Of Socks and Men

Reason No. 12 to be happy

2010-12-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

my computer

It's shallow. It's not all that fuzzy of a reason, but it's also okay to not be all fuzzy, wuzzy, gooey every day of your life.

And so, I'll just say it: I L-O-V-E my iMac computer. Love it!!!!! A year ago I chocked up the money for this baby hoping it was a wise investment because it was so darn pricey. My 27-inch iMac has been a reliable workforce ever since that fateful day. I came home, plugged it in and went to work. It was that simple. Not once has it "showed up late to work" or "refused to cooperate." It's fast efficient and reliable. I have never loved a computer as much.

As a matter of fact, we do have a PC in the house that I bought around the same time as I purchased the iMac. Truth be told, this computer cost MUCH, MUCH less; however, my children would rather line up for a turn at the Mac than use the PC. It's become a gloried Mahjong machine.

And so, kudos to my computer. You make my work easier-- and therefore my life less stressful, which makes me one happy lady.

Reason No. 11 to be happy

2010-12-05T21:52:00.000-08:00

rain

It's been raining all weekend. I want to snuggle up with a cup of tea and some hot soup. I say want because it is impossible to snuggle up next to anything when you have three bored children.

and so--

Today we listened to the rain and watched the rain swim down our windows.

We drew our own sunshine.

We walked through books and stepped out into the path of Splat the Cat.

We pretended it was snowing and that tap tap on the roof was really Santa's reindeer-- so we sang Christmas carols.

And yes, there was fighting and timeouts and messes to clean-up. Excedrin was swallowed.

But really, I was just thankful for the rain time (maybe it's because it's almost 10 and the kids are asleep-- it's always easy to be sentimental when no one's tugging on your sleeve).

Reason No. 10 to be Happy

2010-12-04T23:06:00.000-08:00

Wrapping presents

Each year I approach wrapping Christmas presents as though it was the first in a series of selected tortures designed to break my soul. The creases are never sharp enough. The stickiness of the tape makes my teeth hurt and the sound of that cheap paper tearing just stings me right to my bones. Don't even get me started about how that endless pile of mating gifts makes me feel. I swear they keep multiplying in a very sadistic sort of way.

This year things were different. It was my honor and privilege to what most parents abhor to do: teach my daughters how to wrap presents. Now before you read too far, let me explain. I wasn't all giddy because I was going to con this job onto two unsuspecting children. No, I was giddy because I could finally pass down the knowledge of the perfect crease and how to accurately estimate your paper needs and reduce waste. Perfect packages are wrapped with just the right amount of paper-- not too much, not too little (obviously). Presents also must be tightly wrapped-- think tighter than the smallest skinny jeans on the most obnoxious teenager.

For a half an hour I shared my knowledge. My daughters listened (the two that would-- the other I have no hope for-- she will always pay to have someone else do the wrapping-- I'm quite sure). They listened. They tried. They wrapped two gifts a piece and then politely asked me to do all their wrapping from here until eternity.

And so, I will admit. I'm not ashamed. I am happy because now I know there will be two other miserable people wrapping package after package this Christmas. Now I know they know how to do it. There are no excuses. More people in wrapping hell makes Mama one happy woman.

Reason No. 9 to be happy

2010-12-03T13:10:00.000-08:00

Squirrel Suicide Season-- today I'll be lazy and post my column for tomorrow's Paradise Post (12-04-10)

My dear readers, I am sad to report that a most devastating time of year is upon us: Squirrel Suicide Season.

This week as I drove my girlies to school, a depressed and deranged squirrel dashed in front of my car and stopped directly in front of my front left tire.

I swear he lay in wait hoping for a quick in to his miserable life, but today was not his day. I stopped in time and scared him back to life with a quick blast of my horn.

Yes, readers it’s that time of year when lazy squirrels realize they are ill-prepared for winter.

All summer they lazed around soaking up the sun or scampering from tree branch to tree branch in one of nature’s best jungle gyms.

Some watched pitifully as an entire oak forest took root-- evidence of just how many acorns they’d lost that winter. Once again, they’re hoarding nature proved selfish and the end result was a bitter blow of karma. Tasty acorns that could have stuffed their fuzzy tummies or plumped up their babies were now wasted as baby trees.

You see, squirrels don’t have long time goals. They don’t see baby trees as potential food producers for future generations. The acorn is quite simply a nut to be hidden from other squirrels and to be eaten later (preferably in front of other less fortunate squirrels).

Now some of you may wish to set up a Squirrel Suicide Helpline and try to save these most depressed creatures. I beg of you please don’t interfere with Mother Nature. Messing with squirrel suicide season would be akin to messing with the seasons and the food chain.

Squirrel Suicide Season is Mother Nature’s way of cleaning house.

Squirrels are among natures worst criminal offenders. They are selfish thieves, stealing from the mouths of baby birds by robbing bird feeders of life-sustaining sunflower seeds.

In cities and parks across the nation, they are among some of the worst panhandlers. What they can’t get by way of begging, they steal without a backward glance or a care in to who is going hungry today.

Last summer, I was a victim of squirrel thievery. I had bought a large bag of peanuts for my own little babes in the hopes that we could snack by the lake in a most Norman Rockwell fashion.

Indeed the setting was perfect-- trees, lake, fuzzy grey squirrels and a big checkered blanket. And then I turned my back for one minute and in that minute a squirrel ran away with the bag.

And so today forgive me if I don’t shed too many tears for the lazy beggars who plant whole forests in my gardens and who pelt me with acorns whenever I venture under the old oak tree.

Forgive me, please for I see squirrels for what they really are-- rats with better marketing.

Think about it would you love a rat if he visited your picnic or scurried across your front porch during your Fourth of July BBQ?

I think not.

And in death, the squirrels continue to wreck havoc upon us as they nibble into PG&E transformers and cut off power to hundreds if not thousands of households at a time.

In death they scar little children for years as the fuzzy buggers fall from tree branches right into the path of Mother’s SUV and the babes in the backseat witness it all.

Most horrifying for me was the time I carefully maneuvered across the snow in Butte Meadows. A squirrel lay dead in the center of our car’s path. Its legs were stiff straight up in the air. Its tongue hung out and its eyes stared deadly.

I certainly didn’t want to hit the poor dead creature again for that would be too gross, so I tried to maneuver my car around the carcass.

Just as I approached it’s winter fuzzy tail, the darn squirrel came back to life with a crazy leggy jump right in front of my tire and got what it most desired.

I was so scared I nearly wrecked the car.

Since that day, I haven’t felt much sympathy.

Squirrel Suicide Season is just a fact of life. Dear readers please be vigilant. Be aware for a deranged squirrel may soon run in front of your car, act as though its going to run back to safety only to change its mind mid stride-- and dash right into your left front tire.

So why does it make me happy? That's a good question. I'm not sure it does, but writing about it always puts a smile on my face.

Reason No. 8 to be happy

2010-11-27T21:21:00.000-08:00

bubble baths

Take a bubble bath with a nice cup of tea and a good book. The water flows over my toes and the spicy tea warms me up on the inside. The book feeds my brain and for thirty minutes I'm in a bubbly oasis-- an opera all to myself, dreamy, soothing, comforter-- no headaches, no smoke and no chill-- until the last bubble pops and I let the water out.

No.7 Reason to be happy

2010-11-26T03:29:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving

For a moment the world stops. It's just us, a turkey, some stuffing and our family.

Reason to be happy No. 6

2010-11-24T09:48:00.000-08:00

Sweet nothings

It started at her toes. My 7-year-old Nikki wanted me to tickled them and then the Tickle War commenced. Across the couch and onto the floor we chased each other with wiggly fingers -- until I caught her and got her where it counts-- her ear-- into which I growled,"I wov you Nikkerboc!"

Giggles. Goosebumps. Silliness.

"Mama you whispered sweet nothings!"

I sure did Nikkibocker.

Reason No. 5 to be happy

2010-11-22T19:48:00.000-08:00

Fresh Baked Bread

Today I took out my frustrations on some yeasty dough. I pounded, punched and ground my palms into the the sticky, squishy dough. Then I let it rest. It got all big-headed and full of itself, so I beat it down again-- only to have it rise once more-- so I shoved it in the oven.

Oh it teased me -- filling my house with its warm smell until I throw open the oven door and knocked. The dough sounded hollow, airy, so I ripped off a chunk, rubbed its shell in butter and bit down.

Reason No.4 to be happy

2010-11-21T14:23:00.000-08:00

Cat eyes

Last night we couldn't find Raisin Bran, our 14-year-old cat. The wind pelted our house with rain and snow and dared us to go searching for our beloved kitty. Truthfully, I'm ashamed to admit I really didn't want to dawn my snow boots and heavy coat to trudge in the snow for an old cat that was probably just hiding under our deck. I wanted to cuddle up with a cup of tea and let be-- be.

But I couldn't. There were children involved and cold as I felt-- my heart hadn't chilled quite through. I would do what all good moms do-- search for the kitty in the snow storm.

I walked the neighborhood. I drove the neighborhood. I called out the window, tried to bait the air with cat kibble-- nothing.

In the chilly air my heart began to defrost. She really was missing. My baby of 14-years who would let you hug her like a teddy bear-- gone. I had taken her for granted lately. Isn't that always the case just prior to something you love going away?

I tried to reassure myself. She'd gotten mean in her old age. Her beautiful black shiny hair had lost its luster and was falling out. She was fearful and would back up form even those who loved her best. Maybe she was sick and dying and wanted to go in peace.

I returned to the house--resigned. Our kitty was simply gone and that's when I saw my middle child looking scared. She didn't want to admit soemthing.

"Mom, maybe Raisin is int he playhouse?" she said.

"How could that be?"I said. "You all weren't supposed to go outside today because of the rain."

"Indigo and I did," she said. "We just wanted to look inside. Maybe Raisin went inside while we were looking. Pepper (our dog) was barking when I shut the door."

I grabbed a flashlight and peeked inside the dark little house. Nothing. I was about to shut the door when--

"In the door, look!" my daughter shouted.

Two glowing golden eyes looked back at me but wouldn't budge. We left the door open. Minutes later my kitty was at the back door.

Reason No.3 to be happy

2010-11-20T12:08:00.000-08:00

Slumber parties

This morning I wrapped up my fourth sleepover at my house in as many weeks, and I'll admit it-- I'm a bit sad.

For the past four weekends, I've had hordes of girls toting sleeping bags, cheap play makeup and stuffed animals into my house. I've listened to their thumping feet bounding down the hall and been jolted awake by their midnight shrieks. I've consumed more pizza than should ever be allowed and whipped up more pumpkin, blueberry and chocolate chip muffins than Betty Crocker herself.

I've endured Sponge Bob and Hannah Montan movie marathons, and I've even watched some dreadful preteen mean girl movies.

When the preteens arrived, it was as if a whole host of locusts swarmed my refrigerator and kitchen cabinets. Gone was the jam, the peanut butter, all mac and cheese or easy to make pasta product, granola bars and frozen convenience foods. The popcorn went out with a bang. Even the fruit, the good nutritious fruit found its way down someone's stomach. My kitchen was a barren land of dirty dishes and hungry, face-painted girls.

When the first graders came, it was all Disney. The dress-up boxes spilled and the girls emerged dressed fit for their imaginations-- and I was lucky enough to listen in.

I am lucky. I am fortunate and next week--

Yes, the parties will be over, but--

I'll have my girls all to myself-- and that is a gift all by itself.

Reason No. 2 to be happy

2010-11-19T07:54:00.000-08:00

Elementary school parties.

Yesterday my first grader dressed up as a Pilgrim and ate on the floor with a bunch of Indians. She sat by her best friend, Sam, shoved popcorn down her throat and whispered secrets into his ear-- and I had the honor of watching.

A reason to be happy No. 1

2010-11-18T08:49:00.000-08:00

Last night my 11-year-old Maggie and I snuck off to the the midnight premiere of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows--" only to discover the theater's website didn't know how to tell time. It advertised the Thursday November 18th midnight showing -- not realizing that after midnight, it's really Friday. We showed up at 10 p.m. Wednesday and met some serious Potter fans camping out on the sidewalks. Movie-goers dressed in Hogwarts robes and snuggled up in heavy blue sleeping bags lined the side of the building. A life-sized cut out of Dumbledore marked their territory.

