Of Socks and Men

Just asking

2009-09-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

Is it asking too much to expect my daughter to talk to me with as much respect as she does her teacher?

Burned at the Stake

2009-08-11T14:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I set a 4-pound sirloin steak on fire. Seriously. I spent the greater part of the day looking up the perfect recipe and grilling technique -- only to have that disobedient piece of cow explode into flames.

Can you say Flame- migon?

Alien Invasion

2009-08-09T08:46:00.000-07:00

No one quite prepared me for the day my oldest daughter would transform into an alien being.

Now there really isn’t much of an excuse. I was a dreadful pre-teen.

I remember the day my parents hands felt toxic to my touch and their hugs became the equivalent of Chinese water torture.

That summer my grandparents graciously treated my brother and I to a trip to Yellowstone National Park, a land filled with magnificent waterfalls, its own “grand canyon,” a spectacular clear blue lake and geysers and smudge pots galore.

Unfortunately I was championing the belief that “nothing was really beautiful, and life and love were an illusion.”

How could someone filled with so much pre-teen angst not be prepared for the day when her own child’s smile vanishes?

Well, I wasn’t.

I was caught off guard the day she went all bi-polar switching between the expressionless face of a bored statue one minute and into the overly dramatic face of one destined to the heretics’ barbecue the next.

In truth, I thought she was sick. Anyone who cries real weepy nasty tears over someone sitting in her chair for dinner either has no sympathy for Goldilocks or has to be coming down with the flu.

For days I waited for the hysterics to stop.

“I think she’s depressed,” I confided to my mom. “She hasn‘t smiled in weeks. She barely talks to me any more, and she rarely comes out of her room.”

“She’s not sick, Bonnie,” my mother said. “She’s just 10. You were horrible at that age.”

My mother left me with the sweet assurance: “It’s only going to get worse.”

I imagined her cackling from the safety of her pre-teen-less Texas hideaway because “paybacks are hell.” I had fulfilled my destiny by having a daughter “just like me.”

I took comfort in the fact that my daughter wasn’t rebelling. She was just bothered. A little time away might do her good, so she stayed with her nana and went swimming while her sisters and I went on our annual road trip.

For two weeks, I was Maggie-free. Now some might think I relished my time away from the girl who locked herself in the tower and awaited the Spanish Armada, but I didn’t. I missed her even though for two whole weeks my life was free from gum battles and foot fights.

My little girls played like the best of friends, shared clothes and even spent their own money to buy each other presents.

You’d think I’d be relaxing by the fire with a pina colada and celebrating my good fortune, but I pinned for my daughter living it up without her mom.

And then-- we crossed paths in Arizona.

I greeted her with June Cleaver excitement. She retired to her room with a book and didn’t come out until supper.

Every time her sisters looked at her, she’d turn into Abigail Williams (from “The Crucible” ) and go on a Puritanical witch hunt.

After two days, I felt guilty because I shamefully admit I wanted to return to my two-child pre-teen-free road trip.

No souvenir was cool enough. No musical download “current” enough. In short, I was uncool.

Once home, she locked herself in her dungeon and came out only to fight with her sisters (every 15 minutes). Her fights were dramatic tirades destined to split my eardrums and make burst a blood vessel.

How could I comfort her? How could I unlock that beautiful Maggie smile? She was my sunshine girl.

A sign on her door ordered no one to enter without knocking first. Hmm? Hmm?
I whipped open the door. She threw the covers over her bed. Hmm?

“What are you hiding?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said, flashing a nervous I’m-up-to-something giggle.

Hmm? Probably a picture of Adam Lambert, the unattainable love of her pre-teen life. I shut the door.

The next morning I whipped the door open more quickly. This time she wasn’t fast enough. A corner of a well-known off limits book peaked out of her bedspread. The rebel had been captured. The book banished.

And so, I am going on notice to all friends of Maggie, my beloved and thoroughly grounded daughter, please do not bother calling her or emailing her until further notice. She’s been sent to at-home labor camp and will be unavailable for some time.

So I drank a bottle of wine . .

2009-05-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

You know does it REALLY matter? I'm legal. I didn't drool on the couch or sing "Love Shack" off key while waving my arms over my head. Beside the blinds were closed so even if I had, it's not like anyone would have known anyway-- good grapefruit I'm not that nice to my neighbors. Like would I really give them MORE fodder for the gossip train!

I am entitled. If I'm going to lose it, I need to thoroughly lose it so I resist losing it again and turn stalker.

Last week I turned 36 and in my downward spiral of reading the "Twilight" series in four days, obsessing over American Idol and discovering a certain song on my 10-year-old's MP3player, I drank a bottle of wine-- and some people had the nerve to snicker, to judge and proclaim "You DRANK the WHOLE bottle!"

Well yes I did because everyone knows wine isn't as good the second day.

Now the song was MY fault. I usually screen my daughter's music, read the lyrics-- etc. However,on this occasion I just took her word for it. The song: Jason Mraz' "Butterfly," which incidentally isn't really about colorful winged insects. No the song is a middle school sex ed class wrapped up in a metaphor of -- well a "butterfly-- of sorts."

Thank goodness my babe is 10 and naive and doesn't know WHAT he is singing about.
And so the song is now on MY IPOD-- next to an empty bottle of wine.

Twilight-- more evidence I'm headed for a midlife crisis

2009-04-27T09:30:00.000-07:00

I'm in love with a vampire. And like a deranged 17-year-old, I just wish he'd bite me on the neck.

Last week, I read 1,100 pages in two days just so I could finish "Twilight" and "New Moon," the first two books in the Twilight series. My verdict: the books were overwritten, funny where I'm not sure the author intended comedy and send a bad message to teenage girls.

Though I could see all the faults with the books, I couldn't help it-- I KEPT reading. My eyes blurred. My sides ached from laughing in all the wrong places. My brain ached for MORE. I wanted to fly through the forest on the back of a vampire and hold really still for a kiss.

My theory behind this obsession with the book is that I think I dated "Edward" in high school and college and I think I obsessed over him as much as Bella. Edward was the never fully attainable bad boy who always left me thirsty for more. How many times did I make this heartbreaking mistake? Unfortunately the author seems to have forgotten Edward is indeed dangerous in "New Moon," which is my biggest beef with the series. Part of the sex appeal to the book was the tension-- how DO you LOVE a vampire? I never felt like he'd lose it and turn her into a happy meal. It turned all Harlequin on me-- I hate romance novels.

Maybe I keep reading because I hope Bella will grow up and figure out life should never revolve around one person? But alas it's more probable the author will do the predictable and turn her into a vampire. I wish she'd get it over with. then Bella could turn super hero on us and the books could turn interesting again.

Anyway, if you've read the books, give me your theory-- why are they so popular and why can't I put them down-- though I really don't like them?

36-- ouch! (from my column in tomorrow's Paradise Post)

2009-04-24T10:14:00.001-07:00

Yesterday was about the most depressing day of the year-- well the most dreaded day of the year.
I turned 36 and noticed that more than just my mood was on the “decline.”

I remember when my brother spilled down the downhill slope of 30 and started rolling onto 40.
I thought darn he’s getting old. Sure I was only two years behind, but crinkling your nose in an adolescent-esque head shake at someone else’s expense is quite enjoyable (when it’s family).

For my brother 36 was the beginning of a new life and adventure as his miserable marriage drooled to an end and he considered the possibility of happiness for the first time in more than a decade.

It took him a year to commit to the idea, but I still have to think than downward spiral toward the big 4-0 made him realize life is too short to be miserable.

Since the candles faded away on his 36th birthday cake, he’s finally grown up (it takes some men a long time to do this). The past two years haven’t been easy on him or on my family as child custody battles turned into nasty bitter pills everyone had to swallow. For a while I cut off virtually all communication with my family over “the divorce.” Call it self preservation-- those pills were arsenic laced cruelty.

Sometimes I just don’t understand how the judicial system can be so cruel.

But through the poisonous fog choking out my brother’s newfound independence, his calm, politeness shook me to the core. I doubt I’ll ever fully understand how he has managed to keep it together and not go postal.

