airport, this security guard came up to me and said “You’re standing in the wrong line.” Then he pointed to a line that I doubt NASA could see the end of.

“Hey, don’t worry about. I’ve got you covered. Come with me and pretend you are her daughter,” he said, pointing to a little old lady in a wheelchair.

Then he helped me with my bags and chit-chatted with me in the elevator about my travel plans.

“Have a nice trip you foxy mama,” he said as I walked away.

I blushed. Wow! I do still have it, and then because he used the term mama, I looked in the mirror.

Did he think I was pregnant?

I looked around and saw two pregnant ladies dressed in similar outfits. What the heck was this some sort of bump in my tummy uniform!

I went from foxy to horrified in two point three seconds. I called my mother.

“Do I look pregnant?” I asked her.

“ARE you?” she said.

“Heavens no,” I said.

“Well then of course not,” she said.

“Yes, well this guy just called me a foxy mama,” I said.

“That is an expression,” she said.

“No body uses it,” I said. “And he let me use the elevator with a lady in a wheel chair.”

“Maybe he wanted to talk to you,” she said. “Maybe he was just being nice.”

I left it at that decided I’d rehire my personal trainer when I get home. I’m wearing a bikini this summer even if it’s not in Mexico (because I only dress like that on vacation and Mexico is the only place hubby will take me-- except for Las Vegas because he likes the girls--- argh!).

OK so I had settled on the fact that I was a dumpy old mother when the garbage man waved at me. Oh you back of the truck riding man-- thank you for giving this woman some hope. I could be a garbage man’s wife should a train strike my husband dead.

Later at a department store, a male clerk walked over from the accessories department and wanted to show me some of his. I told him I wasn’t interested and asked if he could direct me to the children’s department. I stepped back three feet like I carried the plague and told me it was on the bottom floor. I should have known this. One rule in the retail business is that all children, queen-sized women and pregnant women must be kept out of sight, so those departments are either in the basement or on the top floor next to gift wrap.

Things only got better when I got home. I swung into the gas station and the clerk smiled at me and asked me about my trip-- I know it’s got to be because I looked HOT in my blue jeans and pink sweater after 10 hours of traveling. I couldn’t have been because he was just a nice guy-- hey I’ll take it whenever I can.

On the road again-- Oh I can wait to get on the road again

And so another trip comes to a close. It's tragic. I must return to my children and to the land of plastic farm animals.

While I was away, the children were complete angels, going to bed without a fight, wearing the clothes laid out by dad (and not trying to weasel themselves into tank tops and flip flops) and just generally being good kids. And my only question is WHY? Why couldn't they all simultaneously come down with the stomach flu? Why couldn't they all decide they will only eat olives and ketchup? Why couldn't at least one of them lay on the floor and scream and kick her feet? No trips to the ER. No drama over so-and-so not liking her. It is just not fair.

No, they decorated gingerbread houses, crawled into bed and had to be woken up each morning. My husband missed out on the pleasure of having our three-year-old forcibly open his eyes each morning. He missed out on the pitter-patter of sneaky feet heading to the cookie jar at 3 a.m. The cat didn't go in and out of the house 86 times a night.

This situation just seems WRONG. I know I should be happy life was good while I was away, but this can only mean one thing: the kids have been storing up their naughty ways for when I return.

My husband will remain clueless as to why I stare so much and sit in the corner and braid my hair. He'll continue to believe that motherhood is the easiest job of all. And I will only be left with the fond memories of a much too short vacation.

I was not gone long enough to miss them. I know there are mothers out there who are shocked that I could leave my kids for five whole days and not fall apart from a lack of oatmeal kisses. But I will admit it. Oatmeal kisses do not hold me together. Sure, I love them, but I also love a clean face once in a while. To continue to be a good mother and wife, I needed to break free from my apron strings and take a hot bath sans children. I needed to be able to wear white again. There is a reason white is the virginal color. It's because virgins and childless women are the only ones who can wear it -- and it stays white.

I arrived in San Antonio and instantly felt 10 years younger. The garbage man even waved at me--- cool I was still hot (the older I get, the lower my standards get. I'll take a wave from whenever I can get it). I was ready to salsa dance and put the high heels on, but unfortunately, I didn't get to be the saucy taquito of yesterday. Nope. My order came up short. There just wasn't enough time.