"Are you here for Harry Potter?" a Hermione Granger look-a-like asked.

"Yeah, I brought my daughter-- thought I'd let her go in late to school," I said.

"Wow! You are one cool mom!" she said.

Suddenly many would-be wizards wanted to shake my hand.

My daughter and I sat under a park light and read while waiting for showtime.

When security tried to kick us out of the parking lot at 11:30 p.m., I started to get suspicious and then I looked at my ticket (Friday 12:06 p.m.). There was no way I was going to let my 11-year-old daughter camp out in a parking lot in the freezing cold November weather. All we had was a thin quilt and --s he had school tomorrow.

"What?! Security is going to kick us out?!" I asked 'outraged at the injustice.'

"It happens every time," said a college-age man as he put away his life-size cut out of Dumbledore.

"Well-- that--sucks," I said still trying to maintain a semblance of cool. "What are you all going to do?"

"I guess we'll find a place to hang out," he said.

"Maggie!" I shouted. "We're going to have to leave. They're kicking us out. . . What time are you coming back?"

"I don't know? Six? That's when the parking lot opens," he said. "We'll hold your spot. This isn't a very good part of town. Don't worry. We saw you all here. Come back later."

A sigh of relief. I was still "the cool mom." I tossed my daughter into the car.

"Can you believe it the movie's website doesn't know how to tell time?" I said. "Well, we'll just have to come back after school."

"Mom, do I still get to go in late?" Maggie asked.

"Absolutely not," I said. "I can't have you going in late two days in a row, so when we gate home, You better shut those eyes and concentrate on sleep."

Just to be sure that I wasn't nuts, my daughter and I looked over the theater's Website. Yep, it still advertised the Thursday Nov. 18 midnight showings. I wasn't crazy.

And I was strangely giddy. Why? Because my daughter and I had created a memory-- we'd had an adventure-- and I was the cool Mom (that never hurts).

2010-11-16T14:32:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you just need to get out

take a look around and free yourself.

I've been looking for the answer --

The brave and optimistic answer

"The only person who can empower you is you."

Well, I know that. I've always known that--

But to act on it--

to truly believe

and to throw off the yellow Sunday covers and

do something -- now

that

takes

courage.

Backed up against immovable red tape.

But where to go? What to do?

I was always told not to run with scissors-- and a nice pair of orange-handled Singer Scissors could really do the trick,

slice through the stickiness of deaf, mute puppets holding the strings

and casting me over the wall

to dance as they please..

It's been more than a year

2010-11-03T06:40:00.000-07:00

It's been so long since I visited this little blog. I remember how much I loved it, how writing on it made me feel so free and how ultimately I had to give it up. But I miss it. It's lonely out here in the real world. So hello little blog. I dropped by to say, "hi." Maybe next time I'll stay a while.

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.

Predictions, predictions-- and procrastinations

2007-04-06T21:12:00.000-07:00

This week I will be vacationing in Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon, and since I am incredibly LAZY-- here are exerts my column published in the Paradise Post for this week.

I usually don’t like to play fortune teller. Big hair, fancy sequined scarves and big dangly earrings always left me with a nasty case of the goose bumps and some heeby geebies running up and down my spine.

And so I avoid Ouija boards, the Montel Williams Show with Sylvia Brown and 976 numbers at all costs. I really don’t want to know what lay in my cards, what the tea leaves say or how Jupiter and Venus are flirting with Mars (much less Uranus).

And so with much stress, I write this column one week prior to publication.

I really don’t like this. It not only breaks with my 8 a.m. tradition of writing on deadline day, but it also assumes that I know what is going to happen-- which in turn is a surefire way to make sure something newsworthy happens.

But my dear readers, I have no choice.

Yes, I am no doubt somewhere on the Las Vegas strip wondering why the heck I came back for a second year of middle-aged crisis-like behavior-- make that slightly older younger-aged youthful revelry.

Then again, maybe I won’t be in Vegas at all. Maybe my husband left me at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and I haven’t quite figured out how to conjure up a rescuable injury so someone else can haul my lazy tush up the big hill.

This whole doing your homework before it is due is so unfamiliar to me.

I’m a procrastinator. If the doctor hadn’t induced my three kids, I’d still be carrying them. I would in fact be carrying 150 pound of kid-dom in my stomach.

I predict that tardies were up at all the schools last Monday and that some kids even skipped a day or two-- and they weren’t even sick. They were in fact at Disneyland.

I predict that all of my peonies will bloom and die before I return-- and that perhaps their blossoms will even be stolen.

I predict that cat will beat incessantly on the windows while I am gone, and that she will yowl for two weeks straight when I return.

I am almost positive that my kids will moan and complain that they miss me and then will refuse to talk to me on the phone.

Nikki the Youngest will most certainly sleep with her Nana every morning and will take at least two bathes a day (and still look like a refugee).

Maggie the Eldest will snore every night but will do all her homework like a good girl.

Abby the Middle who has sworn her entire life that dogs want to eat her will spend the entire time looking for Pepper the Schnauzer.

Ben the Husband will not dress up like Elvis once but will in fact do various Elvis impersonations throughout our stay.

I will buy a new pair of shoes because I would hate for a hurricane to take out Las Vegas. The last time I went on vacation and didn’t buy a pair of shoes Hurricane Katrina paid the town a visit and so now I MUST buy shoes. It is my duty as a citizen. I am just doing my part. I actually think Homeland Security should pay me for my service.

My mother and father in law will continue to be saints but will be so very happy when we come and take the dumplings home.

As for the weather, I predict that we will indeed have weather so dress accordingly.

I hope you all have a fantastic time-- and I hope I do too or rather I hope I did. Who knows what the future brings? Maybe I should call Montel?

Meow Mix-up

2007-03-30T10:33:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-16T10:30:00.001-07:00

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

2007-03-14T09:59:00.000-07:00

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

2007-03-12T06:58:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-03-02T12:18:00.000-08:00

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)

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are experiencing technical difficulties

2007-02-28T17:29:00.000-08:00

This message is brought to via "childtype." I'm underwraps, humidified and medicated. Flu season has arrived.

You've been warned about peer pressure, right?

2007-02-15T11:19:00.000-08:00

And just because it's overcast outside and I have a little extra time, I thought I'd tell you all about my worst experience with peer pressure.

Mothers get your daughters. They need to learn what to expect from creepy little boys.

Fathers get your boys. They need to learn what absolutely does not work.

Let's go back in time to 1995 when I was dating money minus the brains. Mind you I said dating-- not sleeping with-- DATING-- like this was our second or third date.

And so, I agreed to meet the boy at his office (yes, he had a real job, but I'll still call him "boy" -- you'll understand in a minute).

There I was dressed in my college finest, waiting to go out on the town-- when from behind the desk Mr. Brainless says

"Wanna do "it"?
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Yeah," he said. "Wanna do it? You look hot."
"No," I said.
"Oh come on. It will only take a second," he said.

Like TIME was an issue. I don't think if you really want ot get in a girl's pants, bragging that "it will only take a second" is the key that unzips the zipper.

So what was your worst experience with Mr or Ms. Brainless?

A little VD goes a long way

2007-02-14T11:00:00.000-08:00

And so it's Valentine's Day, a day that always makes me think of VD (because of the initials not because of some little V-Day gift of years gone by-- I have more class than that-- not much, but it is true there is class somewhere in these veins).

Years ago, I used to get as furry as a kitten around Valentine's Day, wondering what kind of trinket I was getting this year. These were the high school years and the answer was always the same: I wasn't getting no stinkin' candy gram or carnation bouquet-- not now, not ever. The boys in my life always managed to dump me just days before VD and the big dance requiring me to wear some big, obnoxious red polka dotted dress and red lipstick.

But today, VD is no big surprise, really. I'm getting something and well sex is pretty much a given. Ho-humm! What is there to look forward too, anymore? A box of Godiva? Some roses? A steak?

Well, dear readers, it is true. I'm stuck in a rut. If this were a children's book, I'd be the piggy in the puddle in the muddy little puddle or some duck stuck int he muck, but I'm not-- I'm just a woman waiting for -- something. Have any of you felt this way?

This is the first VD that I just don't give a flying foosball what happens-- because really nothing happens. I've been married for nearly 10 years-- we're tapped out of ideas. We're boring. We're comfortable. We're old shoes in need of a shine.

Anyhoo, I really do hope you all get something spicey and naughty, and who knows maybe this year will be saucy. But chances are, I'll be fixing some big fancy dinner for five. There will be no Godiva (and you know what I don't want it). There will be no roses because roses stopped years ago. They really are so unpractical. So what will there be?

Just the quiet comfort of two adults who have seen it all, done it all and who just want some peace and quiet-- and you know what that is the sweetest gift I could ask for-- a night with my husband (and children until 8 or 8:30 p.m. because everyone is out on VD) just being boring people.

OK I am lying just tidge. All I really want is to feel excited about the day again. Is VD only for the young and child-less?

Writer's Block

2007-02-12T15:49:00.000-08:00

A blank screen
In the corner near the top, a cursor blinks on and off
But nothing happens--
Just the sound of
Fingers tapping
Tic
Tic
Tap
Tic-tic-tap

And the quiet of

Eyes wide open, ideas trapped behind blue irises
I should say something, but my mouth is dry
My fingers arthritic with waiting
Wondering
What they have to say
How do you say love? Anger? The bitterness of a cry in the woods--
no one hears, right? How can you know?

Inside
Behind the blinking of too-tired eyes
the words are pasted in pictures--
a Douglas Fir, some dirty feet, the bleeding cut of a hand
and a woman leaning against a tree--

It's in the black and blue
where the light gets in and reflects
Upside down images

Now where did I put my little grey sponge?
If only he could
Soak them up,
Put them on their feet and
File them
At the bottom
In a never ending line of
sentences I never finish reading

A magical paste, a Genie and a Mason jar-- the end of an era

2007-02-09T10:36:00.000-08:00

There are few things I’d sell my vital organs for or consider selling all my worldly possessions just so I could get “it.”
Really. I’m pretty happy.

But there is one thing I’m willing to pull out all the stops, break open all the piggy banks and even pray to God, Allah, Hashem, Jehovah, Buddah and any other godly figures just to make it happen--- The End of the Diaper Era.

Yes, I’ve spent the last eight years swiping butts, wondering if it is my kid emitting that foul-smelling sulfurous odor at every family gathering and chasing little swirming baby behinds that want to smear (or worse yet fingerpaint) all over the changing table, walls and bathroom floor.

My purse has at times resembled a large suitcase. My trunk-- a portable closet. My trash-- toxic waste.

I have tried it all-- M&M bribery, award posters, going cold turkey, feel and learn pull-ups, pull-ups with designs that fade when the “deed” is done, pull-ups that get cold, singing potty chairs, boring potty chairs, stickers, toy prizes and the promise of puppies, kittens and love birds (if only they’d stop doing “it”).

I even once offered one of my daughter $5 if she’d just go No. 2 in the potty-- just once. She did-- and then she put her pull-ups on, bought some obnoxious toy and gave up the potty chair “forever.”

I just don’t get it. I don’t. Really. It’s disgusting. Who would want to be that way?

Apparently some residents who at one time or another were 3-feet or less and who reside in my house.

Long ago, I got a clue to this problem when one of my daughters said “I like diapers.”

Another one of my daughters said, “I’m baby.” Plus, she didn’t want to go to preschool “not ever. I want to stay with ‘chew’ mommy,” and so she’d hold “it” until she got her baby pants on and then let it all out. She was also afraid of the potty.

But the biggest hair scrunching problem was the daughter who would go in the right place-- if and only if she was naked.

I’m tired of rubber sheets and diaper genies.

And so, a few weeks ago, I decided we’d all have a competition. I was going to pay for potty. Yes, in my household, you get a penny for No. 1, a nickel for No. 2 and 25 cents for a dry night.

We’ve lined up the Mason jars and are filling them up quickly. I’m sure the Costco executives are starting to sweat because one day soon we will not be one of the ones piling up our carts with two sizes of pull-ups and cases of wipers. I won’t be searching for soothing creams and powders so I can make the all-healing paste. We will be paste-free.

My diaper days will be over.

But first it’s going to cost me as one my one they catch on to what will make them go the most. Gallons of water are being drank. What once took one trip now takes six. And a little stomach flu is revered as a blessing.