He certainly wasn’t the angry teenager from my youth whose anger was a hand slapped on the kitchen table and a slamming door rattling the dishes. He was a man trying to keep it together for his daughter.

Now as I sip my tea on the fateful 36th year of my life, I wonder how I will mature over the next year. What kind of happiness awaits me?

I’m content in my beloved town. Heck my town throws a parade for me every year on or around my birthday-- who am I to complain?

I love my husband as much as I did the day I met him though I admit it’s different.
I’m not all awash in poetry and music.

Nor am I the exciting sweet thing spontaneous and ready to fly on a moments notice. Dancing only happens in Vegas-- and the theater, my once beloved past time, only happens when the stars align and I’m the luckiest girl in the world to secure a part.

I’m not the girl who couldn’t get the rhythm and sound of words out of her head or who woke in the middle of the night with her fingers inching to write a story.

I’m a mom. I’m a wife-- all the wildness of my youth is pretty much gone. Sedate, mature, loving and tender, fiercely protective and as unorganized as ever-- that’s me. Calm, comfortable, an old shoe, a cup of soup.

My family is my life, but I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I miss my youth.

Would I trade it for my family? Never.
Being young wasn’t all butterflies and roses.

It’s easy to forget the impossible heartache of youthful disappointment, the catty ridiculous time wasted in juvenile arguments and the bad life altering decisions we all learned to live through.

Infatuation was much more damaging than love and writing was often the release of pent up emotion.
Youth is hot, too fast, too passionate. For all it’s blessings, I don’t want to go back.

So I look forward to the next several years wondering what it brings. As my children mature will I find a new kind of thrill or will I just continue to age into a refined, smooth lobster bisque?

True Confessions of an American Idol Addict

2009-04-22T11:23:00.000-07:00

This is humiliating, but I think it's time I come out of the closet.

I' m one of those people who counts down the seconds until Ryan Seacrest prances to center stage and says "This is American Idol!!!!"

I haven't always been this nutty. In fact, I ignored the first season.

When season two rolled around, I think I must have been bored or something-- maybe that was around the same time NBC started fizzling with too many Law and Order reruns (love the shows, but I've seen them all already!).

One night I watched and liked this nerdy kid named Clay who seemed straight out of a confused rendition of "The Wizard of Oz" where Dorothy's cousin Theodore kicks her off the rainbow and jazz walks down the yellow brick road with his mysterious ani"male" counter parts.

What can I say? I was hooked.

Until last year, I remained in the closet with the doors tightly padlocked and sounds turned down low (though when my husband intercepted my copy of Clay Aiken's "Bridge Over Troubled Waters," I definitely thought the news had jumped with Toto out of the basket).

This year I can't hold back.

It all starts Wednesday nights after the results show. I tuck the kids into bed and jump over the cat as I race to my computer. It's time to predict who's gonna sing what and to read reviews and snarky blogs.

Thursday morning I call my mom to re discuss how I thought the vote went, down load my favorite songs and then read more idol predictions.

I swear the clock tick-tocks in a sorted water torture as I wait for the next Idol. I need help. I need an Idol support group, but the truth is if I found others like me, I think we'd just feed each other's nonsense.
By Monday I'm worse than a non-snooping five-year-old waiting for Christmas.I consult the Magic Eight Ball, DialIdol, sports betting sites and every poll imaginable, wondering is he gonna be safe, what's he gonna sing.
By Tuesday evening I'm hooked up with a live Idol Blog where I can read about how the performances via bloggers from the Eastern and Central Mountain Time Zones. Of course, I'm also listening to it live because I have to talk to my mother who lives in Texas as she watches it.

"Did you hear that!" my mother screams.
"Not really," I said.
"Let me get closer to the TV because that was fabulous!" she screams into my ear. I hear fuzzy stuff on the other end-- static, a high pitched dog call????
"Oh Bonnie you have got to watch this-- I'm definitely downloading that one!" my mother teases. "How long do you think it will be before it's on You Tube"

"I don't know," I say.

"Go check. You need to tell me what you think," she said.

Twenty minutes later I've located a video of our favorite Adam Lambert.

My mom stays on the phone as I skim reviews of the show and read her the juicy parts.

"You're still going to watch the show because you really need to see this," she said.
"Yes," i said.
"Well don't call. It comes on too late," my mother said.
I watch. I read reviews. I wish I had hosted a party for the viewing. I worry over who's going home. I look over DialIdol.

The next day I listen to the results show as it airs at my mother's house two hours earlier.

This year my mother and i have decided to step up out Idolatry by going to one of the concerts.
"If we do it, we have to commit," I said. "We've got to meet the bus and make a sign."
"Absolutely," my mom said. "Where should we meet-- Texas or California?"

"There are going to be seven shows in California-- let's hit them all," I said.
"You know Utah and Oregon aren't too far away either," my mom said.
"Good point."

Love Story Competition

2009-01-23T09:17:00.001-08:00

It’s good to be queen.

Last Saturday my daughters treated me to breakfast in bed-- chocolate chip pancakes and a cup of the last eggnog of the season. Now, that’s love, especially considering their dad wasn’t even home.

Being queen of my own domain is great, but I have higher aspirations and recently my work honored with opportunity to celebrate the two things I hold most dear and have a 1-12 chance at a queenship.

Yes, I am thrilled to announce I am running for Chocolate Queen.

Fellow contestants need not worry. I’m a terrible contestant-- shy, unorganized- with few contacts n the community. Normally I’d turn on the caller ID, lock the doors and pull the drape to ward off such an honor, but this fundraiser is different. The Chocolate Fest honors our youth and celebrates chocolate-- while at the same time raises funds for the Boys and Girls Club.

A couple of years ago, I did a story on the Boys and Girls Club, and I have to admit before my first interview I was clueless about what it did for our community. Truthfully, I thought it was some sort of place for troubled children-- was I WRONG! It’s a place for all kids.

In fact, one of the reasons our county is such great places is because of the Boys and Girls Club.

A five-year local study showed that kids who attended the Boys and Girls Club had increases in school attendance, grade point average and positive behavior. Conversely, these same kids had decreases in school absences, smoking, delinquency and tardiness.

The Paradise Boys and Girls Club serves over 350 kids each day after school at its three school sites and at the Teen Center located on Skyway.

Here, 80 percent of our youth do their homework. Help is available if needed.
Kids also get involved in positive programs and activities, such as the club’s ECO Team, Club Espanol, Kids in the Kitchen, creative arts, Tae Kwan Do and many community service and leadership activities.

At the Teen Club, teens explore similar programs as well as programs focusing on career exploration, college preparation, financial responsibility, self esteem and diversity.
These are just a few of the programs it has to offer our youth-- for only $10 per year (in actuality it costs $1,200 per year).

Scholarships are available so no one is turned away due to financial hardship.

This year, I think we all know about financial hardship. I also know that if we don’t invest in our youth and programs such as the Boys and Girls Club, we ultimately pay a higher price one day-- via more latch key kids, increased gang activity and a more unproductive young adult community in the long run.

Our town has been fantastic about supporting the Boys and Girls Club in the past, but the current state of our economy worries me.

And that’s why I’m asking you to show a little love.

Since my best community contacts are my readers, I’m challenging you to compete in a contest that’s all about love and all about raising tax deductible donations for the Boys and Girls Club.
I’m searching for the best factual love story on the Ridge and the top five love poems (the cheesier, sweeter and endearing the better). Stories should be no more than 700 words; poems no more than 300 words.

The top five stories and top five poems will be printed in the B-section of the paper on February 14 (with the No.1 entry winning the place of distinction-- my column. That‘s right, you will be the columnist for the day). All non-winning submitters and the person they love will be recognized by name in paper like this (Bonnie Sitter Loves Ben Sitter)-- this means if you just want to say Joe love Jenny and don‘t want to write a story-- pay $15 and get your message in the paper.

Submission cost $15 or more if you wish (tax deductible). Make checks out to The Boys and Girls Club. Visa and MasterCard are accepted. Receipts will be issued for your tax records.
Paradise Employees are excluded from winning this competition; however, they can still honor a loved one with a donation and have their name in the paper.

