Meow Mix-up

I've been blessed with new neighbors. They are from Palm Springs and incredibly "spring-like." Each day, Momma Spring ventures out from her house with her count it five carat diamond ring, sapphire stranded necklace with bracelet and earrings to match-- and I wonder did anyone tell her she lives in the mountains? It's a new get-up every day, a new chance to display some new bling--- blinding bling-- the kind of bling that could give instantaneous Lasiks surgery to passersby (damn I need to make sure I align my eyes correctly next time I see her).

The thing about Momma Spring is that she is actually a really nice person. I love her to pieces. I feel for her because we are both in the same boat so to speak (though hers is name brand and mine is cutesy comfy). Her husband is an absent husband too and she is just about eight months pregnant and taking meds to stop preterm labor. She's also afraid to be alone. Since her window treatments weren't quite ready, she plastered her house in painter's paper so no one could see inside (like who the heck cares. I know I don't want to see her Starbucks commercial espresso machine-- I just want her to fix me a latte). But I can relate to the loneliness and the occasional need to check the locks and windows after an especially scary episode of "Medium" or "Criminal Minds" or on some occasions "American Idol" if Sanjia sings last.

Ok why did I start writing? Oh yes, it was because of her her cat.

The other day she hobbled over with some very important news.

"We've got an new cat," she said.
"Wow, that's nice," I said.
"The only problem is I don't know what kind it is," she said. "It sort of looks like a tiger."
"That would be a tabby," I said.
"Really? My husband had one that looked just like it once and we just had to put it to sleep and it was something else," she said. "Are you sure? Can you look it it? I think its a pedigree."
"Ok," I said.
"Oh and we don't know the sex," she said. "Are you good at that sort of thing?"
"Where did you get this cat?" I asked. "Didn't you ask when you got it?"
"Well it sort of walked onto our property and we trapped it," she said. "It looks just like my husband's old cat, and it's super sweet."
"You trapped the cat?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "You don't supposed it belongs to someone?"
"Is it nice?" I asked.
"Yes, it gets along well with the dogs and it doesn't bite the kids," she said.
"It is skinny?" I asked.
"No, it's soft and fluffy," she said.
"I think it might belong to somebody," I said.
"Well can you tell me if it's been fixed?" she said.

And so, I ventured into the house and the cat was hanging on the screen to her sliding glass door.

"It keeps trying to get out, but we're not going to let it out," she said. "It needs to know where its home is so it doesn't runaway."

I pried the cat from the screen. The cat was a healthy, clean fixed male tabby.

"It's boy that has been fixed," I said.

"Good now I won't have to get him fixed," she said.

"Are you sure it doesn't belong to someone?" I asked.

"Well people shouldn't let their cats out," she said. "I"m just going to keep it here for a couple of days and then I'll let it out and see where it goes."

I looked around the house, and her paper curtains were torn at cat face level. Her screen had multiple claw marks. The carpet my the doors had pull marks from where the cat had tried to dig its way out. It was obvious the cat was trying to make an escape.

"How has this cat been acting?" I asked.
"Well, it is great with the dogs, but it pooped in my bathtub and it went fishing in the aquarium and ate some of the fish," she said. "It must be feral."

"What if some child is waiting for her cat?" I asked.

"Well that child should keep her cat on her own property," she said.

And so, my neighbor is a cat napper--Can you believe it?

Please check your ego at the door

I've often thought I was bigger, better and more exciting than I am in real life, or at least that's how I wish it would play out. Truth be told, I am not all that confidentand sometimes those little doubts get in the way.

I'm also pretty realistic-- perhaps to a fault. When it comes to submitting bs for different publications, I can't help but analyze the competition. Sandy Sue is so funny and Billy Bob is so deep-- damn I can't compete against them.

I'm just not polished enough. Oh the pressure! Deep down I do know some of the BS I write is comparable in tackiness-- almost so much that I think many a tacky publication would love to get their hands on it (that's fantasyland talking because there is no way I'd ever submit and no, I am not fishing for compliments. I'm a terrible fisherman. Fishing makes me sick, especially when I manage to catch a slippery little scalemonger).

Anway, recently a fellow townsperson tried to stroke my ego when parts for the local melodram were handed out. You see, fellow readers I didn't have the honor of being cast as Townswoman #8. I know. I know. It is tragic-- such an injustice. No, I was cast as Townswoman #3-- what were they thinking?

So fellow thespian comes up to me at rehearsal and says, "YOU got Townswoman #3," he said. "Why? You were good. It's a town production. People know who you are."

"Yes, but my audition wasn't that great and I'm going to have to miss an entire week of rehearsal," I said. "I'm surprised I was cast at all. I'm glad I'm Townswoman #3. I'm really too busy to do this right now. I really don't know what I was thinking when I auditioned."