I can be patient. I can pay up. There are not limits to my pennies. Nobody wants them. If need be, I can take up a collection.

Yes, send your pennies and send them quick so one day--
My trunk will once again do what it was made to do-- carry shoes from Gigi’s Shoe Parlor, City Shoes and Heel and Sol.

But until that magical day arrives (and it is oh so very close), I will get the honor of listening to the the words that are more delightful than a Shakespeare sonnet and yes, I think at this point in my life-- even more delightful than “I do.”

The words come complete with a smile and little legs with overalls around the ankles jumping up and down.

“I did IT!” a voice calls with inflections only comparable to angels singing in heaven.

“I did IT!” Oh, the excitement. I run to give a high five and a penny or better yet a nickel.

“I went poo,” she says as she peaks out the bathroom door.

Oh it’s pay day in the Sitter household.

And then I am reminded of the consequences of “Pennies for Potty.”

“You wanna see?” she says.

Oh yes, what mother wouldn’t want to see the end of the Diaper Era swirling down, down, down the drain?

A name by any other name would smell as disgusting

2007-01-31T09:46:00.000-08:00

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be darned if silly words don’t haunt me.

Yes, it is true. I was one of the teased and not a teaser (in early life that is-- later on I was a teaser, but that is an entirely different column).

I was doomed from the start because I was I was born with the unfortunate quality of wanting to be different. In elementary school, I refused to wear anything but dresses with crinoline underneath -- until the fourth grade when I realized no one really wants to look like Nellie Olsen.

And so, I decided to change up my style and wear jeans (unfortunately my mother liked to buy jeans with embroidery across the butt which back in the 80s wasn’t exactly cool).

I was also doomed because my maiden name happens to be Bonnie Black. Looking back, I really don’t think that is such a bad name. It kind of sounds like a cosmetic line, but my peers seemed to think it was great material for a day of torment. The principal even got in on it (for real-- she called me B-squared). I now know that is because I have to “Bs” in my name, but when I was little, I thought she called me that because I was “a good girl” (terrible news for a girl who used to only wear dresses).

Yes, I was “Blackie,” “Black Bonnie” (note: I grew up in the South) and some other names that are just too painful to print.

Armed with all this namely baggage, I married a guy with the last name of Sitter( I no longer care if you know who I am). It’s a fine name if you ask me. I actually think it sounds friendly. But if I were in school, I‘m sure the kids would have oh so much fun.

My lovely daughters have never suffered from the name-calling blues, which either means they are the callers or they’ve got some mighty tough skin. Of course, it could also mean kids have evolved and stopped all this nonsense-- wouldn’t that be nice. I think I’ll pinch myself before I become completely delusional.

I’ve tried to do my part and raise three nice, empathic girls.

Unfortunately, I think there might be trouble on the horizon and it is entirely my fault.

The problem started this Christmas when my youngest daughter asked for a black baby for Christmas. I thought her choice was pretty cool.

And the squeals of delight when she unwrapped her baby were unparalleled.

There was only one problem, she refused to name the baby and called her “Black Baby,” something I felt unacceptable because I really didn’t want her focusing in on color. Plus, I will admit I didn’t exactly relish the thought of parental stares on the playground when my angel yells out,” Black Baby you be quiet.”

I decided to try to coax her into naming the baby.

“What if I called you brown-haired girl?” I said.

She shrugged, and so I decided to call her brown-haired girl-- and what I got in return I absolutely deserved.

“Brown-haired girl come here,” said.

“Well you underwear,” she said with a giggle.

I was too shocked to speak.

“You butt-cream,” she said.

We talked about good names and back names and labeling, but she just didn’t “get it” and only looked for more obnoxious names.

“You toilet water,” she said.

We did time outs and all other “California legislature approved methods of discipline,” but nothing worked.

I decided to ignore her when she called me “diaper butt” and “underwear head” and the name-calling stopped-- until yesterday.

Yes, yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away until she called me “underwear” over breakfast.

I was shocked and pretended to cry. She came down and hugged me.

“I wove you,” she said.

“You pretty,” I said,

“You lovely,” she said back.

And so, we started a nice name-calling game.

I’ve never been so proud of myself. I thought “Wow I could write a book or something.”

“You fuzzy like a cat,” she said, getting more and more creative with her compliments.

“Well you smell like roses,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, well you a rose bush and you got sticky things on your back,” she said.

I guess this is what I get when I feel all high and mighty: bad grammar and sticky things on my back.

(This column was previously published in the Paradise Post)

Every dog has his day and every man has his----

2007-01-11T16:09:00.000-08:00

Every man must have his toys and every woman must have her nemesis. Mine is the little red truck in our driveway: a ‘89 Nissan something or other and unfortunately it STILL runs.

When I met my husband, he had this beast of a mobile-- only back then it was sort cool for a single guy on the go. But now, it is just plain ugly. The paint : faded. The interior: smelly old black and reddish stripped fabric. The door panels: missing parts. Now, I will be honest. I don’t know what these parts are, but my husband assures me they are not necessary. Why are they missing? Because he thought it would be a good idea to disassemble the car one day. Why? Lord only knows-- because he is a man and men like to build things.

Do we need said vehicle? No. I have a car. He has a different truck. So why pray tell is this wheeled tomato of a truck still in my drive? Because it STILL runs, and my husband swears he won’t get a good deal for it. It will cost too much to ditch? Heck, I’ll push it over a cliff if it will get it out of my drive.

A few years ago, I thought I’d finally seen the end of my ugly red truck days after I convinced my parents that they needed a truck at their cabin. You know, so they could haul things at their leisure. Unfortunately, trucks are a like stray dogs: they require tags to go out in public and my parents-- well they were from out of state and let’s just say they didn’t get the truck all it’s immunizations. Now (even though it runs) the state enforced ugly car taxes are so high, it would be cost prohibitive to drive down the street.

And so, the truck squatted at my parent’s cabin for a few years, which I think by squatter’s rights should entitle parents to full ownership. Unfortunately my husband has a way with words and managed to get the truck out of “jail.”

He had his reasons for needing the beast. Gas was high. He had a long commute. He had turned 33 and wanted to feel like he was 23. I don’t know ( maybe that was me). All I know is that I came home one day and the red tomato was squatting in my driveway-- just like old times. Good G-D is there not relief!
I asked for divine intervention.

This past summer, I thought I’d found the answer to my prayers when my neighbors started clamoring for the truck. For some G-D awful reason, the old men in our neighborhood had a hankering for the beast (either that or their wives were sick of looking at it too and were willing to pay cold hard cash so they could push it over a cliff and out of our neighborhood). I kid you not two old guys knocked on my door and asked if I was interested in selling the truck. My heart did loop-de-loops. My lungs for got their assigned task. My brain got fuzzy drunk. And then, I breathed and said, “Hell, yes.”

But as luck would have it, it was fire season-- and Benny Boo was the one on the title. Joy to the World, I couldn’t sneak it into someone else’s drive without him knowing about it. What was a girl to do!

Apparently live with the beast for a while longer because while sucking up smoke in the San Fernando Valley, my husband decided the grand old tomato would make a grand old leaf trailer (of course he’d need a few things to accomplish “the transformation” such as a welder and other manly tools).

And so the truck sat-- for months. It got dusty. Birds nested in it. Cats and stray dogs took up residence underneath it (I’m sure of it).

As I waited for the rats, my husband did something amazing-- he cut the darned thing in half.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m taking the rest to the auto recycler.”

And the sliced tomato sat a little longer. It was now a palace for my girls who liked to play pirates in the fallen truck bed (right next to the necessary gravel pile which we absolutely need for driveway maintenance-- or so I‘m told).

A month later, my husband started disassembling it-- what ever happened to the auto recycler?

“I’m going to use the come-along to pull out the engine and transmission tomorrow,” my lovely gadget man said. “I promise I’ll take the body to the dump tomorrow. You won’t have to look at it.”

Oh but I will-- the boat of a bed will still be awaiting the welder and G-D knows what other manly tools we’ll need to purchase so we can save money on a leave trailer.

This is my test. Patience is needed. Womanly understanding could be a tad helpful too. I can endure. I am stronger than a truck. And if all else fails-- there’s still Lookout Point.

More weirdness

2007-01-03T11:35:00.003-08:00

We are all a touch weird. As for me, the weirdness continues, and so good listeners pull up a couch and listen to what's on the stage within my house:

The heroine reveals a secret.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm staring into a looking glass and just beyond my grasp is the life I left behind. I loved the theater. I haven't been to a play in 10 years-- ten bloody years-- oh the torture. the horror. God save the queen this is dreadful!

Swaying back and forth like the crazy woman she has become, she explains.

I'm a mother now with only her memories.
Being on stage was a thrill -- whether it be reciting my poetry or kissing an ass in "A Midsummer's Night's Dream." Oh that ass was grand-- six foot tall with big brown eyes and breath like cheap peppermint candy.

Suddenly she realizes people are watching.

Oh, all ass kissing aside, I am now a mother with much grander responsiblities and play acting to attend to. This is my new stage: reading "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" aloud to my 7-year-old. After playing "Heidi" and all the characters from "The Wizard of Oz," I decided to move onto to something a little more controversial-- wizards and muggles.

She trips over the Little People stable and steps on a plastic cow, but she keeps her smile like a pro-- never breaking her supreme concentration. She continues.

But still, I'd be a liar if I said I didn't miss the real stage, and so like I wrote -- oh so bizarrely in my last post-- sometimes when no one is looking, I see if I've "still got it." Oh but please don't get me wrong. I go nuts when I think people don't understand me, and so few people understand me. Oh don't make me pace the floors!

She sits on the couch and turns off yet another episode of "Hannah Montana."

I just don't want you to think that when my daughters gang up one me that I leap into the room and spout off " Now I perceive, they have conjoin'd all three to fashion this false sport, in spite of me" or that while doing laundry, I'll suddenly start wringing my hands and say "Out damn spot, out I say!"

Please, please my Shakespeare is my greatest secret and ""Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't."

The curtain falls. She downs a glass of wine and commences with folding laundry.
In 10 years, she will be competing with 70-year-old divas at the local little theater for role of "The Nurse" in "Romeo in Juliet." She might have to result to violence, but by golly she is going to get the role-- and then all the world will know. She still knows the lines.

Something weird happened to me

2007-01-02T05:21:00.000-08:00

Social Worker/Frustrated Mother tagged me with the “Weird MEME,” so the good news is I probably won’t blog about the holidays or post my resolutions. The bad new is six of you are going to get tagged and all of you will one day return to this blog in July and finally read my cheesy Holiday Letter. Who knows? Maybe I’ll give it a patriotic theme and tell you all how each one of the people in my household has made America a better place in which to live.

OK here are the rules:

"According to the rules... Each player of this game starts with the "6 Weird Things about You". People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don't forget to leave a comment that says 'you are tagged' in their comments and tell them to read your blog!"

Six weird things about me-- Only six?

O.K. I will keep this brief because it is the New Year and you all need to hit the gym and buy vitamins.

1. I hold my breath on elevators.

2. I write letters to my loved ones before boarding a plane-- and I go absolutely nuts if anything impedes my ritual.

3. Sometimes I recite Shakespeare, random pieces of poetry or snippets from plays-- or heck even Bible verses-- when no one is looking. If I can’t sleep, I recite them in my head. If I’m scared, I will recite a vile speech from Richard III to heat up my blood. If I am sad, I turn to my own work.

4. When I meet certain people, a light turns on inside me and I can write poetry all day. But as soon as he or she leaves, it goes out and try as I might, the poetry just isn’t the same.

5. If I feel bad about something, I obsess over it and can’t sleep until I rectify the problem. Recently, my cousin asked me to edit a piece of writing (for some reason he thought I was a good editor-- I don't edit anything as you all know.) He made the mistake of giving me free reign -- and I took it, rearranged it and added some of my own words for clarification. Now, in my heart I knew the finished piece was much better . Anyway I didn’t sleep for three days. I barely ate and I paced around the house. Finally I called him and asked him if I had gone too far. But no, he liked the changes (and even kept parts of the pieces I’d slapped in for clarification). BTW-- this is to all the boys I hurt in my younger years, I still feel incredibly guilty for being the witch I was back in the good old days. You can rest with the knowledge that there is a girl in California who once did you wrong and who now paces the floor periodically because she feels terrible about it.