Please do not submit explicit material or anything you wouldn’t feel comfortable having a young child read.

Submit entries for the “Love Story Competition” at the Paradise Post located at 5399 Clark Road or send it with your check or money order to PO Box 70 Paradise, Ca 95967.

All entries are due in the office by February 10 by the close of business.

OK so, get to work and show our youth some love.

I'm Divorcing the Divorce

2009-01-21T17:02:00.000-08:00

Divorce brings out the worst in some people. I can't imagine another event where two people have the ability to do inexcusable, cruel things to one another-- nor where a simple, innocent child suddenly becomes No.1 on the Weapons of Mass Destruction list.

In some cases, it brings out the best or at least unveils a few surprises. I know a year ago when my brother announced he was getting a divorce, I seriously, I thought in a year or two my niece would become a CPS child in foster care.

My brother surprised me though by getting his act together. The Utah court system surprised me too by continually placing his daughter with his wife who has already harvested one misdemeanor for child endangerment (she left their severely autistic child alone in a tube shoot on a river with no life jacket).

Meanwhile, my brother has worked two jobs so he can pay more than $2,000 a month in child support and alimony (she isn't working and flat out refuses to consider a job, even though their daughter is in school six hours a day). He's also found services he'd love to place his daughter in -- if his wife would just get a job. These services would help his daughter one day life a normal life.

Now, I am only hearing one side of the story, so maybe she's become super mom? I hope so (because it would be nice for my niece's sake to have super mom), but to tell you the truth I really don't want to know.

I'm over this divorce. The infectious drama is rotting my own house. I don't want to hear it, so please take your complaints, make a list and brainstorm for things you can do to put this drama to rest once and for all. To my brother's credit: he hasn't brought the drama to my house. My mother, who I love to death, brings it and I eat it up-- and then I get all upset. I can't do it anymore and I know I can't talk to her without talking about "the divorce," so until "the divorce" is over---

Love you, but I really need some happy in my life.

Home Today-- Gone Tomorrow

2008-07-27T15:01:00.000-07:00

Well I made it back, and my house is still here. I don't have much to say as I'm writing on a laptop and it kind of sucks-- Anyway once my computer is back (right now it's evacuated at my husband's work-- since he's fighting the fires, it may be evacuated for a long time). This keyboard is just so sensitive and the computer is slow-- it's OK for work though, so I should be thankful. I'll be back online someday soon-- I hope

Next week-- it's off to Yosemite!!!

All I can say is "I'm evacuating"

2008-07-08T20:26:00.000-07:00

It's nasty. It's smoky. I'm getting the heck out of here. In all seriousness, please pray for Paradise. I'm really worried this time. I will be gone for a while-- take care.

It's all Blue

2008-07-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

Well I never thought breathing masks would become a fashion statement in Paradise, and in truth they aren't exactly "fashion statements;" however if smoky conditions continue our residents might look like a cult following at the Neverland Ranch.

The good news is there are blue skies overhead-- or rather patches of something that looks like it could be blue if we tilt our head a certain way and use our imaginations. In any case, it really doesn't matter because Air Quality Control has proclaimed Paradise air to be hazardous to our health so no one can adequately study those mysterious patches to conclude their color.

Why am I still here, you ask? Why not flee to cleaner pastures? Well the answer is simple. I fear the smoky will follow me. If I go to the coast like th rest of California, the winds will shift and the good citizens of Fort Bragg will review their immigration policies and kick us to the curb.

Plus, if I leave, I am quite positive the fire will immediately threaten Paradise and my poor mother-in-law will be left to deal with the mess all by herself-- and so I remain. I knit. I sew. I drink-- Diet Pepsi. Thus far, I have made five dresses, four skirts and four vests and have knitted two scarves (I think that is all-- my brain is a bit foggy on the numbers).

Paradise officials announced yesterday that due to poor air quality and fire conditions, the Fourth of July has been canceled. They also urged residents to not set off sane and sane fireworks within town limits-- as they are both illegal and a fire hazard. Anyone caught with fireworks in their possession will be fined up to $1,000 and prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Oh yes, and for the sake of everyone smoking is not permitted outside unless you are in a closed vehicle (I can't remember what official said that one-- I just read it on the Net and you all know how reliable that is).

Note: my town is no longer threatened by the fire at this time. I believe this longer dramatic episode is coming to a close and one day we will be able to breathe deeply and run through the sprinklers outside (instead of the shower where I've been throwing my kids).

Quick Update

2008-06-25T00:38:00.000-07:00

For the moment I am still in Paradise-- though judging from all the smoke it feels like we're scratching at the armpit of hell (OK not such a pretty image, but this isn't pretty).

Smoke wakes me up at 5:30 a.m every morning. The air is brown and thick with ashes falling like rain. My youngest carries an umbrella whenever we go outside.

A fire is burning a couple miles from our house. We aren't in danger-- yet-- but if the fire makes a run tomorrow I'm out of here. My mother-in-law is afraid the fire will make a run toward her house and calls me with "fire updates" every couple of hours. I think she wants to just evacuate and get it over.

Today I considered granting her wish because I knew she was really worried and needed support. She kept asking if she should just pack everyone up and come to my house. I wish I'd been a better daughter-in-law and said come over, but the thought of five adults (my mother-in-law, he mother and her neighbor), three kids and some crazy number of pets just made me nervous. I thought maybe we could all go to Butte Meadows. My parents have a cabin in that small mountain community and to me it's "sanctuary." It's smoky there, but at least a fire isn't breathing down our necks-- or so I thought. No, I turned on the news and learned Cal-Fire had just evacuated Butte Meadows.

I wished I could call my husband, but all I get is the "Verizon" lady.

My husband is on the front lines in Fall River Mills-- though I suspect he's really in a town called Cassel and doesn't want to tell me. Cassel is located near Fall River Mills, but he knows it would break my heart if I knew the little town was on fire. He forgets I can learn all these nasty details on the news. I learned to fly fish on Hat Creek in Cassel. It's just a special place to me.

This series of fires worries me. My husband has only slept four hours since Friday because there aren't enough firefighters to fight these fires. I know that as other fires get under control, more help will come-- but it's just so dangerous. I don't understand how he can go on the way he does without any sleep. I guess it's just that special firefighter training.

More lightning is coming on Thursday. I just don't know what this state will do. We don't have the resources or manpower to fight this mess.
I know everything will work out in the end that's what my husband keeps saying in our short 15-second conversations -- those rare moments when he moves his crew to another location and can manage a short call.
It's just, "Hi, I'm alive. Just wanted to hear your voice. Love you, Bye."

"Love you."

Home at Last

2008-06-23T10:15:00.000-07:00

When I last left you, I was fleeing Paradise for greener pasture. The Humboldt Fire was whipping up the side of the canyon and chewing up everything in sight. From my vantage point on Skyway, our canyon looked like a black ashy cauldron with orange, red and black marbled smoke hissing out of the pot and choking the sun of its place in the sky. Every once in a while a house stood solitary-- alive against a backdrop of destruction.

I left thinking out house was safe, but as I traveled down the canyon the wind whipped the fire into a frenzy and it jumped onto the ridge and rattled toward my house.

"Ben, it's on the upper ridge," I said into my cellphone, but to him I sounded like a scuba diver talking under water.
"What!' he shouted.
"The fire-- up on the ridge," I said. "We need to turn back."
"What? No--" He said. "What do you want to do? You can't do anything. Let's go. If the house is still here when we get back, then fine. You can't do anything."
"But my cat," I said.
And then static.

We drove on. My fingers clenched the steering wheel with white knuckles and marital frustration. How could he be such a ____? He's a firefighter. he should be out there on the front lines not going on vacation. More bad thoughts and a few turns int he road.

I pulled over. Called work. Our neighborhood was being evacuated. I called my husband back.

"Ben, they're evacuating our neighborhood," I shouted into my phone.

"The fire is two miles from our house," he said. "Will you stop worrying. You see, this is why we left. If we were home, you'd just be freaking out. They're evacuating so they can fight the fire without "Aunt Maybelle" worrying about us trampling on her prized tomatoes."