"Well, the play isn't finished, so maybe you'll get a bigger part at the end," he said.

"Maybe," I said.

In truth, the director did say I might have more to do at the end-- if not, no biggie. It's just nice to be included.

Right now I am blessed with one glorious line at the beginning of scene 4, but I really don't care-- so why are other people so concerned? I just don't get it. My ego is in no need of stroking. I understand how the theater works. You actually have to be able to attend rehearsals to be cast. Plus, you have to pay your dues, and I think my dues are so far behind that I am on the naughty list (heehehehe-- whic leads me to another question. Why do we say hehehe when we laugh-- are we somehow making fun of men by doing that-- just want to know).

Imagine they are all naked-- that's what my mother used to tell me

And then-- Oh how I wish Meryl Streep had possessed me, but now she didn't. It was more like Anna Nicole came back from the dead because all of a suddened I got really nervous and started saying stupid things.

"Hi, I'm Bonnie Sitter. Some of you may know me, and some of you may not. I'm not really sure which is better-- probably not knowing me. Anyway I write for the paper," I said. "Ireally don't care-- Damn! You'll have to excuse me. I haven't done this piece in 15 years and I didn't plan on auditioning. I thought there would be less people, so I said, 'Why not?" and I dug up this old pice from William Shakespear's 'A Midsummer Nights Dream.' This is Helena."

And then I did it. Well, I sort of did it. I'm really not sure how it went. I only wish I could have conjured up naked people in my mind like my mother always told me-- then again I probably would have really gotten sick if I'd done that. Naked people ceased being humorous when I was in the 8th grade.
In the end, I forgot one line or at least I bumbled a line. In stead of "coats in heraldry," I said "coats in chivalry" (what the heck?) My face probably gave that one away. Anyway, I got through it, and at least I was quite sure it wasn't the worst butchering of the monologue even done. It was acceptable little theater fare for this area.

Then Maggie went up and was fabulous! I was so proud. She recited some poem which I've never heard and was so animated. She was a real natural.

Abby was cute, but was obviously 5 and forgot the lines to Humpty Dumpty, and I like a nut prompted her, thus prompting her to get really flustered. She was like I thought-- way too young. People commented on how adorable she was which made her feel good.

I was sure Maggie would get cast and I hoped I wouldn't because I didn't want Abby to be alone.

Unfortunately my dear friends Maggie and I were both cast, and Abby was told to audition again next year. I felt terrible for her, but she took it in stride.

I'm hoping the director will let her hand out programs or something so she feels important too. I'm sure he will.

I find out what my role is at the first read through tomorrow-- I'm guessing town's woman number 8 because I have to miss a whole week of rehearsal in April (I'm going to the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas-- I'd rather stay at the Grand Canyon). But if any of you know of any cool things in Vegas let me know.

BTW, I had to cancel my "office hours" yesterday and this morning, but I will read blogs tonight so I can catch up on all the deeds of the day. Have a fantastic day!

To be or not to be-- that is the question

I went expecting about 20 or 30 people. If the directors were willing to consider a 3 year old, then they must be pretty desperate. I thought it's going to be a breeze. I've already got a part, right? Right? They did ask me to audition.

Just hours before, I scrounged through my old play books and decided the best bet as far as memorizing in less than 3 hours with a two kids hanging off my legs and one whining in the background was a monologue by Helena from "A Midsummer's Night's Dream."

It had been 15 years or so since I'd "been" Helena, but hey I still pretty much knew the lines, right? I'm an old pro. I've done this a thousand times before-- well, 10 years ago the doing stopped, but I'm sure acting is like riding a bike, right?

But I wasn't prepared for how 10 years of mommyhood had changed me. When I arrived at the theater, there were like 100 people. I know, I know 100 people is nothing, but this was a little theater.

I started sweating. I rethought allowing my 3 year-old to recite Jack and Jill. She's too young. I tried to talk my 5 and 8 year old out of auditioning. We'd just go home and pop popcorn. They'd have none of it.

And so I waited. I sweated. I almost vomited. It was a full blown Vegal response to stress. It's a miracle I didn't pass out on the floor and drool on the carpet.

To make matters worse, Abby leaned over and said, "Mom, I can't remember Humpty Dumpty."
Then I realized I couldn't remember if Helena said "one of the first like coats in heraldry" or was it coats in chivalry or coats in Khol's for me. Damn!

But I had no time to sweat or to tell Abby that all the kings horses and all the kings men couldn't put Humpty together again.

My name was called and then . . .