To read more of my G-rated adventures, come back throughout the week as I do plan on writing a couple more posts.

Right now, I have to pack-- darn nit--- because today is the day everything returns to normal-- no more tingling in my blood, no more hearty laughter, no more nights spent on lavender-scented some unheard of-thread count sheets (I'm going to miss that the most-- I swear it was like sleeping in cloud). It's time to return to laughter of another sort-- the kind you share with your children while you search for slugs. It's time to return to three little bodies sneaking into my room at midnight because Daddy is gone and my little ones know I'm a sucker for scary shows and can't sleep either. It's time to return to life.

It's been a nice vacation-- and all kidding aside, I am happy my husband had a good time with my kids. Quality daddy-daughter time is a rarity in our house because he is never home. The girls will cherish this weekend for a long time, and I am so glad they didn't just sit around and watch a Sponge Bob marathon.

I'm glad I didn't either-- though I'm sad to say I didn't get to the Riverwalk. Oh well, it's time to go. If my plane should smash into a thousand pieces (because I am superstitious and believe that if I don't write and settle my affairs before I take off, just know that I love my family and that some where in heaven, I am salsa dancing and playing the role of Queen Mararget once again).

I'm leaving on a jet plane

But I'll be back next week--- yeeeeehaw! It's off to Texas-- home of shopping, the Riverwalk and of course the Alamo.

I bid you all ado because I am insanely superstitious and believe that if I don't say my goodbyes then the plane will surely go down. And so, I will be up most of the night writing "see you soon. I love you" letters to all the members of my family.

I'm like this with shoes too. My husband and I were in New Orleans two days before Katrina, and I am sad to say I forced my husband to spend the day looking for shoes (hey, a girl needs a good pair of shoes).

Anyway, I found them. Loved them--- until I heard the price. My husband begged me "Please, buy the shoes."I'm sure he envisioned more hours of shoe shopping in the blasted humidity. But I refused. I'm not paying ***** for a pair of shoes. Hours later,I settled on a lesser pair.

And then, New Orleans was drenched. I'm sure the shoes were too--- and all because I was cheap. I swear that was the reason. Now whenever I find the perfect shoe, I don't even ask, I just hand over the card (we can't risk another natural disaster on my account).

On a lighter note--- Spanish is DONE. I am SO incredibly happy not to have to hablar anymore (unless I want to hablo because we all hablamos).

Although I do wish I had a friend who would habla with me in Texas because it would be fun to talk in Spanish around Anglos who don't understand a word we say. Now I know how the maid across the street must have felt --- man the power-- I'd feel like such a spy. My mother says these types of desires are completely rude because I really shouldn't talk in a foreign language that no one else in the house speaks. And so, as soon as I get off the airplane, I'm looking for someone who speaks Spanish so we can hablamos.

Well, I will hablo some more from the Lone Star state, but in case I don't--- I just want to wish all my Jewish friends a Happy Hanukkah.

See you all soon-- and maybe I'll even have some new shoes. Hasta Luego!

When she's in love with another woman, what do you do?

Someone has been sleeping in my bed, and she isn’t 10-years-old or in search of porridge and child-sized rocking chairs.

No but she has been eating my tiramisu, sleeping in my good sheets and flopping on my cushy couch.

My husband is beside himself. He doesn’t know what to do. He never really thought I’d act this way-- jealous of the woman usurping my place.

Quite frankly, I’m shocked that he was so clueless. I am the queen bee or I was until she arrived and started inching in on my territory.

My husband is innocent of any sort of treasonous activity. He has yet to bring a dog into my house or into my garden-- as for another woman, he knows one is expensive enough and a second one would make him pay for years, so I know I am quite safe.

My mother, on the other hand, has no loyalty.

She has taken up with another woman-- a surrogate daughter.

Yes, it is tragic. I’ve been gone far too long, and while I am content with “waiting for her,” she is no longer content with waiting until the day she retires and we can be reunited once more. Her Visa “frequent flyer” miles aren’t adding up fast enough. She’s lost all hope and has found herself someone else to shop with.

I was alright-- well sort of alright-- with the shopping.

But they got too cozy and started going to tea rooms for lunch-- the same tea rooms we used to frequent.

Then, they baked Christmas cookies together.

For 33 years, I have either baked those darn cookies with her or at least been on the phone with her while she stirred the batter. But this year, someone else was sifting the flour and that someone else is called Stephanie.