"Will you stop that," I said.

"No, really, it's just precautionary," he said. "It's just so people aren't in danger-- and so we can do our jobs. "

He could still sense the tension on seething from my end of the phone so he added, "I'm sorry I was a little flip."

We drove on and I vowed not to check in on the fire.
I wasn't being fair. My husband's crew was out on the fire. His camp was vacant and his chief told him to go ahead and take his vacation because it would be his last for a very long time.

Fast track to this Saturday.

My husband is now back at work, but I haven't heard from him since Thursday. I have no idea what is going on-- only that our house is safe.

I get home, resuscitate some of my plants and start to unpack when rain rattles the rocky driveway. It's as dark as a closet-- and then in the clouds overhead someone suddenly turns on a light. It sneaks up on me with a flash and then one, two, three-- nature announces her presence with a boom.

The next morning I awake to smoke. More than 300 fires have broken out across the state-- one just a few miles from my in-laws.
We are safe once again.

More lightning is scheduled for Thursday, so cross your fingers.

I am just thankful to be home at last-- and to a home that is still standing.

If my daughter can tolerate the smoke, we will stay for now. I have two projects due this week. If not, I'll take my laptop and pray I can get my work done on the road.

Where we will go this time-- I don't know.

The Humboldt Fire rattles Paradise, but my town is still standing

2008-06-13T05:58:00.000-07:00

As I look down Skyway and see red and orange erupting from the darkness, evilly eerie cottony towers of flame-induced clouds, it hits me.
This is my town.

I’ve covered stories of nature’s destruction. I talked to people whose homes were consumed by the Poe Fire and the Storrie Fire, but it was different. It wasn’t my home, my town. It wasn’t happening here to people I knew before I had to write the story.
You can feel empathy toward strangers,. You even can cry with them, but somehow this is just different.

It’s my town at stake, the whole heart and breath of our community in danger.
Fortunately, my family and my home are not threatened at this time. The fire is about three miles from our house.

But when tragedy strikes a corner of something you love, it’s like a piece of the whole is endangered and you want to rise up and protect the very things you hold most dear-- your community.

It is my hope people have responded with outstretched hands, neighbor to neighbor.

What impresses me most about the situation is the shear nerve of our Town.

Though every major route out of town was closed to traffic, people seemed to be keeping their cool.

Angry traffic congested panic didn’t ensue as many predicted-- even when the lights went out.

People just did what they were told-- gathered up their personal belongings, said goodbye to their homes and let their faith prevail.

And our firefighters proved once again -- we are in good hands, the best of hands.

When you consider how much ground this fire burned , 20,000 acres from Highway 32 to Butte College, and you consider how many homes were in danger, it is a miracle the area wasn’t just flattened.

Instead of shear destruction, our fire personnel managed to save hundreds of homes and push the fire away from the most populous areas.

And while the fire fighters on the front lines may gather the bulk of the thanks, other heroes often go unnoticed.

Our police, deputy sheriffs, highway patrol, VIPS, the entire staff at town hall, Red Cross volunteers and dare I say reporters all did their part to keep the public informed, to direct traffic, to evacuate people and to help diffuse the enormity of this situation.

Some might say it was luck that kept the fire from wrecking havoc on the Town of Paradise, but I think we all had a big role in keeping things from blowing up in our faces.

Peace was kept.

We survived with only one way out of Town.

And we proved once and for all that we are prepared when disaster strikes.
As the embers die down on what is probably now a much larger fire, I hope we can show the same support to our neighbors as they rebuild their corner of “our town“.

On that note folks, I am scooping up my girls and we're heading to Oregon. Abby, my 6-year-old has asthma and this is just not the right environment for her. If my house is still standing, I'll post something when I return.

BS in My Space

2008-06-09T06:45:00.000-07:00

So my dear folks let me tell you how pathetic I have become since last leaving you.

This spring I became an avid American Idol watcher. Loved it. Voted. Downloaded it. Turned into walking zombie.

My brain matter is now classified as mush. Perhaps I will go into the mushy-gushy self esteem lowering details later, but I know nobody wants to read that long of a post on a Monday morning, so I'll save you all a trip down pathetic lane.

Fast forward to May 31st.

The show is off the air. My mother and I are still debating the fine qualities of the two "Davids" and whether or not Jason Castro threw a big party the night he got voted off. He may have screwed up Mr. Tamborine Man, but at least he didn't have to sing the penguin song. I figured if he made it to the top three, Simon would make him sing "Hot For Teacher" or some other horrendous 80s rock anthem-- either that or "Uum Bop" by the Hansen brothers. I think Mr. Castro was one smart cookie if it was a calculated memory lasp.

Oh yes, it's May 31st and the show is off the air, the guest appearances are completed and I can no longer download Dolly Week off ITunes. What is a girl to do? Visit YouTube for pirated copies-- well of course. But it gets better.

Yes, I took to googling for the latest idol contestant information-- only to find out Jason Castro and the crowd have My Space accounts. I know what a shocker.

I clicked on the link faster than my 35-year-old brain could command my fingers to please act their age.

And then a very disturbing thing happened. The darn thing would not let me read his blog WTF? There was info to be read. Curious minds need to know-- how did he get to those dreads?

I tried to leave a nice little comment "You may have shot the Tamborine Man, but "I don't want to cry" "somewhere over the rainbow" because I'll be "daydreaming" about living "forever in blue jeans"as I'm "Traveling thru" on a "September Morn-- "hallelujah!"

Somebody please stop me.

Well nobody did. well, perhaps they tried. I couldn't leave my well thought-out comment. Only friends could leave comments. To become a friend, I had to get a My Space account and send out a friend request.

And I am so flipping ashamed to admit good sense didn't step in-- no I sent out a request saying "You didn't exactly have me at "Hello," but you had me the second you sang "What . . . a . .day for . ..daydream?"

And you know what? He actually let me be his friend.

I know, I know. I need help. I need your help. Get me through these post Idol days -- one step at a time. there is a world out there, a world where the presidential campaign is finally coming to a close, a world where my children are out of school and need someone to trap pollywogs with them. There is a blog and it needs some attention-- and maybe with a little help I'll forget about the dueling Davids and the dreadlocks and how super hot Michael Johns was before I remembered I'm 35 and this is only a TV show for crying out loud.

BTW you can all be "friends" on my MySpace (giggle-giggle) and join in the fun of feeling 16 again. I have one post and it will probably be my last at www.myspace.com/bsnspace.

They don't just raise themselves

2008-06-05T11:43:00.000-07:00

All year my failures as a mother drag me down into the depths of a dark and piteous party, and I don‘t think I am the only one in attendance.

In this dungeon of motherly despair are those moms who forgot to sign “the homework sheet,” who decided they were too tired to cook and swung into MC Donald’s for a family fat pill, whose voices rose just a little too loudly when Jenny or Jimmy robbed the peony bush of her blossoms and who forgot it was bike day or snack day or -- I don‘t know-- bring your lama to school day.

I am certainly not June Clever, nor am I as swank and put together as a “Park Mom.”

I am the lady who prays each morning that her kids are not tardy, that all their homework is done and that no one wants to chitchat in the carpool lane because she may or may not be dressed in pajamas.

My garden has weeds in it. My beds aren’t always made. And my laundry never seems to be done.

But, you know what? I’m a pretty good mom.

So many times I beat myself up for my failures that I forget to recognize the small miracles I nurture every day.

I don’t think I’m an anomaly.

I’m sure I’m not the only mom who has locked the bathroom door to escape arguments over who said what, did what or didn’t do what to someone else.

I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels unworthy of all the Mother’s Day hullabaloo.

As my kids drench me sloppy kisses and wrap me in a wallpaper of homemade cards, I just feel undeserving.

How can they forgive me for not always listening or for tuning them out as they perform yet another “Kid Concert” during the evening news?

But they do. They see all the good. This year I am going to try to see it with them and celebrate my triumphs.

I am a good mom because I read to my girls every night.