All the world's a stage and I've got three understudies for the role of dictator

Yes, my loyal readers I do have three little dictators and their names are Maggie, Abby and Nikki-- and yesterday was no different from every other day of my life.

I went into Maggie's room at 6:30 a.m. so I could be assured she was up by 7:30 a.m. She's not a morning person. Perhaps she'd be more of a morning person if she wasn't a "nightlight all night" kind of sneaky reader. She reads to the cat, to her dolls and in her head-- and she thinks I'm clueless. Well, I'm not. I can sympathize. I too would be a nightlight reader if the slightest move didn't send the other two dictators running down the hall into my room. I swear they have Momdar.

Anyway, I really don't have a point to this post. I'm just trying to get back in the swing of things. And swing I am from one task to the next-- typical mommy stuff.

The real news out of this household is that I may finally get to resume my amateur local theater acting "career." You see, since I write a local column, people assume I can act, draw, sing and think of clever advertising slogans. Strangely nobody ever asks me to do their taxes or help them with their trigonometry homework. No but if the school needs a sign or a face painter -- who are they going to call-- you got it -- me. Am I good? I'm dreadful. Butterflies look like rabid spiders and flowers look like trees in autumn, but hey I do it with a lot of heart and the kids probably feel pretty good about their artistic abilities after I'm done with them.

I do love the theater, or at least I did-- after 10 years away from the stage, who knows? Being on stage could be the equivalent to being stuck in a room with Fear Factor competitors.

I had given up on the stage. I'm a mom first, right? Nobody else is here to watch my kiddies. this was all until yesterday. There I sat bored out of my mind at our editorial meeting when the director for our town's annual melodrama asked me to audition.

"The only way you'll get me there is if you cast my kids," I said. "Sorry Len but I can't have feral children running around the neighborhood."
"Ok," he said.
"Excuse me, you do realize they are 3, 5 and 8," I said.
"Yeah, bring them and we'll see what we can do," he said.

And so last night I prepped my kids for the big audition. I decided there was no way I could teach them a monologue in one day with all the homework they had, so I decided they'd do a montage of nursery rhymes and sing lullabyes. I know it's tacky, but really they are just kids and I was out of time. Besides I doubt he is going to give them speaking lines.

Personally, I think he is out of his mind. Maggie the eldest would be great (although she did throw up on stage during a play in the first grade). Abby is shy or at least I think she is a shy one. Her preschool teacher said she'd be great, so who knows? She sure was a ham practicing Humpty Dumpty-- and she can sing. I have no idea where those genes came from, but the kid can sing. As for Nikki-- dear little Nikki-- while she is adorable, she is only three and if I were a director, I wouldn't let those big blue eyes and dimples fool me into casting her. She's a kid and she's going to behave like one-- and if you want her to talk, you're going to need an interpreter. if you want her to sing, you're going to need subtitles and either good set of earplugs or a stage wired with some serious sound because the kid has no middle ground. She either shouts or she whispers when she sings, but either way you can only understand every third word-- because she's three.

Anyway, I'll let you all know how it goes. I'm off to dig up a short monologue.

Decisions, decisions

When I started this blog last year, I was lonely and really unhappy with my situation. My husband was gone three to four complete days every week and nonexistent during the summer. Plus, when he was home, he wasn't "home." He practically lived in the garage or outside, and we never talked.

I was frustrated because I really wanted to go to grad school. For 10 years I'd put the dream on hold. Heck, I hadn't written a story or poem in 10 years-- much less a term paper. And why hadn't I written? I was under the impression that my husband hated my writing.

So many things were negative or at least I felt this way that I needed a creative outlet. I needed to reconnect with my inner "Bonnie"-- that girl whom I had thought left long ago. Over the years of marriage had become so negative and bitter that I failed to see the good things in my life.

My husband is the hardest working man alive-- I swear it. He may not love my writing style or the classics, but he loves me dearly and I think sometimes he is a closet "lover of my words."

I'm also fortunate to get to write a weekly column for a paper and miscellaneous articles for local newspapers and magazines, so it's not like I never write. I just rarely write the kind of stuff that feeds my soul.

What I'm getting at is that over the past year, I've learned a lot about myself and about the cold hard facts of life from bloggers. You all became a happy addiction until it threatened to ruin my marriage. At first I thought to hell with it, I'm unhappy. I'll just start over and be the crazy writer I wanted to be so much -- until I read a blog that gave me some food for thought). I didn't want to be alone or to give up on "happily ever after."

And so I took an inventory of my life, cut back on blogging as it was making my family crazy and signed up for grad school. Through this I learned there is a time and a place for everything and right now I hate to admit it, but my time is not well spent drooling over the classics. Somebody needs to raise the children, so I dropped out and put my dream on hold once again (but this time I am not bitter; I'm realistic. You really can't have it all).