I know, I sound petty. I should be happy my mother has found someone so nice to hang out with, to shop with, to lunch with, to gossip with and to complain with.

Stephanie is cute, funny and has an adorable little boy. I’d probably hang out with her if I still lived in Texas. We’d be buddies and I’d probably invite her for cookie day. But this is different because while they are out laughing and burning up their Visa cards, I am the crazy woman shopping by herself and discussing options with the poor sales ladies. I’m the woman those poor clerks fear the most. I actually want their help-- heck I long for their help, an adult to talk with on the day after Thanksgiving.

And so, after a sad lunch alone and a laugh-less five-hour shopping spree, I get to listen to the adventures of Patricia and Stephanie.

“And she is staying in your room,” my mother said ever so starkly. “Her husband is out hunting and I didn’t want her to be all alone.”

“My husband is gone four days a week,” I said. “I’m alone all the time. He goes on hunting trips, but --- she’s in my bed.”

“Yes, and we’re watching TV in my room,” she said.

Now my dear readers, only my daughters and I are family enough to flop on my mom’s feather bed and watch TV (if any of you are thinking bad thoughts, release those thoughts immediately because it is all innocent).

And the digging gets deeper.

“We must have baked 20 dozen cookies today,” she said.

“I have to go,” I said. I was on the verge of tears and didn’t want to be so pathetic as to cry on the phone.

“Oh, by the way, could you look online for the Pirates of the Caribbean Costco set?” my mom said. “My computer isn’t working and I wanted to get it for **** (Stephanie’s son). You‘ve got my credit card number.”

And so I did my mother’s Christmas shopping for surrogate daughter and her little boy too.

Perhaps, my mother thinks I am funny. I try to laugh it off, but the truth is I’d really like a surrogate mother of my own, but I never looked for one-- because I didn’t want to hurt my mother.

I guess, in the end, I was wrong to be so loyal. Perhaps, I too will one day move on. My daughters are growing up , and one day soon, I am sure my own mother will feel as I do today -- as no doubt, my babes and I will have many adventures of our own.

Shifting sands

Somewhere out there must be a big black hole sucking up time. Where does it all go? Wasn't it just yesterday, my GG and I were digging in the dirt near Yellowstone and looking for rubies? My hair french braided. Hers fashioned in silvery curls-- lots of them. Even though it was a beautiful shade of silver and not a more youthful chestnut or blonde, I was secretly jealous. Her hair at 63 made Rapunzel look like a dog with a summer cut. Her cheeks were flushed with activity as we squatted and sifted sand, looking for twinkles of red rocks.

I still have them somewhere in the attic of my parent's house-- those rubies are tucked in between cotton and stuffed in a white box.

My GG is now 85 with white thinning hair. She sits in a hard rocker in the corner of the room and rocks silently-- unnoticed, just an observer. This woman-- who lead us down Scout Road and up the "big hill" when I was little and wanted pine cones -- is now a quiet observer to life.
When did it happen? When did she suddenly get old?

I remember I moved out here 10 years ago. I was just two hours up the road by car. I thought we'd do all sorts of things together, but my life got in the way-- children, gas prices, work. Who could spare a moment for one when four sets of eyes are asking me for one at home? We used to talk on the phone once or twice a week. When did that stop? Was it when her ears gave out? I'm not sure, but I did. It was always too hard to pack up the kids and take them to GGs. I went more than anyone else, but not enough. I know that now.

This Thanksgiving I met up with GG at my uncle's cabin. She looked grey in the face. Her legs were hard, purple and swollen. When she breathed, her chested wheezed. There was a walker in the corner-- what? Why? This women never needed help from anyone, and now a walker? I made small talk, but it was useless to carry one a real conversation. She seemed to talk in circles, never reaching the end-- just circling back to the beginning. So we talked about the past-- panning for rubies in Yellowstone, camping up at Cisco Grove, driving from Texas to California in an RV (and breaking down over and over and over).

She told me she doesn't fear death. I feel as though I am in a race, running in the doey legs of an 11-year-old, trying to find the lady I left back at the ruby mines. She is sitting right in front of me. I know, but? Why can't we sift through the sand, slow down time, slow it down for a moment? I've let so much slip through my fingers and I've lost her. I know she is there somewhere-- her flushed cheeks and silver hair. I know she is there. Now if I could just find her.