I tuck them in and give them fairy kisses.

I floss their teeth ( a disgusting but very necessary duty , especially after my baby’s last dental visit, which incidentally made me feel like Bad Mom No. 4,000).

On most weeks I bake two batches of chocolate chip cookies and then portion them out into Ziploc bags so they aren’t gobbled up in one day.

I also make them homemade strawberry jam and let them lick the spoon.

No bowls of scrapped out cookie dough go unlicked.

Each summer, I load the kids into the car and we go camping-- just the four of us.

I know how to set up a tent, light a campfire and barbecue.

I can read a map and am not afraid to indulge in a road trip.

I am not afraid of bugs, so when my baby slaps a caterpillar or beetle on my arm, I investigate it with her.

I know I am a good mom because I worry, I feel inadequate, but in the depths of my soul I know
I am doing the right thing -- though I am not always as successful as I wish.

I know my kids aren’t always angels, but I also know they are pretty empathetic.

They are three amazing, sweet girls, and though I know a lot of their goodness comes from within-- I also know I have something to do with it.

Is it the wind or am I crazy?

2007-11-02T21:37:00.000-07:00

I think my children are allergic to the wind because whenever it blows, they turn inside-out and do back flips on my couch. The whoosh of air blowing across their faces is worse than a triple latte at midnight. Their voices become high pitched and “drunk” with energy-- loud, fast and unending. Nothing shuts them up. They just chatter, chatter, chatter about important stuff like about the benefits of having bangs or why they prefer light pink to dark pink.

During such windy conditions, they can do nothing slowly (except homework-- the wind is no cure for the homework blues. It just makes them more restless and resentful of the learning tradition.). It’s as if their little bodies are stuck on fast forward and they’ve all got ants running up their pants.

Yes, dear readers, lately I too have felt a tinge nutty-- that’s why I’ve felt compelled to discuss Old Mother Wind and her Merry Little Breezes, and I don’t mean the books by Thornton Burgess, I mean my children.

But no, I feel nuts, and maybe it’s the wind and maybe it’s not.

A few months ago a dear friend of mine said I was headed for a midlife crisis.
I thought he was nuts for saying such a rotten thing. Can’t he do the math? I’m only 34 (ouch it does hurt to write that figure).
However this wind thing has gotten me to start reconsidering his statement.

Ever since I returned from the summer-long road trip, I have felt restless. All I have wanted to do is pack up my stuff and take to the road. The compulsion to just follow the white and yellow lines down the highway is as strong as the wind blowing my kids toward my new couch.

My tolerance for kid fighting, messy bedrooms and homework hassles was left somewhere along the side of the road, so what gives?

Perhaps some of my more experienced readers know what I’m talking about.

I think we all reach a point in our lives where we have finally had it and just stop in our tracks and say enough is enough. It’s like I’m sitting with the scale of my life resting upon my lap and I think is this the way I want to live it-- with years and years of kid fighting, messy bedrooms and no gratitude?

I gave up a career, school and a bazillion hobbies to be a mother. Motherhood is supposed to be this amazing, fulfilling endeavor-- and it is, but it doesn’t mean that mothers are always happy.

I’d be lying if I said the roses always bloomed in my garden, and I’d be lying if I said being a mom is always peachy. It’s not. Sometimes it’s downright rotten.

There are good points to motherhood. I would never want to let anyone think I’d forgotten about oatmeal kisses, handprints, hugs and Santa Claus.

It’s just that sometimes it’s really hard to focus on those thousand points of kidly light while you are throwing away a pot of spaghetti you slaved over all evening only to hear, “It’ yucky” or “It tastes weird” or “When is dad coming home?”

Motherhood is a thankless job, that’s what some people say, but I don’t entirely agree because my kids do say thank you-- sometimes. Kisses are never in short supply nor are kid cards. My lap is the most sought after seat in the house. Civil wars have been fought over every square inch.

But sometimes it is a lonely job because there are times in my motherly career when I swear no one is listening. How many times do I have to say, “It’s time to get up,” “Do your homework,” Clean your room . . .”-- before I see some action. The monotony of motherhood can make you nuts. It’s worse than working in a assembly line. But the variety can make you crazier. Nothing surprises me. How my daughter managed to color on her ceiling is still a mystery. How can kids walk across hot pavement and gravel roads and not hurt their feet?

I don’t know maybe it’s the wind that has blurred the good things-- but just for a moment-- because I know I would never pack up and take off-- but this doesn’t mean I don’t think about it as I am refereeing yet another fight over the admittance into each of my children’s made up “kid clubs.”

The wind will die down. My husband will return from the wind-caused fires in San Diego and motherhood won’t be so lonely-- and crazy.

And so as I put on a grin and muddle through the monotony and variety of life, I’ll try to remember kids will be kids. They can’t help it.

I might as well ask the wind to stop blowing.

Catch and Release

2007-10-20T10:51:00.000-07:00

Some might say a good fly fisherman is like watching a good artist carve out a painting only the fisherman’s canvass is the sky and the river is where he draws his paint.
This, of course, is a good fly fisherman.

A bad fly fisherman is an artist of another sort. With his four-ounce rod, he carves out the most amazing knots, the kind of knots my mother dreamed of untying while watching Dallas when I was a child, knots that are twisted and turned and dangerously equipped with a hook, a puzzle even Hudini himself couldn’t get out of-- and it took one cast and less than a second to create.

A bad fly fisherman is also a master of comedy. One good gust of wind, and -- kaboom! -- he’s all tangled up in the line. This is also the exact moment when he usually decides to call it a day-- only the darn wind keeps blowing his fly just out of reach of his hand, so he looks like a cat pawing at the air.

Fishing with a bad fly fisherman is also dangerous because he is liable to inflict injury on others by catching them instead of the fish .

But I have to admit, many beginning fly fishermen are quite focused as they spend much of their time trying to keep things in the correct order line, leader, fly-- or was it fly, leader, line? It’s quite simple, if you keep things in the right order, your chances of creating a rat’s nest of a knot and hooking your neighbor’s leg are greatly reduced-- plus, you won’t look as though you are chasing a fly with an enormous fly swatter.

Some might say I am successful fisherman because every time I fish, I manage to catch something.

I have just about reached my limit with my fly rod.

Few months ago, my husband purchased a fly rod and all the accutriments that go with it for his birthday-- and then promptly gave it all to me. What he really wanted for his birthday was a fishing partner, and I guess I fit the bill.

When I squished up my face into a tight smile, his enthusiasm only grew.

“Flyfishing is easy,” he said. “Don’t worry. We will have so much fun, and I can teach you. A roll cast is like hitting a fly with a fly swatter.”

I flung my arms like a 10-year-old in a cat fight; the line knotted.

“OK pretend you are chopping vegetables,” he said.

I worked at becoming a master cat fighter; he worked at become a master knot untangler.

When I finally manged to get the line to the middle of the creek, he practically stepped right in front of me to keep me from reeling it in.

“Leave it there,” he said. “Now walk with it down the creek. If the strike indicator sinks, pretend you are the Statue of Liberty and pull down on the line and raise you rod in the air.”

“What?” I said.

“To set the hook-- the Statue of Liberty sets the hook,” he said.

I could see wavering masses of immigrant fish coming toward my beacon of hope-- because they knew my immigration policies were so tight there was no way they’d land a spot on the banks of Hat Creek.

This is not to say I have never caught anything. It is true. I have almost reached my limit.

I caught the bridge near the Bambi Inn in Butte Meadows, and my daughter had to climb up and untangle it.

I also caught some telephone lines in the middle of the street while “perfecting” my cast.

I caught various species of river sludge and plants.

I caught my husband's line several times.

And I even managed to catch myself fly fishing.

No, dear readers, I didn’t catch myself fly fishing (as in doing it correctly); I literally caught myself. I hooked myself in the arm.

There I was on the banks of the Kings River in Kings Canyon National Park -- with a fly coming out of my arm. I looked diseased.

My husband acted like a true gentlemen.

“We’ve got to get that fly out,’ he said. “I’ve caught fish with that fly; I need it.”