6. I love to research things and make lists.

Sorry I do not know how to be brief. OK I tag-- Karmyn, Pamela, Heather, Amishav (if you’ll do it-- You don’t seem to be of the MEME variety, but what the heck), Kigogal and Waya-- Patti (mommy dearest if you are out there) I tag you as a bonus because you haven't posted a darn thing since August and I know you are lurking out there somewhere. I can sense you saying, "Well, why didn't you write about-----"

Jodi I would tag you because I know you must have some deep dark secrets hidden in your closet, but you are not a good sport when it comes to MEMEs (so please email me with your six weird things--- please!)

Happy New Year!

2006-12-26T11:46:00.000-08:00

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

Merry Christmas !

2006-12-24T12:25:00.000-08:00

Just popped in to wish you all a Merry Christmas!

I am one foxy mama

2006-12-20T20:37:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did he think I was pregnant?

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

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

“Do I look pregnant?” I asked her.

“ARE you?” she said.

“Heavens no,” I said.

“Well then of course not,” she said.

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

“That is an expression,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-12-18T04:50:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm leaving on a jet plane

2006-12-13T20:53:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-12-08T09:47:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, they baked Christmas cookies together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the digging gets deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shifting sands

2006-12-02T15:12:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanksgiving reminder

2006-11-23T11:14:00.000-08:00

All too often people tend to focus on what is lacking in their lives: money, a fancy car, respect or a nicer home. In short there is a lot of complaining in this world. Whining and belly aching do little to instill change or to get you the things you want. It will just serve you up a nice tension headache and take your focus off all the blessings you have in your life. Worse yet, your complaining just might be contagious and could cause others to join in the chorus-- thus causing a national migraine.

This is why I love Thanksgiving Day. It is the one day of the year when people are supposed to forget about their desires and afflictions and focus on their blessings. It is also the one day when families are practically mandated to sit down for dinner and look at one another. Sometimes people are so busy, they don’t stop to look and listen. If we did, maybe there would be less complaining and more understanding. Maybe there would be more reasons to love and celebrate the gifts that we have. Sometimes it is easy to forget that the most precious gifts aren’t material.
You can’t buy them. Well, you can’t buy authentic ones-- friends and family. But it is also strange that many of us often take these most precious gifts for granted. Fortunately, true friends and family are also the most forgiving. They are the shoulders we cry on when things go wrong, the ears we vent to when we are really mad and the eyes we smile at when things are just right.

May today be a “just right kind of day.”

I am blessed to live a small, quaint community that is relatively safe and that pulls together during times of need. I am blessed to have a family that cherishes me even when I am not so charitable or forgiving. I am blessed to be able to complain and to want and to celebrate my triumphs in life. I am blessed to have family and friends and a day that celebrates them all.

Another day, another-- well, another day

2006-11-21T22:41:00.000-08:00

First of all, thanks to all of you who gave me some absolutely fabulous advice on the parent-teacher fiasco. I really am trying to become more positive because if I get an attitude about her school and her teacher, Maggie will pick up on it and get one too. It would be my greatest pleasure that she remain oblivious to my struggle with her teacher.

I've decided to meet with the principal and her teacher to discuss ways in which my daughter is best handled. A third, impartial authority would be good-- as it will help keep both of us from getting defensive. Plus, I'm enrolling her in Sylvan for help with her math-- that way she'll gain some confidence and succeed (without having to struggle with me:)

I do have good news. My husband was able to get Thanksgiving off-- an absolute gift to the kids. Each evening at dinner and before bed, my little ones pray for daddy to come home soon (and it just about breaks my heart), so they are on cloud nine because he was only gone three days this week instead of 4-5!

Also my mother called this morning with the best gift ever-- a weekend away without any kids or my husband (whom I love dearly, but he is not a shopper and this is a Mommy-daughter shopping trip!!!!) And so, I'm flying out to my home state of Texas for six glorious days and shopping, relaxing and having fun. I so need this. I get so depressed during the holidays because my family is a family of shoppers--and my husband is not. He is allergic to stores. And so, I have no one to shop with out here-- and I get so sad wandering the malls and looking at things with no one but my checkbook and a snooty sales person to talk to. Yes, I walk into Nordstrom's and actually hope a sales clerk asks if I need anything because I always answer an enthusiastic "yes" and then proceed to make her shop with me. I know, it's pathetic, but shopping alone is so depressing.

But this post is about the good stuff and I've got plenty of it. I spent the day sewing and made my little ladies some new PJs-- now I'm working on these scarves that look like stuffed animals choking the lives out of the wearers.

Have a great Thanksgiving-- if I don't get a chance to post again or visit blogs before Thursday.

I'm out of the corner

2006-11-20T14:36:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd update you all on my "terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day." Well, it turned out the conference wasn't too bad. This doesn't mean I am entirely pleased, but I can understand a few things from the teacher's standpoint.

The fact is my daughter is a day dreamer. I will agree with that. She also misinterprets "finish your work" to mean "hurry up and get it done." I see that in her for sure.

And what I decide to do with the school remains to be seen. We discussed ways of handling the situation, and if things get better, Maggie will stay. If not, I will home school-- which could be a disaster in itself because she definitely doesn't want to listen to me.

I am still angry about the hair, but it was me that had it cut-- not the teacher-- so I have to take responsibility for that decision. All the teacher did was make me feel nuts. Plus, I need to find some way to help Maggie handle her dad's long absences from home because that is definitely an area where her teacher doesn't "get it."

Well, that is enough for now. I was a little upset this morning. I feel better now, but I still have my eyes on her teacher. For most students she is probably a great teacher. Other parents love her, but I'm not her biggest fan. Oh well, I'm trying to be positive and teach my daughter to learn from this situation-- and to see where she can improve (because there is definitely room for that).

Excuse me while I suck my thumb

2006-11-20T05:45:00.000-08:00

Bah Humbug, but this is going to be a doozie of a day! I am preparing for what could be a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day, but who knows maybe I'll catch a break, the clouds will clear and the sunshine will pour into my world.

This morning at 8 a.m. I have my first major parent-teacher conference of the year. I say, major conference because my conferences with this teacher are so frequent that I must now rate them by level of seriousness. Lucky me, I've been meeting with said teacher every Thursday since the beginning of school so we can "discuss Maggie." This is one reason I've been MIA in bloggerspace.

Now you might think my Maggie must be a trouble maker, a mouthy child, a downright "at-risk" child to warrant so many conferences, but truth be told, she's a pretty good kid. She's empathetic, sweet, outgoing and smart. She's also a touch hyper and easily distracted-- though not to the point where it interferes with her work.

So what pray tell is this teacher's problem with my daughter? Maggie is a hair-chewer. It's a nervous habit brought on by a hatred of math. The more math you serve this child, the "crunchier" her hair becomes. I have tried nasty tasting hairspray, french braiding it and putting it up in topsy tails, but the child becomes so nervous she rips out the hairstyles and commences with her comfort food. Now, the more said teacher complains about Maggie's little habit, the more nervous she becomes and the more she chews.

My teacher's solution: move Maggie next to a kid with ADHD. Maggie cannot take distractions. She asked to be moved because this kid was destroying her school supplies. Her teacher told her to deal with it. And so Maggie became even more nervous and had trouble focusing in school. Her math skills deteriorated-- as did her confidence. And so, her teacher kept her in from recess so she could work on her math-- only no one was actually helping Maggie. She just sat in room all by herself and counted her fingers and toes.

My solution: after weeks of arguing with the teacher and explaining Maggie's home situation, I cut off my baby's beautiful (and I mean beautiful) long, blonde hair. Her hair was so beautiful; it looked fake. I know I should have fought like a mother bear-- I did. But in the long run, I was worn down. I had too many things to deal with and my daughter's hair was one thing I could control. Cut it off and the lady will shut up.

Now magically, her teacher has discovered that Maggie has trouble in math and needs help-- oh and that her classmate is a distraction.

I'd like to give that woman a refresher in listening skills (among other things).

And so today, I get to meet with said lady-- and my husband is stuck on duty so all three kids get to come along-- this should be fun!

I'd pull her from the school, but it is the best one on the Ridge. In the long run though it might not be the best one for my daughter, so I may end up pulling her out and homeschooling her.

Spoiled rotten

2006-11-15T13:46:00.000-08:00

That's right. I am spoiled beyond all hope, and though I try to dissuade those who love me from continuing with this immense amount of spoilage-- they just won't stop (not that I am really complaining-- I just don't want to turn green and fall apart). But alas, I am out of luck.

My dilemma started in August when my couch started taking people hostage. Yes, you needed a come-a-long to hoist you out. Then mysterious things started happening. My couch became a consumer of socks and other small articles of clothing-- library books too. If I did laundry and forgot about the booby-trapped nature of my couch, I'd have to flip the couch over and dig the socks out. I know you all think I'm kidding, but the sad truth is I actually had to cut a slit in the bottom of my couch so I could dig the socks out (somehow they'd ended up inside it). Then the springs in the couch cushions finally won their freedom and tried to make a run for the living room. This was the last straw I needed new furniture.

All summer I searched for the perfect set. I found plenty that would work, but I had trouble committing to them. You see, I'd fall in love with the colors and the squishiness of the cushions, but I couldn't bring myself to sign the check-- because I knew one thing was true: it would ultimately live in my house with my children. No decent self-respecting piece of high quality furniture should be subjected to the likes of my little girls.

And so, I looked all summer. I measured the length and the width of couches and quaint little chairs all summer and never bought a thing.

My husband came home and discovered that our rug had become two-dimensional and was now flat like a pancake.

Now during this time, a local swanky furniture store was going out of business and was full of deals that were not so great. I'd drooled over just about every couch in the building. Two days before the business closed its doors forever, I asked my husband to please look at this couch and tell me it was the ugliest thing he'd ever seen. I just needed him to say it. Tell me I'm impractical for liking the chairs too-- and the Pakistani handmade rug. tell me its all disgusting and completely unsuited for our house.

What did he do? He bought the whole lot -- and told me I'd have to wait on my 10-year-anniversary ring because I was currently sitting on the money he'd saved up to buy it.

And so, I am feeling completely spoiled-- and now a touch braggy-- I'm sorry about that one, but it is so nice to be able to sit down without getting poked in the tushy.

Vacant, lost and found

2006-10-25T09:52:00.001-07:00

When I was a child, my cousin Katie and I would hide on the kitchen steps and suck grape juice from our pink curlers. We'd sit with our shiny metal mugs filled with tart purple juice, stick our curlers into it, swirl it around and suck the juice from the curler.

It sounds disgusting now, but to a 4-year-old hiding out from Mom it was probably good, dirty kid fun.

And there was so much fun to be found at Grandpa's cabin.

Outside Katie and I would chase army ants with our Tonka trucks. In needle filled dirt, we'd sit in our overalls and push trenches through the red dirt. The ants scattered. In the distance, we could hear the forbidden creek wind its way down the moutain and away from my grandpa's cabin.

These were our summers in Butte Meadows. Sixteen people crammed into a four-bed room cabin. Pancakes, trips to the M&M store, army ants and pink curlers.

And then one day it was all gone.

My grandpa's heart couldn't take it any more.

On the day he'd decided to dig the new well by hand, he'd all but sold it in his head-- the cabin my great grandfather had built on Fetcher's Flat, the cabin my great uncle had taken down board by board when Sierra Pacific told the family the cabin had to go, and that same cabin my he'd added onto with his own hands.

He knew the only person who'd swing a shovel with him wasn't even his son, only a son-in-law that saw him as a father. He knew his own kids would be too busy reading books or going for walks, but he did it any way.

And one day in a fit of rage, he threw his shovel down and sold the cabin for pennies to a young guy in his 20s.

I cried as we drove away, wishing my father had lived closer so grandpa would have had some help.

For 29 years I watched as another man lived in that cabin with his partner. I waited for them to change it. Paint it purple, tear down the bunk houses-- anything-- just make it "not ours." But they never did. They never even gave it a new roof-- only let the termites dine on it and the rats dance on my great-grandmother's iron bed under the stairs.

This weekend I drove to my mother's cabin just down the road from "the old cabin."There was a sale pending sign in front. He hadn't even called us though we had a place just miles away.Was he bitter because the history everyone knew wasn't his "history?" For 29 years he'd known of three grown adults, five little girls and two boys who wanted it back, and yet he didn't call.