So what is the point of this post? Good question.

I don't want this blog to die, and right now it's dying. I guess I have two choices. I can pull the plug or I can actually do what I love so very much-- read and write. And so, I've decided to make one final go of it. From now on I'm going to have regular "office hours" so I can read blogs and write at least twice a week.

And so, from 7 a.m. until 7:30 a.m., Monday through Thursday I will read blogs. It's not much, but it's all I have right now. I will also post on Tuesday, Thursday and an occasional Wednesday and Sunday. I look forward to reconnecting with you all.

What kind of Mom am I!

This week I had the insane desire to be a TV mom from the 50s.

I’m OK with giving up the whole women’s rights thing at the moment-- if only I could have that set of pearls, a teensy tiny waist, pointy bra and high “practical” heeled house shoes.
And one thing more. My hair must be set in foam rollers so it lies just like June Cleaver’s short neat curls.

Perhaps that dream is a little unrealistic. No one has that much patience and talent for making pot roast.

Plus, my kids aren’t exactly the Beaver and Wally. They are more like sweet rain in the middle of a wind storm-- loud, destructive at times yet sweet-tasting and good for the plants. Plus, they wear better clothes and tell better stories.

For instance, the other day Abby, my middle child, got a Barbie for her birthday. It wasn’t just any Barbie (they never are). It came complete with a dog that “really” poops.

“I can’t make him poop,” Abby said.
“Push on his tale,” Maggie the eldest said. “Look at all that poop. It comes out in little pellets.
Hey Nikki stop eating the poop. Maaaawm! Nikki is eating all the poop. Give me that poop back.”
“Noooooo! It’s my poop,” Nikki the youngest said.
“Nikki get off the poop,” Abby said. “Mom Nikki is sitting on the poop and I want to put it in his mouth.”

And so, I’ll take my wish back because as June I’d have to confiscate the poop dog and these are the conversations I live for. So instead I want to be the Robitussin mom, AKA. Dr. Mom.

I’m alright with wearing mom jeans and a white button down top.

Year ago, when Maggie was a baby, I was under the impression that all sick kids acted like Dr. Mom’s.

Of course the first time Maggie got the flu I realized Dr. Mom’s life has been edited for TV.

Dr. Mom’s kids never threw up on the sofa, howled incessantly or dare I say had a case of Roto virus that caused large quantity of fluids to pour from both orifices at the same time.

Dr. Mom never did laundry. And she never sat in the waiting room at a pediatrician’s office and held a bucket or wondered why the Tylenol had to kick in now because her kids were running a marathon in the lobby.

Dr. Mom’s kids never went to the doctor.

All she had to do was walk around, carrying a spoon and saying things like “It’ll be all better.”

Her kids lay still in bed with rosy cheeks one minute and were sitting up reading a book or drinking juice the next because Dr. Mom’s tonic cured them.

I wonder if Dr. Mom really had Robitussin in her bottle-- or is it something else?

Well I could have used some this week.

This week was Flu Week In the Sitter household. The temperature never got out of the 100s and the kids never got off the couch.
But I discovered two things. If my kids have a fever, they sleep, so fevers are not entirely bad.
However, if I give them a dose of Tylenol, I’m taking my sanity into my own hands because Tylenol is the elixir of life. It can make a sickly flu stricken child ready for “That’s so Raven” and “Hanna Montana--” hours of it. Disney music, Disney teens will croon through my TV and drive me to the brink of insanity if I hand over the elixir.

And so, I decided to hold onto it unless the kids were really whining or in pain.

I guess I’m not exactly Dr. Mom because Dr. Mom is never worried.

I find myself checking out my daughters’ eyes to see if green stuff is coming out of them. I find myself looking for rashes and kissing foreheads every 10 minutes.

And my girls are never banished to the bedroom. They all piled on my lap and ate gallons of homemade chicken noodle soup (all but Nikki. All Nikki would eat were suckers and I handed them over because she doesn’t have any love handles to give up).

And so, I guess I wouldn’t make a very good Dr. Mom.

Maybe I’d be a better reality TV Mom, but I can tell you for sure I never want to be one of those girls because they are just plain weird.

This week in the TV mom chronicles, moms fought over their daughter’s dead bodies, some mothers became germ aphobs and others banished their families to an all raw diet and embraced their local bacteria.

I think I’ll stick with being me-- Disney tormented, tired (really tired from all that kidly coughing) and ready for a long nap with the kiddies.

*Previously published inthe Paradise Post 2-24-07 (I'm sick so I'm digging through the archives of my column-- sorry)