I poked the hook through the over side so my arm, gave him the wicked eyebrow stare, and he cut off the fly with his pliers. The neutered fly fell to the ground.

“You’re going to fish again, right?” he said.

“Yes, I haven’t reached my limit,” I said. “The only living thing I’ve caught is myself.”

Previously published in the "Paradise Post" by Bonnie Sitter

It's in my hands

2007-09-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

I've often said "in life we make our own happiness, so if you ain't happy, it's your own darn fault." You can choose to be pissed off, down in the dregs of the toilet or choose to be as happy as a cat chasing flies on a summer's day.

Lately, I've chosen to be furrowed eyebrow with a set of pinched lips. I returned from my road trip across the west two weeks ago ready to blog, blog, blog and was immediately sidetracked by a fuse that went off in my head-- the anger fuse of a rotten, pathetic to the point of looniness situation. Yes, my dear husband whom I hadn't seen in two months lit it and should have remembered to duck as he walked out the door.

Here's the sitch. While vacationing in San Antonio (the one place I didn't drive to this summer), I spent a good week fretting over what to get my dearly beloved for our tenth anniversary. Now like every good wife, I had over romanticized and blown up the importance of such a landmark occasion to where there was no way in hell's smoky canyon my husband could ever live up to my expectations, but there was one thing for sure, I knew I would exceed his.

Now when we first got engaged, my husband bought me a beautiful sapphire, opal and diamond ring for an engagement ring. It was stunning. I loved it, but I think he later regretted being less than traditional and wished he'd bought the honkin' rock we couldn't afford at the time and so shortly after we were married he said he'd get me a diamond for our tenth anniversary. There is nothing like the thought of diamonds that can get a woman to start marking days off the calendar. And so, the planning started-- because I can't help but plan-- what kind of ring I would get for $2 a day over ten years. As you all know it's size shrunk over the years as inflation worked its magic on the gems like an evil potion, but hey $7,300 can still buy one heck of an obnoxious ring.

Then one day, I decided we needed new furniture. I only wanted a new couch and perhaps a chair or two, but my husband doesn't know how to do anything small, so he bought a fancy couch, love seat, two handmade gorgeous God-I Love them chairs and to top it all off a handmade Persian rug that cost as much as all the furniture. And so, I knew I'd now be sitting on my ring instead of wearing it, and you know what? I was alright with it. Well, at first I was sad-- OK I ate a box of See's candy and wrote bad poetry-- especially when my mom bought the ring I had been drooling over, but in time I got over it. Really. I did. Promise. When I am away from home, I literally miss my living room I love it so much. Sure, I can't take it with me and wear it on my hand and fear being mugged, but there is NO ROOM I love more than my fantasy living room with the impractical rug.

Crap. I am taking forever to get to the point. Sorry. I'm out of practice. I'm like a new lover who just wants to take her time, so enjoy.

Anyway, I scoured San Antonio for the perfect gift for my husband. I wanted to buy him ten small gifts-- one for each year. Ten gifts that were so sickening sentimental Hallmark wouldn't even use them for a commercial. Ten impractical gifts-- a picture of us on a log teeter totter that we'd somehow managed to break when we were first married along with a poem I had written about the day "We broke the last teeter totter in Teeterville--" OK you all get the picture. I will spare you the rest of the gifts for fear you will stop reading and never come back.

I was in a fret. I was absolutely stressed because I didn't think I'd be able to find all the items I'd been looking for-- when suddenly the phone rang. It was my husband and from the tone of his voice I knew something was wrong. Had his grandpa died? Had he gotten injured or had one of his friends gotten injured in a fire? Was our house burglarized? No. He'd lost his wedding ring in a fire.

Now, folks this wedding ring had literally saved his life. Last year as he was going into a house, he reached up to grab a wire or something and the wire was still "hot". Fortunately the ring hit the wire first, thus saving his life and putting a dandy rivet in the ring.

And so I had a new mission. Out went my plans for the ten little gifts. He would be the one to get an upgrade on our tenth-- how ironic, but how fitting. He worked so hard and gave up so much for our family. He deserved a new ring.

I searched and searched and searched until I discovered "the ring," a 6mm platinum ring that was so heavy I think you have to lift weights just to wear it. Oh Tiffany's, I've got to love you. But dear readers, one word of advice: Tiffany's is the place to go for platinum. His ring was a good $500 less than everywhere else and it was heavier and more beautiful. It was perfect.

I thought I'd put it on a silver keychain shaped like a flyrod bent over with a fish attached to the line and slip the keychain on a pair of wadding boots-- yes, I can't help it. This is just the way I am.

Unfortunately, I couldn't' find a pair of wadding boots big enough to fit his big old feet, so I bought him a crummy T-shirt, tied the keychain and ring to the price tag, folded it up and placed it on the counter.

"I spent so much money vacationing this summer, I thought I'd cut back on our anniversary this year," I said. "so I just bought you a crummy T-shirt. Hope you don't mind."

He unwrapped the T-shirt and was promptly wacked in the face by the big old ring. I waited with clenched smiling teeth. He's going to love it. He's going to go ga-ga. He's going to say ---

"But it's not our anniversary. Tomorrow is our anniversary."
"What? Isn't today the 23rd?" (I had travelled so much I'd forgotten what day of the week it was-- ooops!).
"No, it's the 22nd," he said, looking at the ring. "You got me a ring?"
"Yes," I said.
"Oh, it's nice," he said. "Is this a keychain?"
"Yes, I wanted to attach the keychain and the ring to a pair of wadding boots but I couldn't find any in your size," I said.
"Really?" he said, putting the ring on his finger. "The ring is too big."
"We can get it sized or I can send it back and get the right size," I said.
And then he put the ring and the keychain back in their respective boxes -- where it would sit for two more days until I had a nervous breakdown and he finally took the keychain out of the box and put his keys on it--and went to bed.
On our anniversary, I woke up early and started pacing, waiting for the fun to begin-- only dear readers it didn't.
He took the kids to Chico and was gone all damn day. I didn't mind. I thought he was making reservations or doing something cute and creative with the kids.
He returned with a batch of Costco orange and purple flowers and said--
"I wanted to get you some jewelry or something, but I couldn't find you anything you'd like that was under $3,000, so I got you some flowers."
"They are pretty," I said, still waiting for an invitation to dinner, to go on a walk, to go to the moon-- somewhere with just the two of us.
"Well, I've got to go to the market for something for dinner," he said. "How does tritip sound to you?"
"Fine," I said-- and then my face hit the floor with disappointment-- mistake No. 1 don't look disappointed in front of my husband because then the "pity party" will commence and he will turn the drama toward himself and suddenly I am enemy No. 1 for expecting a little romance on our anniversary. How he can never do anything right-- yada yada yada you get the picture.
The tears fall. Next come the red eyes. He knows he's blown it. He's probably planned on blowing it, and now it is time for me to pay. Years ago, the tears worked. I actually felt bad for him for blowing it, but he's done this so many times quite frankly he just makes me angry.

"I could call my parents and see if they'll watch the kids," he said.
"You could have asked them last night," I said. "We were there. I told you to ask them, remember? It's 6:30. It's too late and quite frankly it won't make any difference."

This is true. He'd blown it so badly there was no going back. He could do nothing to make me happy and I at least had the sense to know it.

"Do you really want to spend the evening alone with an angry woman?" I said. "I just can't believe this is how you wanted to spend your anniversary. Ten years is a big deal. Is this really what you wanted to do-- stay home and watch TV with the kids. Well get over it. We'll just put this aside and move on. I'm going to be pissed, but I'll get over it. Let's at least take the kids out for ice cream."

And so, I've spent the last two weeks angry, pissed off and just plain contemplating the joys of marriage. I returned his ring and bought myself a cheap little heart-shaped garnet ring similar to one he gave me when we first started dating. It didn't cost much but I loved it because it reminded me of how we were when we first met. And then I realized it was time to move on. I have invested too much in this marriage to let this situation feed my anger.