I went to visit him. I wasn't going to, but my daughter wanted to walk through "our ancestor's cabin." Tears in my eyes, I called up to him. He was on the roof.

I was sort of surprised that he let me tour the old cabin. I ws more surprised he'd kept it preserved like a museum. Nothing had changed-- not even the furniture.

"I hope this sale goes through because I don't want to have moved all my furniture out for nothing," he said.

The way he emphasized "My" felt like a be twisting it's stinger in my arm, and I think I visbily flinched-- grandma's chair, the funny side table, the swirly double bed headboard upstairs.

"I've lived here for 29 years," he said. "My parents visited, my grandparents visited-- why do you want this cabin?"

"My grandfather built it," I said.

And this is when I realized, my cabin was real estate. It wasn't a shrine. I wanted it-- my heart ached I wanted it so badly, but as I looked at the termite damage and felt the spongey floors, I realized it would cost me my house. Would I trade my children's home for pink curlers on the kitchen steps?

No. I couldn't do it by myself, but my cousins and I could go in on the cabin together-- or maybe my mother could help me.

The guy said he might be able to push it out of escrow because the buyers were having trouble getting a loan.

I called my family and told them the good news. No one was interested.

And so, what could I do?

I walked through one last time and looked at that cabin as though I was four years old-- the narrow steps, the pine cabinets, the view of the creek, grandma's chair. It would all be gone next week, and I'd never be able to walk through this "shrine" again because the man was taking it with him-- all the contents-- and the new owners were a young family who would no doubt change it and make it their own.

I was glad. If it were changed, somehow it wouldn't be lost to me.

So much for conclusions!

2006-10-11T09:14:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to drop in for a sec before I take off again.

Last week my husband went duck hunting. It's his annual hunting trip with the boys. I'm not exactly sure what they do their. I can only imagine them sitting around a campfire comparing their plastic duck farms. Some people call these farms decoys, but I really think the men never quite matured past the playing with "Little People" stage of life. These guys have as many types of ducks as Barbie has outfits. We've got enticing ducks, swimming ducks, duck butts (feeding ducks), sleeping ducks, mega ducks, walking ducks, roto ducks that sort of fly and confidence ducks. Each serve some sort of twisted purpose in this sport of duck hunting.

Anyway, my husband came home after six weeks away, ordered a mountain of dirt for our presod lawn and then promptly left for his trip-- you got it after only four days at home. Strangely, I was OK with this trip. What I didn't count on were my children wigging out because dad was MIA-- again. Crying, fighting and back-talking were the words of the day. By the time he returned from his extended weekend of drinking, shooting at things and playing with fire, I was an angry woman.

"So did you have a good time?"I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Thanks for letting me go."
"Well, I'm glad for you. I really am because while you were gone the kids completely flipped out. they got mouthy. They wouldn't clean their rooms. You know all I want is a clean house and a happy family, but I can't have that because they are angry and won't pick up after themselves. All they wanted was you and I couldn't give it to them." (15 minutes later I stopped talking and took a bath).

I was doubly angery because a dear friend had died the day before he left on his trip and I couldn't find a sitter so I could go to the funeral. I tried going with three kids in tow, but my 2-year-old acted like a 2-year-old so I had to leave.And so I was mad about that too.

And so, my husband feels guilty. What do husbands do when they feel guilty? They lay sod and decide to plan a vacation.

Now I have a gorgeous lawn, and we're leaving for Oregon today to go to Coos Bay and Newport. Sorry Oregon buddies it was so spur of the moment, I didn't get a chance to contact anyone. However, I don't think he'd be game for socializing anyway. He thinks this blogging thing is bizarre and unhealthy. Oh well!

I hope to catch up on blog reading before I leave, but I probably won't get to read much if any because I have to pack-- and pay attention to my duck-killing husband.

PS-- If there are errors in this text, please don't point them out-- I haven't edited or even read this post (as I didn't on the other one). I'm just trying to keep this blog on life support until I can be a good blogging buddy again.

What a week!

2006-10-05T10:50:00.000-07:00

I feel like a squirrel who can't remember where he buried the nuts. It's been a sundae of a week-- chilly, sweet, syrupy and full of a bunch of nuts. Brain freeze is the word of the day.

Anyway, the good news is my husband FINALLY came home. The bad news is I had to get out of my bunny slippers and clean the house.

And so he walked through the door and I'd like to say the house sparkled like the Mr. Clean was my personal bald-headed servant, but my house only looked like it was on the verge of inhabitablity 9I don't know if that is a word, but it works for me). The floors were clean, but dull. The counters-- dull. The clutter-- still existed. The kids' rooms-- unvaccumed. The laundry pile-- contained to the laundry room. Oh well, welcome home honey. I need some sleep.

Of course, I didn't get any. My husband barely got any-- and no it wasn't because he just got home and we had "a lot of catching up to do." No Nikki-- the 2-year-old terror-- decided she wanted to sleep with Daddy. Our night was a revolving door, a carousel with squeaky door music and a kid that didn't want to ride and two parents who just wanted off. By 3:30 a.m. she was snug in our bed and hubby was in a recliner. I know shame, shame, shame. Super Nanny would not be proud, but we just got too darn"dizzy" and who can think straigh in a fog.

Out of the fog and into our presod lawn we went the next day. Yes, hubbers decided we needed a couple truckloads of worm dirt so he could spend the day shoveling. I dressed the kids in mud clothes and tossed them into the mountain of madness. They were black within an hour. My dull floors looked like fancy marble (until you walked on them and realized that was dirt swirled on the wood and tile).

The sod gets delivered on Monday!!! It only took five years, but I'm finally getting a lawn.

The rest of the week was spent studying for Spanish. I had an exam and a paper due this week-- yikes! And so I stayed up late every night so I could study. My poor husband spent the week doing dad duty. He got up early, dressed the kids. packed their lunches and shipped two of them off to school. Then he did homework with Maggie at night. He even volunteered at the school and-- cleaned the house.

I must say I am the luckiest gal in the world.

Oh yeah and did I mention he is H-O-T--- HOT!!! A summer fighting fires does a body good. Of course I am now the girl in the mall with the hot guy-- and every wonders "how did SHE get him?" I ask myself this every day.

I have to go I will conclude later.

Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies

2006-09-28T16:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes as a parent it is hard to remember to listen first and judge later-- especially when it comes to parenting a two-year-old that equates pinching with signs of affection. Yes, for the past few weeks, she has taken to pinching and slapping those she loves most-- thus making my arms all splotchy and my house a noisy household of tattletale.

"MAWWWM!!!" weeps the ever melodramatic half-cry/half fainting scream of my 7-year-old. "Nikki pinched me." collapse, fall on the floor, cover face and cry like you just lost the Oscar.

Instinctively, I wanted to shake her senseless. I mean get a grip. She's two-years-old and Maggie Moo has been torturing her since she was a baby. The child probably thinks being held down and tickled for a half-hour straight is how you're supposed to say "Good Morning."

I didn't push the injured drama queen for crying so loudly I needed three ibuprofens. No, I talked to Nikki.

"I like her," was all she said and she didn't understand why she should say she was sorry for liking her with a pinch. Yes, my dear readers this is going to take time and a lot of patience-- and bottles of Advil and Martini and Rossi.

So you'd think I'd listen to dear Nikki, knowing she thinks a little differently than the rest of us, but no.

The other day I thought I'd treat the kids to a museum trip, and as we headed from Paradise down the Skyway (I kid you not I live in Paradise and to get there you have to take "Skyway"-- cracks me up every morning).

So we are driving away from Paradise and into the blazing hot dungeons of "the valley" when Nikki rolls down her window. Fighting commences. Headache creeps up (it's what I get for turning my back on Paradise I tell you). And pink flip flop flies out the window.

"MAAAWMMM!!! Nikki THREW her flip-flop out the window!!!!" Maggie yelled.

Now ladies and gentlemen this is THE flip flop. It's the teddy bear of shoes. She even sleeps with it. Plus, it is the ONLY shoe she will wear.

"Oh that's too bad," I said. "Why did you do that?"

sobs. "My fip-fop. My fip-fop," she cried. "Mommy get it. Get fip fop."

"Well why did you throw it out the window?" I asked. "If you really loved it, you wouldn't have thrown it out the window. I'm sorry, but you are going to have to live with this one. You threw it. You lost it."

More crying.

And some more.

And then I came to my senses. She is two-- why would she throw her prized shoe out the window? Does this sound like something Nikki would do? No. She'd throw her sister's prized possessions out the window, but she wouldn't part with even one Barbie shoe of her own even if it was to the poorest child in the universe who had nothing but a broken cup. No this is my greedy girl.

Suddenly I felt a little bad.

"Nikki what happened?" I asked.

"My fip-fop fy away," she cried.

I turned to look at her sister through the rearview mirror.

"Maggie," I said with a slight irritation in my voice. "What happened? Did Nikki take off her shoe and throw it out the window or--- did the window somehow -- I don't know-- roll down-- on her and her shoe fly off her foot?"

Maggie slouched down in her seat.

We drove around to look for the shoe, but Skyway is a busy road-- lots of people want to get in and out of Paradise. And so the fip-fop has been sucked into the canyon. We are litter-ers.

Nikki is shoe-less and sleeping with her lone flip flop.

And I got a lesson in parental listening. Nikki may be a pincher but she is a greedy pincher, so don't assume the worst.

Maggie might be pinched but she is a 7-year-old pinched kid with time to plan her revenge-- or maybe not. I don't know if I'll ever know what transpired in the back of this car, and at this point, I'm not asking questions.

No I haven't died or fallen off the face of the Earth

2006-09-26T23:16:00.000-07:00

No my dear readers you won't have to look for my face on "Without a Trace." I am indeed alive and reasonably well-- though a little confused.

You see a couple of weeks ago, I was given the task of doing the purse Meme, a delightful Meme requiring me to share the ever impressive contents of my purse. Easy. Easy. Easy-- until I got to the "post a photo part" because well my camera happens to be the only thing resting in peace in this household.

But I wanted to be a good blogger. Hell, I wanted to be a "professional blogger." I wanted to be able to blog eight hours a day, five days a week and look like I know what I'm doing. Oh the dreams-- pretty blogger template with pictures and stories updated daily. I could sell T-shirts and give out advice on the side. Of course there would be a book deal and later a blogger talk show where I'd interview Super Mommy, Babaloo and the entire cast of "As the Stomach Turns." Fantasies-- they're only good between midnight and 3 a.m.

Oh pickles I needed that camera. The camera was holding me back. And those people making all that noise-- darnit they had to go. Must they always hit each other? Do their feet really have to be that noisy? I mean is it necessary for me to hear each and every footstep.

AND-- they are always hungry, and they think I should feed them dinner when I'm trying to get my camera to fulfill my dreams. Jimmney Cricket! What am I the maid?

No, I'm the Mom and survey says "One day guilt will take over and I'll remember I'm the Mom and kids have been eating popcorn for the last two days." (CPS: this was an exaggeration. They had cereal-- I think).

OK so one day I woke up and realized the laundry pile had crept down the hall and the refrigerator was having friends over for dinner. If I didn't do something soon, the mold would sprout legs and the frig would take to walking.

But did I do anything. No, I was too stressed so did what I do when things get too stressful--I read blog after blog. Then I realized it was quiet. Now those of you who have children know the sure sign that evil is upon us is a quiet house. It all boils down to one simple equation (silence+ 3kids + shaving cream - razor blades + black cat * brand new tube of expensive mascara / new carpeting (absent father = blogging mother)= three children that look like a the stay puffed marshmallow family with black splotches on their faces and an angry white cat)

Later taht evening, I thought I'd take a bath. Usually the sound of running water is the homing device for my three kids, the cat and the telephone because everyone knows all motherly baths require an audience. Plus, important phone calls only come when you are chin high in bubbles.

But the kids never came. This was weird. I began to worry. Then I heard the screaming. My 2-year-old was wandering through the house. Her arms stretched out like Frankenstein and her lip quivering like the little baby she is.

And so with only bubbles for a dress, I went to her.

"What's the matter, Nik-a-bok?"
"I-I-I can't find you," she said. "You not in the cu-ter room. You not there. Com-com-com- fu-ter you not there."
"I was in the bath," I said.
"I don't like you cu-ter," she said. "I wan chew. I-I-I wan chew-pease. pease Mommy. pease."