I also wanted to put things into perspective. When he received such an expensive gift, he probably felt like a butthead-- like how the hell do I compete with that. He'd been working two months straight without any days off. The only chance he had to do anything was on the day of our anniversary (he came home the night before), so he probably felt a little crappy because he had wanted to buy the big ring and take me on a vacation and all that hoopla, but the money just wasn't there (I didn't help matters either by sucking up our savings with his ring). And so, most likely feeling defeated, he did nothing (bad choice, but I can understand it in some ways, looking back on the situation).

If he only had the confidence to know, it's not about who buys the most expensive gift; it's just about loving the person you are with. I would have loved a walk in the park or a handmade card -- or for him to show real joy when he opened my present.

Writing this, I feel like a shallow butt head with too much anger stored up to do anything about it-- which is good for me. It puts things in perspective.

And so, I'm going to take my own advice and "get on with it--" and forgive my husband. I make my own happiness, and so next time I'll try to share in the planning and take the burden off his shoulders.

And I'm going to start blogging again. For the next couple of weeks, I'll probably just post columns and articles I wrote about my trips-- instead of rehashing them again-- and then, I'll move on with more stuff.

Love you all. Thanks for reading.

School's Out!

2007-06-08T15:10:00.000-07:00

Note: I worte this prior to going on vacation and forgot to press publish.

Now this is a fantastic day, the first day of summer vacation. I have two months to sleep in, let my kids walk around dirty, sunburned (just a touch-- we're not talking lobster red with blisters)and happy and just relax.

All this relaxation comes with good news. My car is all clean and sparkly. Half of my house is super clean (the kids rooms are all that is left) so I'll soon be able to have company over and not look around for toys. And I've landed a new writing series for our paper.

As a freelance writer, jobs don't just hop in your lap often. Perhaps I'd have more work if I actually looked for it, but I'm happy being a mom so unless the phone rings with someone who has heard about me via my column or another publication then I don't work.

This time I was gutsy and actually proposed my stories to my paper's editor, but I didn't think I'd have a snowball's chance in Hades at getting it. I proposed a travel series about the various places my daugthers and I go this summer. We're going to Burney Falls, Fort Bragg, Sequoia National Park/ King's Canyon, Montana, Yellowstone National Park, San Antonio, Texas, San Diego, Anaheim and who knows where else. I'm driving the girls and for many of the trips we are camping alone. Anyway my editor said he thought it was a great idea, so now I get to be paid for vacationing-- and I get a laptop!

When I have the chance, I will pop in and say "Hi." I hope you are all have a super fantastic summer.

If you're looking for roses, look somewhere else

2007-06-01T22:44:00.000-07:00

These are not rosy times.

I have tried to be a patient woman. I have tried to be understanding, tolerant and good-natured, but my patience is not only wearing thin-- it's evaporating at alarming rates.

I know I am not perfect and that I have oodles of faults-- effectively biting my tongue is one of them. I tend to let people know when they have stepped over the line. And so, knowing this I've tried to get my husband to handle issues relating to neighbors, contractors and when possible teachers.

But I've reached the end of my rope and there is no safety net there to catch me-- fire season has arrived. I must deal with these people on my own-- or better yet through the attorney who said he'd take my case should it get to that point.

Here's the story to catch up those who missed the last couple posts. New neighbors moved in. Overall they are nice people. My instincts say not to trust them, but I'm not one to always follow my instincts. I really want to see the best in them. Anyway shortly after moving in they said they needed to drive over our new sod, tear down our fence and cut down our rose bushes so they could landscape their back yard. We told them to pound sand and eat a pickle.

And so, they proceeded with cutting down pine trees (this is their right, so I can't complain-- but I don't have to like it), taking down a retaining wall on their property that their housebuilder put there because their house basically sits inside a bowl. The result: my good dirt starts to erode into their backyard. Then their contractors took to parking in my driveway-- seriously. They broke the cover to my water meter when their cement truck parked on top of it. They blocked my driveway on a regular basis, making me late to meeting and making it extremely difficult to utilize my property. Plus, every time I went outside to work on my garden or just watch my kids, there were all these strangers walking on my property and cruising through my garden as if it were public property.

Since my neighbors started construction, there have been at least two accidents and many, many near misses because all the construction trucks line the road. With the trucks on the road, it is less than one lane wide and drivers must swerve around them onto driveways just to try to get around them.

The last straw occurred a couple days ago when these huge trucks, including a cement truck lined our street. The trucks were parked in front of every other house on the street and blocked my driveway (their drive was of course free of trucks). After the trucks pulled away, it was revealed that they had leaked oil ALL over the road (and primarily in front of my house).

We live on a private road, so when it fails guess who gets to fix it-- the homeowners. And since the spill is in front of my house, guess who will get to resurface the road when it fails-- ME (not if my real estate attorney has his way which he will).

Anyway, the cement people said they would pressure wash the street and they did, but it didn't fix the problem. I talked to my neighbors; they said it wasn't THEIR problem ( I informed them that according to the law it was their problem). The buck stops with them, and it is ultimately their responsibility to make sure their contractor and subcontractors fix the problem. They can file a complaint with the contractor's board (no company wants that) and force them to fix the street. They have more leverage-- all I can do is sue everyone involved which I don't want to do-- really let's not get nasty.

But these people just don't seem to care.

Yesterday my husband and her husband almost came to blows over the issue. In the 10 years I've been married to my husband, he has raised his voice maybe two times. It was odd to see him SO upset. And I won't say my husband acted sweet and meek and was an angel-- no he was PISSED (I don't like that word, but I'll use it because it suits the situation) OFF.

And so, I hope with all my heart that this situation either resolves itself or these nose in the air want the whole world to revolve around them Palm Springers move really soon. And may their freshly sodded lawn acquire a fungus and brown patches and may it burn around the edges.

100th post Yippee Skippee!

2007-05-23T10:07:00.000-07:00

It's my 100th post and if anyone is still out there, I'm happy to share it with you.

I'm also happy to report I feel much better than I did yesterday. Damn I was pretty nuts. What can I say? People get depressed over stupid things.

Anyway, I took my neighbor a huge bright red geranium in a pot. I have always wanted one for my front porch, but min eis too shady for a geranium. We talked. She told me my garden would always be the prettiest on the street. I told her I'd be happy to help her and that I felt like an evil heel for being childishly petty.

It sucks when you are caught acting like a moron and you actually know it, but you can't help but be a moron. It's just who I am- - a controlling crazy lady who wants everything in her universe to be unique and different. Whatever happened to "share the love?" Well, apparently that gene was left out of my makeup. I'm working on it though by realizing that friendship and tolerance go a lot further to making me happy that obesessing over things beyond my control.

It's going to be fun in my house when my girlies are teenagers.

And now a short reveiw of the last year. This year, I applied for grad school, got accepted and dropped out when my kids went nuts. I will try again at a later date because unfortunately I DO need to be a mother first (very hard lesson).

I learned to accept my husband for who he is-- a firefighter who is never home and who likes to duck hunt and drink beer and whiskey. I abhore alcohol for the most part-- but you know you can't control the world, right?

I discovered that I love blogging, but that my little hobby tears my family apart-- why? Hmm? I just don't get this maybe THEY need to learn that they too cannot control the universe. This is a tough one. And so I've tried different things to make everyone happy. I tried having "office hours," but this didn't work because what I learned is that if I'm not on top of my kids, they will not get ready for school. I tried taking mini breaks, but every time I sat down to write my husband would stare through the window, get caught and then dramatically retreat as though he was caught spying on a terrible experiment.

What does the future hold for this blog?

I don't know. Honestly, with all my heart I want to continue it. I love to write. I love my family and I hope one day they learn that writing is a bridge to sanity for me-- without it I obsess over my neighbor's yard (how crazy is that!) I need something to keep my mind and fingers busy. I'm not ashamed to say this-- I'm an absolute fruitcake if I haven't been writing.

So hopefully, I will find a way to still be around for SOMEONE or NO ONE to read next year. It really doesn't matter. I just want to write.

Wallflowers Spread like Rotten Weeds

2007-05-22T23:12:00.000-07:00

Will someone please give me some oxygen because I swear I can barely breathe. I can barely type or think or move my little fingers.