And so for the last 12 days, I've forgotten about the camera and decided to go through detox. She has gotten me to herself. We've lost a pink flip flip, visited museums, built a bird house, made lots of brownies and played maid (my version of child labor). It hasn't been easy. My hands have itched with the need to find out what is going on in your worlds.

But I forced myself to take this short break because let's face it blogging is an addiction. I love to read about other people's lives and to connect and to get to "talk" to adults. My husband has been gone for more than a month. I've been stressing big time over Spanish, and I've been working. For me blogging was an escape from all the pressure. Darnit but I do love it.

And so I just took a break. Those of you who have followed this blog for a while know this is a frequent habit. I'm a sucker for guilt. But it is the guilt that keeps me grounded-- and from falling off the Earth. Come back Thursday when I tell the tale of the missing flip-flop.

Memefied again-- this time my purse is an open book

2006-09-15T09:57:00.000-07:00

It is said you can tell a lot by a woman by the contents of her purse, which is why for years I didn't carry a purse or if I did it was the size of a ziplock sandwich bag and only contained my driver's license and a wad of crumpled dollar bills.

Kids change everything. Now I must carry a purse. I can't just hand my husband my driver's license so it's available on the off chance a waiter wants to card a 33-year-old woman. No I have to be prepared.

Six months ago, my purse looked like a piece of carry-on luggage, but now that my youngest is nearly potty trained (or so I dream-- my purse thinks she is, but my trunk says otherwise) I have gone back to carrying a small purse-- and today you will learn the contents of said purse because Super mommy (Sandy) tagged me. I'd link you, but I don't know how to. She'll probably comment, so click on her profile and visit her site. It's super funny.

Now about that purse.

This purse's sole duty is to carry receipts-- lots of them. I have 23 at present-- 15 long grocery receipts, two for shoes, three back to school variety, one for a Jacuzzi suite at the Oxford Suites (left over from my anniversary nearly a month ago), one for a oh- my- gosh- I- forgot- it- was- today- birthday present and one from the Dollar Store because I refuse to spend $8 for a gift bag. Why do I keep said receipts? Because I worked retail when I was in my early 20s so I know how important receipts are. Besides you never know when you might need to return a box of Captain Crunch.

The receipts serve another purpose-- to smother all items necessary to procure additional goods (my driver's license, credit card, bank card and on occasion checkbook).

This is my budgetary rational. If I can't find the cards, I can't spend the money or at least I have to think it over as I spill the contents of my purse (including all those receipts) onto the department store counter so I can find my bent-by-a-kid bank card and buy a new pair of shoes.

I rarely carry cash. I have 67 cents in my purse today (36 of which are pennies).

What else might you find? You won't find a pen or if you do it won't work. You might find a pencil or a crayon though because those seem to be easier to find in my house. Chances are the pencil lead is broken and the crayon is partially melted.

You'll find my fishing license because should I get stranded I don't want Fish and Game to fine me for feeding myself without the proper documents in place.

Now who to tag? Hmm? Kigo gal, Karmyn and Social Worker Frustrated Mom- have at it.
And finally I have a pink comb, two kid hair bobs and an old dried out wiper for emergency kid cleaning.

Come back tomorrow when I complete the Meme and actually post a photo. I have to work out the logistics as my camera battery is still not charged, and if I use a film camera, you'll have to return in 10 years see the picture-- because that's when I'll finally get around to developing the film

Images trapped in an ashy grave

2006-09-10T09:26:00.000-07:00

For me it was a shoe- a brown woman’s flat with creases across the toe. On a pile of twisted steel and ash, surrounded by computer paper and smoke blowing in the breeze, it lay cast aside and missing its mate. The shoe was real-- the rest: too horrific for comprehension.

I’d never been to New York, and I’d never met her people. Her subways and fancy buildings were the things of movies. But the shoe I knew the shoe and the back of the firefighter’s helmets.

How many times had I searched the backs of helmets, looking for the familiar name “Sitter-- Co. 33,” my husband’s name? That day he was off fighting another fire. I knew he wasn’t there, but I still searched. It’s instinctive to read the helmets. There goes somebody’s son, somebody else’s husband and father into the tower. Good they’ll save those people. These men and women know no fear. I was so proud of them that day. These were the heroes who would make it all better.

What happened seemed incomprehensible.

The building fell. It wasn’t supposed to fall. In even the most terrifying nightmares there is still hope, but for the building to fall? Buildings don't fall and crush people. They don't. It couldn't be. The firefighters-- they were there. They were inside. The people-- all those people.

A scream-- what more could I do? I was just a helpless observer 3,00 miles away. It was helpless to tell them not to go, to stay out of the still standing, faltering tower. I knew no crumbling tower would deter them. They’d keep going because that is what they do-- their brothers and sisters were inside. It was personal.

Heroes possess this drive that makes them keep fighting. They store up their grief in little boxes and keep going-- how do they do it? What tears they couldn’t cry that day-- no time for tears or even a scream.

And I thought of all the grief-- so small compared to this-- that my own husband held deep within himself, managing to go on-- a 2-year-old who drowned in a septic tank, the truck full of teenagers whose truck flipped, mangled bodies for him to see, the couple who crashed on Humboldt Road. He was the first at scene that day, and he was so young -- 23? I think. The woman was begging him to help her husband, but he could do nothing. Grey matter was all over. The man was crushed, and my husband tried. He put on a show, but he knew he could do nothing, but for her he tried. He came home quiet. He does this once in a while. Never sharing what horrors he’d seen-- what people he couldn’t help.

And so I knew the firefighters would continue to run toward the burning crumbled building-- a desperate run toward what they knew would be their death. I knew they’d flood to the other one still standing but faltering. I knew because deep in their hearts there is so much hope, so much fight. They can save the day, right? They don’t crumble with the ashes. They don’t fall beside a discarded shoe of some unknown woman.

But they did.

And when they did, I imagined so many women searching the backs of the helmets-- only these woman weren’t hoping for a roadside wave or a glimpse of their loved one on TV. They were hoping for signs of life.

This was the day my children started sleeping with me-- though I really didn’t sleep for weeks because every time I closed my eyes I saw the shoe-- a woman’s shoe, comfortable and alone. I couldn’t see the towers or the helmets anymore. Those images were too painful. My mind couldn’t comprehend the Pentagon-- our nations first line of defense, the place that keeps us safe-- with a big hole burning. A field in Pennsylvania -- much too painful.

I could block all that out, but not the shoe. The shoe was personal, mundane and out of place in this surreal nightmare of planes flying into buildings, towers crumbling and twisted steel burning.

And so I slept with my Maggie-- though I didn’t really sleep. I tried not to shut my eyes because the shoe made it all real.

For other stories about September 11, please visit your fellow bloggers and share your memories. There is also a collection at www.bloggingchicks.blogspot.com.

Lost and Found?

2006-09-07T20:01:00.000-07:00

I would rather have loved and lost
than to have lost my mind

trying to hold on to something I can't have.

Take the 30-day test drive

2006-09-04T17:48:00.000-07:00

The other day I came across an ad informing me that I could try out a mattress for 30 days and if I wasn’t satisfied, I could return it for a full refund.

Now that is just disgusting. Who wants a used mattress?

Somewhere in this world there must be a warehouse peddling 30-day-old reject mattresses.

Are these what some places call reconditioned mattresses? Hmm? Kind of makes you think, huh? You may have gotten a bargain when you bought that pillow toped wonder, but did you bargain to be sleeping where Billy Ray and Norma slept?

Of course, if it was a previously owned celebrity mattress, maybe those of us who are say overly star struck would be tempted to take a roll in the hay. Could even be an asset.

Imagine this: Young Robby Cartwright has finally found what he hopes is his first love-- only Robby isn’t the smoothest tool in the tackle box.
So he goes up to Miss Emily Post and says, “You wanna sit on that? Britney Spears once owned it. Really. This is one special mattress.”

Miss Emily is not of the star struck variety and realizes the mattress is what it is-- full of nasty little germs (They all are. This in no way implies that Britney Spears has a germy mattress) and leaves immediately.

And so this ad got me thinking. If we can return mattresses, why can’t we have a 30-day trial on other things?

For instance, all cars run perfectly on the car lot. They are shiny and next to some of the cars I’ve seen around town, they are visions of the good life-- while on the lot anyway.

When my husband and I shopped for our most recently deceased car, he stepped onto the car lot and was immediately transferred to his pretend life. In his pretend life, we camp and own an RV, boat and a couple of quads. We need a sturdy SUV for hauling stuff. We’re haulers and campers and adventurers. He needs a tow strap, a V-8 and three rows of seats.

And we need a truck because we can haul stuff in that too. All the time. Hauling is our No.1 favorite activity. If my husband could own a dump truck, he’d have one so he could move our leaves and pine needles around all day.

Unfortunately, this is not our reality. I camp-- sometimes. Actually, I am camping at this very moment because I have 30 days to try out my tent before it’s too late to return it to K-Mart and I want to get every second in to make sure “it’s the one.”

Anyway, my husband bought me this enormous gas-guzzling Expedition and we never went on any expeditions-- until I convinced him to sell it.

Now if we’d had the 30-day money back guarantee, I could have used the 30 days to show him the errors of his ways (mainly the gas receipts).

Other things I think should come with guarantees are fresh flowers. Do you know how many times I’ve received flowers only to have them wrinkle up and die on me?
I say if the flowers turn brown before the week is up, send them back.

I can see where this could go wrong though.

Billy Ray takes Norma Jean out on a date and gives her this enormous bouquet of flowers. Norma is thrilled. How generous of her sweetie!

Then just as he goes in for a kiss goodnight (before telling her about his genuine pre-owned celebrity mattress), he says, “Now, Norma I need those flowers back. You liked them right, but they have to be back by noon tomorrow or they are going to charge my VISA card.”

Terrible, huh?

But you know, you really don’t need a 30-day guarantee on all things.

Be resourceful.

Do like my mother and I did one Valentines Day.

There we were standing in Rite Aide and looking at all the Valentines when I said, “Hey mom, if I were to send you a card, I’d send you this one.”

Now I am ashamed to say we call each other on our cell phones and read cards to each other just prior to the holidays.

And we have never been disappointed.

* previously published in the Paradise Post 8-12-06-- and here today because I'm too lazy to be creative at the moment.

The Grandfather Clock

2006-08-29T23:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I stare at the wall and try to see your face. I focus
beyond the bump of white plaster, beyond
the tick of my grandfather clock, and into the glow
of my own eyes--tired eyes that want to stare no more,
want to feel the loss of evening no more. I see
you---in the frame, somewhere, back in the month of minnows
and Minnesota bass. The day I sat
on rocks near poison oak and Aspen,
I watched you that day.
Your arms scared with winter
hunting, forced the fly rod back and forth
like the arms of my grandfather clock,
the line moved through the air,
and I waited for the buzz of the mosquito and the cool
shade of night when I'd no longer sit
on the edge. When you'd look
away from the folds of this river, and see me,
my fingers slimy with minnows. See me take
the minnows and lead them to the hook-- just like you
showed me: "hook to head,"
but your line moves through the air into the Mississippi
It's then when the night falls to day, and you
vanish with the chime of the clock.

An abridged Tale

2006-08-25T16:45:00.000-07:00

It seems as if I went in a fog, I know I was there last week frolicking in the redwoods with my little girls, but it seems so distant today. I started grad school this week. I've been looking for a good preschool for my little ones.

Was my trip all just a good dream? What did I do in that dream?

Let’s see. I think I’ll go back and re-read Friday’s post so I can remember where I left off.

Oh yes, I think I’ll finish with the last of my messy business and then go onto the good stuff (or I'll do a short report on the good stuff because well it's boring mushy stuff).

While camping, I learned that all good deeds never go unpunished. I had just finished day one with my kids. We’d spent the day by a creek and I’d happily let them roll around in the sand and get all dirty. For my efforts, I was sandy, suburned, but relaxed-- and oh so content.

On the way back from the river, I met this old man who proved to me that chivalry still exists. You see, my husband had sent me with his better, more efficient camping equipment-- the tent I couldn’t set up and this one burner stove I couldn’t light. Not being shy, I hailed down the old man and asked for his help. He tried. Nothing happened. We read the instructions. We followed the instructions. Nothing. Finally we decided it just didn’t work. There must be a secret fireman’s code to get it to stay lit. But at least now I'd made a friend. He was nice enough to check up on me every once in a while and to shoo my 7-year-old back to my camp whenever she took to wandering in the forest.