This past month I've been in a funk, a serious rotten dirty, nasty foul-tasting funk-- like the kind of funk you wake up with during allergy season-- call it a post nasal drip funk.

No I don't have allergies. A simple swig of Claritin would solve that problem. What I have can't be cured. I'm like the toddler who has just discovered she can't control the world, and you know what I can't and it's flipping making me psycho. If I were a dog, I'd run in circles all day. Instead I walk through my garden and try really hard not to think evil thoughts.

My dilemma started shortly before I left for Vegas. Remember I went there in April for some much needed relaxation. I sang. I danced. I drank 10 too many sour apple martinis (nobody told me martinis are like straight vodka-- ya-h-ouch!) I hiked in the Grand Canyon, twisted my knee and STILL managed to hobble through Vegas on count them FIVE INCH stilettos. I went to a trendy night club and realized I was old. I passed up the opportunity to go to a strip club and prove I'm still a naughty girl because really I'm not that girl any more.

And then I returned with a rush of happiness, a new suitcase for my new clothes and a darling ankle bracelet-- only to remember that I have neighbors.

Now, my neighbors are nice, really they are. I try to remind myself of that fact every day as I stare at my rose bushes and contemplate moving. These are nice people. They just happen to be from Palm Springs and haven't yet realized they live in a forest.

Upon returning and unpacking my suitcase, Mr. Palm Springs came over and asked if we'd mind if he drove over our freshly sodded lawn, tore down our fance and yanked out the climbing rose bush Ben's grandma gave me-- because apparently Mr. Palm Springs who works in the Real Estate field didn't notice he bought a house with only four-and-a-half feet between his house and his fence. Poor soul, if we don't let him tear up our yard, he won't be able to clear cut his and landscape with pretty trees.

My husband said he'd love to let him do it if he'd pay for the divorce fees, alamony and child support for the next 20 years because I'd leave him like a pair of white pants after Labor Day-- in a cramped box without any light and no hope of seeing any action until warmer, better days are upon us.

And so the next day, Mr. Palm Springs and his wife retaliate by buying three strawberry trees. You see, dear readers I have a very large strawberry tree in my backyard. It is my pride, my joy, my masterpiece of a tree. It is one of the few things in my life that I have not hestitated once to fork over the cold hard cash to bring home-- and let me tell you I forked over ALOT of cash for that damn tree.

Yes this sounds petty. I don't hold the patent on the strawberry tree, and I know this, but I'm still ticked off that they would do this just to get my goat.

And so I went out and bought a smoke tree and a pansy tree and felt much better.

You see, I have spent the last five years planning out this garden so I could be different. I searched for unusual trees and plants. I worked my petty little self righteous booty off, and I didn't do it so Mr. and Mrs. Palm Springs could come in and copy my stuff.

Their theory is that they want us all to have the same plants and similair landscaping styles so we can be uniform. I didn't move here so I could live in Stepford Hills. I like my individuality. I like my crazy plants and my wild butterfly garden and my rock retaining walls. I love my little yellow house with the green and white trim.

I don't want to see a replica next door. If I had wanted that I would have moved to the city and bought a tract house.

And so, each day I go out and prep my garden for summer,a nd everytime I return with a new plant, Mr and Mrs. Palm Springs come over and try to figure out what I've brought home.

They circle the drive and ask me questions-- to which I politely say that if they want help with their yard I'd be more than happy to help them. Which I would. My mom says it is so I can have a second garden and control what goes in it.

Crap. I am nuts. I can't control the world, but my goodness can I just have my little piece of Paradise without feeling like I'm playing in the sand box with Mr. and Mrs. Palm Springs who have hired a professional gardener to do all the dirty wor and remind me daily that they have more money to play this little game.

I don't want to play this game. I just want to be left alone.

Meanwhile, they just informed me that they bought a couple large "Storm trees" (smoke trees) and a couple of those dog trees too.

What can I do?

I can't beat them. I can't forbid them from copying my central design or from making my unique trees look common.

I should be flattered, right?

These are nice people. They like my taste.

I'm just a control freak-- freaking out over petty stuff.

But you know what? All I really want to do is to build a wall all the way around my property so I can have my garden once again. I just want that little sanctuary. I want that peace.

Tomorrow I do have a plan. I'm going to try kindness and bring over a super cool plant. Maybe Mrs. Palm Springs and I could go garden shopping and I could show her some other super cool plants that will make her yard look awesome-- but will not make her yard an extension of mine-- separate but equally beautiful.

What happens in Vegas will stay in Vegas until I'm done with this play

2007-04-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

Here's my column for the Post this week. I will update with the Vegas details soon, but for now I must rehearse.

And it’s time for some golden oldies, the grand old days of olde, a golden nugget of time in the circle of life. Yes, my dear readers it’s a New Age; I turn 34 this week. Oh, yes and it’s Gold Nugget Days too.

I’ve come to the conclusion that no amount of anti-aging drugs (creams, tonics-- dare I say elixirs) can stop the clock, so I have decided it’s time for a mid-life crisis.

I realized the other day that I have yet to attain all the attributes of a fairytale princess: singing, dancing and eternal beauty give the good old Disney girls immortality in the books (forget about brains).

Unfortunately, Maleficent must have fanned up some flames and kept the three good fairies from my christening.

When I was younger, I danced. I also sang-- well, sort of. I dropped out of choir in the sixth grade when my heart lured me to the theater. And then the most dreadful thing happened. I butchered an audition for Grease. Yep, I hit a bad note, got nervous and lost the melody. Since that day, I have been terrified of singing in public.

That was until last week when a sour apple martini made me forget I was afraid of the microphone and I sang in a Vegas show. OK I sang two words in a Vegas show because the show guy held the mic in front of my face during “That’s Amore.”

But here’s the tickler. After I was done forgetting to be afraid, the actor said, “Hey that wasn’t bad.”

A little encouragement is all this middle-aged lady needs to fire a little midlife crisis.

This week I actually thought for half a second that I would audition for a musical, and then I woke up and decided it might be best to learn how to sing before I set myself up for 15 more years of screeching.

And so, there will be no audition until I KNOW I can do it.

It’s a good feeling to know I’m conquering a fear even though I do believe I am acting a little nutty.
But I’m allowed to be nutty. I am turning old once again, and I can’t think of a better way to turn old than by being in a play.

Plus, I have a lot to celebrate. I auditioned for the annual Gold Nugget Days Melodrama about a month ago and gave a rather dismal audition.

But I didn’t crawl under a rock and suck my thumb. I accepted my role and I’ve tried to make the most of it.

And though my character has but one line and is on stage but a few minutes, you can rest assured I will milk each and every second for every once of fun I can get.

You’ve heard of Mambo No.5 and Channel No. 5. Well, let me introduce you to Town Lady No. 3.
She’s a rather complex lady. Her mother forgot to name her and she’s rather obsessed with the way stories go. She also cries over changes in scenery, parties with free rum (that she is not invited to), a little fireworks and cruise ship duty-free souvenirs.

Back in her day, she thought she was something hot, but those were years ago.

Now, she is a spinster desperate for a man. At one point during the play, she tries lure a rather questionable man with a seedy occupation into her clutches by using what modest Southern charms she has left (but dear readers don’t go looking for her Southern accent, she’s worked all her life to lose it so you won’t hear it-- plus, remember she only has one line).

Unfortunately, she is doomed to a life full of cats because when she metaphorically fumbles the ball at the end of the game, her man fancies another lady.

And so, she is left to weep and sigh and just be melodramatically without drawing too much attention to herself obnoxious until the curtain closes and you all give her the standing ovation she so rightly deserves (that’s my mid-life crisis speaking, but please do stand for the actors).

And to end this crisis with a shameless plug, the melodrama “Palpitatin’ in Perils in Pair O’ Dice” runs Friday and Saturday at 7 p.m. and Sunday at 5 p.m. at the Paradise Performing Arts Center. Come out and support your town’s fabulous talent.

Oh yes, and roses, jewelry and trinkets other than underwear are greatly appreciated.