And so, instead of using the stove, I went primitive and cooked over the campfire (for real). Way back when I was still young and all my parts hung out int he right places, I used to camp and cook over a fire. It was exhilerating to be that close to nature. Now, with kids I didn't want to do this because the girls my be their dad who loves to play with fire.

That night, I went to bed happy, knowing that I wasn't completely alone. This other person knew we were here --if the bears came in the night and ate us someone would notice before the stink set in.

Later that night I heard a growling noise. It was loud, rumbly and coming from inside the tent. Nikki’s tummy was apparently trying to eat her esophagus in her sleep. I should have let sleeping babies lie. She wasn’t asking for a sippy of milk. She wasn’t even awake, but I got this warm fuzzy good mother feeling and decided it would be a good to make her some Ovaltine by flashlight.

With flashlight in hand, I opened the trunk and the ice chest-- setting the flash light and keys on top of some newspapers ( don’t forget those keys, I thought to myself). And so I made the sippy, took out a jug of water in case the other two woke up thirsty-- and then I looked up at this amazing sky.

Way up there a million fireflies burned just for me-- wow.

And then I shut the trunk. "Beep beep" went my car, signaling that it was safely tucked in for the night. Did I mention my keys were still inside the trunk? Darn those auspicious stars!

Not to worry. I have roadside assistance through Subaru. And so, I snuggled between Abby and Nikki, knowing everything would be OK.

The next morning I got up early, wrote my roadside assistance information down and waited for the forest ranger to make his rounds. I didn’t have to wait long. This forest service employee (boy who looked like he’d spent too may days surfing) pulled into the bathroom lot and I ran up to stalk him as he came out.

I explained my dilemma and he said he’d call the ranger.

“Uh I can’t get a good signal,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Wait,” I said. “I don’t get cell service out here. Do you have a phone where you work?”
“Yeah, but I’m not going there right now,” he said.
“That’s OK I can wait,” I said. “If I give you the information, will you just call my roadside service and have them send someone out here. I can wait as long as I know someone is coming.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said.
“Please, promise me you will not forget because I have three small children and we need your help,” I said.
“Yeah, I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“Just don’t forget,” I said.
“Are you checking out today?” he asked.
“No, I’m leaving tomorrow,” I said.
“I’ve got you down for today because you owe $3,” he said.
“You didn’t have a campground host and I didn’t have change,” I said. “I went to the store last night for change, but it was late when we got back so I figured I’d settle up in the morning.”
“Well, I need that money or you have to leave by noon,” he said.
“I will -- if I have my keys,” I said. “Don’t forget to make the call.”

Moments later the ranger appeared on scene. I gave him my information and he said that apparently I didn’t have roadside service (which I do-- the receipt is in the glove box, but that is beside the point. I needed those keys.) I made the mistake of telling him how much cash I had on-hand (not that I think he is unscrupulous-- I just think he told the tow company-- who in turn charged me the exact amount I had on hand $140 for five minutes work).

But I had my keys-- yeah!

I drove the kids to Heddywoods State Park where we explored the redwoods.

We visited Casper Beach several times and I played with the girls in the waves, built sand castles and searched for sea shells and pretty rocks. We roasted hot dogs on Van Damme Beachduring the day and then returned at night to roast smores -- right there on the beach-- at night with the ocean breeze and a night sky that stretched to the edge of the Earth.

Other activities included: riding the Skunk Train, going to Glass Beach, Merkerricher State Park to visit the seals and visits/tours of a bunch of light houses.

Each one of these events could be a chapter or a post, but I know you all have busy lives so I’ll finished up with a short discussion on smores over the campfire.

I grew closer to my daughters around the campfire with the flames hypnotizing them into quietness. We talked like mothers and daughters should talk. We roasted marshmallows and I just let them do it. If they burned them, so be it. Blackened marshmallows are a delicacy, I said. It was so peaceful-- and in that moment surrounded by my loves, I knew I was doing something right. I am a good mother -- I think that is the first time I have ever thought that.

Memefied

2006-08-22T13:09:00.000-07:00

Well folks SWFM memefied me so part II of my story will be put on hold until Thursday. Warning: I don't feel the least bit witty or interesting.

1. One book that changed your life? The River Why- the book was the bait that finally caught me. I was sick and my husband (then just annoying boy) brought me the book to read. I rolled my eyes-- opened the book and couldn't stop laughing. And so he caught himself a wife

2. One book you have read more than once?"Lord of the Flies" and I swear I'm living the book every day-- pass the conch shell

3. One book you would want on a desert island? Primitive WIlderness Living & Survival Skills: Naked Into the Wilderness

4. One book that made you laugh? Walter the Farting Dog (it's a kid's book)

5. One book that made you cry? "Gone with the Wind"

6. One book you wish had been written? R&J are Dead (not a fan of Romeo and Juliet--good monologues and scenes-- disjointed play-- sorry I swear Shakespear had to be joking and so if I ever write a book-- let's just say I'll pay tribute to the Bard and his little melodrama)

7. One book you wish had never been written? The Feminine Mystique-- interesting book but it made me bitter when I was younger. I don't know if I'd feel that way today-- or maybe Finnegan's Wake because if I open it, I can't help analyzing it and one page will take me days.

8. One book you are currently reading? Selected readings of Jose Marti-- for grad school It's a little dry and it rubs me the wrong way-- maybe it will get better

9. One book you have been meaning to read? the owners manuel to my printer-- it's not working

Honey I'm home

2006-08-18T19:25:00.000-07:00

Did we get to where we were going? Did we find a place to stay or rot on the beach with the seaweed?
And so we were off to the races-- zooming for nearly four hours when I decided hmm? Things just didn’t look right. Where is the ocean? Where are the redwoods?
I was planning on staying at Navarro Beach or at Paul Dimmit Campground both of which are first come first served-- perfect for non planners like myself. When I arrived in Willits, I stopped in at a convenience store and just for grins asked where it was.

I swear I heard evil-sounding music playing in the background as the clerk smiled and said “it’s about a two-hour drive, but don’t worry it doesn’t get dark until nine o’clock.”

It was close to 6 p.m.

So I drive down the windy road from hell and swung in at every campground and asked for lodging. I now know how Joseph and Mary felt-- only I wasn’t in labor and I wasn’t riding on a donkey. No, I just had three hungry kids in the backseat who’d been riding for five hours. Such rejection.

One campground host gave me new directions, adding “Just don’t go over the bridge. Whatever you do don’t go over the bridge and stay on this side of the river.”

Now if you have ever been to Mendocino, you will know the two things it is not lacking in are bridges and rivers, so when I came to a bridge a half a mile up the road, I obediently turned around, drove for a while and then decided to try out every street on the right hand side.

I saw homes, woods, air ports, but no campgrounds with vacancies.

Then after saying some very unladylike words, I crossed the bridge. On the other side of the bridge was the answer to my prayers-- the street the campground was on (grrrr).

I got there just as the sun went down and promptly forgot how to set up my husband’s easier dome tent. I was used to doing construction when I set up my tent and he gave me something that just pops up. Finally I broke down and asked for help-- to which I heard “Where is her husband? What kind of woman goes camping without her husband?”

GRRRR! But they helped. There is a God and He heard my prayers.

And so I wiped up some oatmeal and sent the kids to bed.

It was a cold and balmy night on the Mendocino Coast-- so cold in fact that my children tried to use me for an extra blanket. Damn! Nobody told me it was cold here. I thought the coast-- warm in the day; chilly at night. Not-- must bring sweatshirts and real shoes. We are flip-flop and tank top kind of people during the summer. And so I must admit day one amounted to clothes shopping.

I think they should rename the area Spendocino because even the most basic sweatshirt costs $50 which I refuse to pay just so my kids could smear wet sand and marshmallows all over it.

Fortunately I found a Mexican imports store and bought the little ones sweat suits. My older kid wouldn’t go for it. Apparently the tween superficial enforcement agency has brainwashed her into name brand world of cool. She was destined for many chilly nights as I refused to bend to her ridiculous desire to wear O’Neil.

Three chilly days later she found an acceptable sweatshirt at a hip-looking souvenir shop-- either that or she was broken by the chill of night.

They wore those shirts until the shirts practically stood up on their own. Then I got a tip and went to Longs where we stocked up on sweatshirts and blankets-- does everyone in Fort Bragg shop at the pharmacy?

BTW Longs is apparently an acceptable clothing store for tweens because she didn’t even smirk when I threw the clothes, socks and underwear into the basket.

Underwear? You ask. Didn’t you bring underwear?

Yes, of course I did. But you see, nothing dries here in Fort Bragg either and I -- silly me-- left the spout open on the ice chest and it leaked all over my laundry (yes, mother I did laundry while on vacation-- it’s shocking).

Now Mendocino/Fort Bragg is known for its redwood forest, ocean and-- wine tasting? There are vineyards everywhere and I didn’t get a drop-- and boy did I need a drop.

The kids were too crispy for civilized people. We stayed near other crispy campers-- the ones I used to be afraid of when I went into downtown because I swore they were going to ask me for my spare change. Word to the wise-- they are just campers, poor shower-less campers and they all have soot on their faces and marshmallows in their hair.

Anyway you all didn’t come to hear about the pharmacy or weather habits of Fort Bragg/ Mendocino-- and quite frankly I don’t want to relive the weather, so I’ll break this up a little and will post more on Tuesday-- as well as catch up on reading blogs.

As soon as I get pictures I will post them too. I'm horrible historian. My digital battery was DOA and I couldn't recharge it, so I took some pictures with my cellphone and bought a disposable camera (which died with seven pictures left to go. I think I got sand in it). If anything comes out alive, I'll post it.

It was a fantastic adventure. I had a great time-- promise. It’s mostly hugs and kisses from here on out.

See You in a Week-- I hope

2006-08-09T23:30:00.000-07:00

* If you get bored and miss me, you can catch my column this Saturday at www.paradisepost.com . Click on columnists. Hint I'm the one with the name Bonnie. This week's topic is 30-day guarantees on mattresses.

And now---

I have finally taken my head out of the oven and emerged with even fewer rational brain cells. Yes, I have decided to go camping-- again-- alone with the kids.

It's summer. I'm hot and I am incredibly bored. If I were to remain in my natural habitation (my computer room) I'd turn into Hewlett. You'd need a mouse to make me move and you'd have to talk to me in Java script. My kids practically already have to spell it out or I just don't comprehend. All conversations must be typed.

In the past I was only on the computer when I was working-- now I am "working" all the time. You all are an addiction, and I need to go into rehab.

And so, not because I don't love each and every one of you or because I don't find your daily habits to be an amazing study in darwinism, but because I'm starting to forget who is whom-- in my own house-- really I thought Nikki was Social Worker Frustrated Mother the other day. She is starting to look like the picture SWFM posts with her blog-- and so, I have decided I need to sleep with bears.

I need to get out of here and talk to my kiddies. They are my life's entertainment. My hearts happiness. And my eye's tears ( and crows feet) They've given me immeasurable gifts-- laugh lines. Frown Lines and big brown circles under my eyes.

It's time that I pay for all my gifts. We are off to make memories.

But before we go I will tell you one last story-- don't get too excited. It's not that great.

Once upon a time there was a perpetual planner who was terrible at her job. She really wanted to go to Oregon and check out the waterfalls, Mount Hood and the ocean. She really wanted to have a girls night/nobody's birthday soiree out with Kigogal.

She also wanted to go to Fort Bragg and walk on the glass beach, look at the redwoods and ride something called the Skunk Train.

But she was short on cash and didn't really want to camp because camping equated to work and work equated to frustration.
She really wanted to escape the dungeons of her master's castle. Her master was Lady Margaret and her two ladies in waiting, Nicole and Abigail. She really wanted to go to Fiji and get lost.

But her wages were meager. Her masters were demanding-- and they demanded that she take them with her.

And so she showed them pictures of all these exotic places and tried to sway them her way--but they didn't want to camp either.

She searched for some rustic cabins (cheap-- bring your own linens kinds of places).

And it was like Tinkerbelle came down from the sky- she found some in a lovely place called Sequoia National Forest. The land of the big trees you say. How lucky! No as it turns out, after our lovely planner paid for her passage, she discovered the trees were actually in Sequoia National PARK-- hours from her cabin which is really on a mountain top near Bakersfield (the armpit of hell).

With two days to spare, she paid a hefty fine, cancelled her reservations and found a place to stay for five nights in Fort Bragg.

Yes, she is camping. Only she never plans things easily. The five nights she could get are spread out at different camps. And for three days of her trip, she has no place to stay.

Yes, our little planner will be foraging for shelter for three of the nights she is away. You may see her family sleeping at the local rest stop with the truckers.

Will she come back in one piece?

Will she throw herself onto glass beach?

Will she stink up the skunk train because she forgot to bring quarters for the showers?

Will the ladies be pleased?

You will all have to wait because she hasn't planned that far ahead-- she doesn't even know how to get to Fort Bragg.

Take care and don't forget me. I'm planning on that.

My Mother Made Me Do It

2006-08-08T08:34:00.000-07:00

It is true posting a picture of yourself and your family on the Net is indeed dangerous, and my dear readers I have proof. My picture served as a homing device for --- dun-dun-dah-- my mother.

I have now become the poster child for why you should never post your face on the Net-- especially that picture, according to her.

"Your children are much cuter than that, and you simply looked awful," she said. "If you are going to post a picture, post one that makes you look good."

To which I thought, "Hmmm? Those college year swimsuit photos-- would that be considered false advertising by today's standards?"

"It didn't even look like you," she said.

That was the point.

And so, my mother like any good mother who doesn't want her grandchildren represented as half-naked just washed babes with their hands in their mouths, started searching for the picture-- the only other picture in existence that has all four of us together.

This is the same picture I didn't want to be in (notice no make up-- I guess you can't because it wouldn't upload) but my Nikki kept crawling away so I was forced to sit and hold her down. This is the same picture I don't have a copy of because I gave them all away -- by accident I swear. I really didn't mean too. As much as I detest having my picture taken, I would like one of the four of us-- heck I'd even include my husband and have an honest family photo.

And so my mother ripped it out of her frame, scanned it, emailed to me and then proceeded to tap her fingers in time-- waiting its arrival on my blog.

Unfortunately, the picture is also the only picture Blogger won't upload. For real, I'm not holding back (promise mom).

Have no fear, I am sure my mother in all her motherly pride will start her own blog complete with photos chronicling the lives of her dearly beloved-- want to see me in braces- what about that 80s hair? Want to see me minutes after pushing out a 10 pound baby? what about an 8 pounder? 9 ponder anyone?

Want to know for certain that my kids looked like prunes after they were born? Want to know for certain that Nikki is absolutely beautiful with eyes that are up to no good or that Abby looks like Holly Hobby or a precious moments doll? Want to see what my husband looks like-- well all you have to do is look at Maggie and her infectious smile and broad shoulders (of course, you can't here because I don't have any posted-- yet anyway).

Wedding photos anyone? I got dressed in the front yard (for real) the lighting inside was terrible. Bees flew up my dress and bit me on my booty as I said I do.

What about the handsome man I married but no one really knows exists because he is rarely seen? My mother has proof I'm not an unmarried mother of three.

You can be assured these will be there-- along with my college bikini photos because what mother is more proud of her daughter than when she looks good in a two piece-- for a moment anyway. I am of course kidding. I think I took the beach photos with me so I could be assured they never surfaced again.

Come back tomorrow when my mother sends the computer geek straight to my house, infiltrates my blog and posts the picture.

Clean and Happy Start

2006-08-04T11:27:00.000-07:00

After a crazy couple of weeks, I am happy to sayI washed all the stress down the drain and feel like a new woman (in a clean house).

I finished school and got an A in Spanish. My first Spanish column came out this week and got good reviews from those who read it.

Things are just better. I'm content and more relaxed-- and so I thought I'd introduce you to my little kiddies. Nikki is in the Tigger sweatshirt. Abby has a blue Tinkerbell shirt on and Maggie is in purple jammies-- I'm the lady in the polkadot jammies.

Please note: this is not a good picture. They are all much cuter in person and I am no where near as cute (picture Cruella DeVil with brown hair)

Part Two: How do I do it? You asked. And now I really have answered.

2006-08-02T05:02:00.000-07:00

And so---

I have put the kids in lock down.It is late July and the first signs of Summeritis have set in.

While out camping, I realized the symptoms-- the whining, the hysterical crying, constant irritability, insomnia and a fear of being touched by siblings. Oh but it is much more serious than I first thought, not only do they not understand a word I say to them but that they don't follow hand signals either-- perhaps I should get them tested for something else.

I also discovered the reasons I have been forsaking my cozy bed (that I never get to sleep in) for the hard cold mountain ground and a sleeping bag (I don't get to sleep in either).

It is because:
A.) the whininess of end of summer boredom compacted with the incessant fighting has made me crazy

B) the incessant boredom causes them to destroy my house and make it uninhabitable.

C) I'd rather be in association with wild beasts who could cart my children off in the night than to have to look at their messy rooms and to have to clean my house.

When I am away, I know my house is clean-- no one is throwing their wet bathing suit on the wood floors or coloring on the retaining wall outside.

And so, realizing that neither my house nor their rooms would get any better, I decided to put them on lock down (besides the outside of the house was not exactly clean either). This little problem needed containment.

I needed to quarantine the kids lest they infect others.They have offically become my prisoners of war.

First rule: prisonization. To do this, I decided to take God's advice and teach my children about the Golden Rule (do unto mother before she does unto you). Scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. No, honor your mother (BINGO).

Here is how it goes: if they want to eat, they must set the table and clear it (otherwise -- the kitchen is closed). If they want to go outside, the inside must be clean first. If they want to come inside, the otside must first be cleaned (I'll change that because then they'd never come inside). If they want to come inside and keep their bike, the outside must be clean and the bike off my pre-sod lawn. If they want me to take them somewhere or do something with them, they must treat me with respect.

Second rule: Time off for good behavior/ rewards. The rewards are great for those who assimilate quickly, but unlike prison, they don't get $1 an hour for laundry duty and making license plates. No, I took away allowances. Yes, the sweet sound of pennies in a jar didn’t work.

In the past, allowance was optional and grandma -- the goddess of item procurement-- was just a phone call away.

But not any more. The phone lines have been cut. If they want to eat and to earn their state mandated hour of outdoor recreation per day, then they must follow the rules.

Control is now completely in the hands of the Maternal Dictator--- HAHAHAHAHA!

Oh, but don’t worry. The little darlings are no suffering too much, and they are enjoying the benefits of assimilation.

The other day, they helped me clean the house by picking up their sh--stuff and by following the guidelines for getting food. We went to Baskin Robins and I didn't make them get the kid scoop-- no they got milkshakes.Then Sunday, as a surprise reward for cleaning their rooms, we were going to go to family swim night, but to be honest, they forgot the respect your mother part as we got into the car (so I made them wait until yesterday afternoon).

Have I had it?

Oh yes. I cannot manage this house without their help. I'm outnumbered.

I can't.

I won't.

And so that is how I am.

Any questions?

Part One: With Hubbers Gone, how do I do it? You asked. I answered (well not yet. The answer comes tomorrow.)

2006-08-01T04:49:00.000-07:00

The ground troops outnumber me and I no longer have the resources to meet their demands. I radioed for more reinforcements, but the supply lines are tied up.

There will be no reinforcements. I must brave the journey through sights no eyes are old enough to see-- booby-trapped plastic farm animals with their legs pointing up like three-day-old road kill and the horror of horrors naked dismembered Barbies. Barbie heads on Kelly dolls, one-legged Barbies and Barbies with their eyes colored over in bright blue ink. Naked Ken with his plastic underwear and missing earring.

But it is the animalistic screeching, the cacophony of voices, the moaning as if mortally wounded by the pinch of two-year-old fingers and the ruckus of wrestling bodies that made me fantasize about desertion.

The torture was unbearable.

Twenty-four hours of:

“MAAAAAWM! Nikki pinched me!” The tears fly. The body swoons and collapses as if the pinch came straight from Snow White’s stepmother.

“Mine!”

“Stop touching me!”

“No you stop touching me-- MAAAAAAWM, Abby is touching me.”

“No fair.”

“I had it first”

“No, I said give it to me-- now-- MAAAAAWM Abby won’t give it to me, and I had it first.”

“I love you mom,” (kisses from Abby-- and then the tears) “Maggie took my dolly. It's my dolly. She's being mean.”

I can’t take it. I must speak.

“It’s time for bed.”

“But MAAAAAAWM.”

“You heard me. It is time for bed.”

“OK but I have to finish coloring this page first.”

Ten minutes later.

“I said it is time for bed.”

“I heard you Mom. I haven’t brushed my teeth.”

“I need a drink.”

“Nikki keeps pushing me.”

“Maggie won’t let me sleep.”

“Can I sleep in your room? I’m afraid to sleep here.”

“WILL YOU ALL JUST GO TO BED!”

And so---

You will have to wait until tomorrow to discover how a peace agreement was reached without any help from the UN.

Bits and Pieces

2006-07-27T13:08:00.000-07:00

Lately my life has been this gigantic puzzle with its little pieces scattered in rooms throughout the house. I can't seem to get it together, and my kids can't seem to connect the dots. It's like half my forehead is connected to my right toe or my eyes are on my belly button.

But I can't escape. Because Abby wants my eyes to watch her play baseball in the backyard, Nikki wants my arms to rock her so she can go night-night and Maggie wants my ears to listen to her story about the mouse in the woods. The phone is ringing. It's my husband. I'm sure. His ears probably want my voice to speak to him and for my brain to think of something witty to say. The plants want my legs to take the hose to them so they can have a drink.

Drink? My mouth wants a drink. My stomach wants a snack. My eyes want to stop feeling like gigantic dried out cotton balls.

And so sense I only have pieces to offer, here are some tidbits of news:

* GA, the guy who hands out my number to people he doesn't want to talk to, is apparently being sued by someone. A lawyer called my house the other day. I shouldn't smile. I really shouldn't. It's not polite, but I've gotten four calls for him in the last two hours.

* As many of you know, I am taking Spanish so I can get earn my Master's degree in English. I have to learn Spanish so I can learn English (go figure). Well, my professor, who incidently owns the only Spanish newspaper Butte county, asked me to be a columnist. This is great. What a compliment, right? There is only one problem. I don't really know Spanish. I've had two semesters of Spanish-- that's it. Once I can figure out how to do the correct punctuation on my computer, I'll post my first column so all you Spanish speakers can read it and laugh at my grammar and word usage.

* The other day, I bought the girls a coloring book filled with these circular stickers that say "Way to Go!" "Bravo" and such. Well, Abby decided to get naked in my living room, and with this oppressive heat, I couldn't exactly blame her. And then-- I turned around. There she was with her little round naked toddler body and two stickers stuck to her chest. And she said "I'm booby trapped."

Well I'm going to look for a few pieces of me, so I can drive to the pool and cool off with the kids.

Lost in the woods again-- well almost

2006-07-26T04:46:00.000-07:00

As many of you know I have been attempting to learn Spanish , work, blog and study for the GRE while raising my children. These little endeavors add up to one thing: guilt. Yes, there is never enough time to watch my 7-year-old jump off the diving board and feign drowning in the deep end, and so, I have taken to camping.

Last week, I thought it would be cool to camp on the coast. It’s 108 here and I’m melting like the wicked witch running through the sprinklers. But alas the coast is not clear. There are no openings. Apparently our state and national parks are like fine dining establishments and require such things as reservations, which incidentally cost more than if you just showed up at the gate and handed the wide brimmed hat your checkbook. Priority seating? Priority camping? You see the world really is a stage.

And so I thought I’d stay close to my hubby’s prison camp (fire station). I called and asked for the camp in Cassel, paid my $50 for my two nights of on the ground comfort and started packing. It was an ordeal. I have a tiny Turbo charged Subaru Legacy, so sacrifices had to be made. Easy enough? It's hotter than Billy Be Damned with no clouds in site- chuck all the tarps and the rain cover. I’ve got charcoal. Who needs a camp stove? Lantern? The kids all want their own flashlights, so why take up the space?

Somehow I would get it all into my car. I kicked, sat on and squished all the air out of every sleeping bag and article of clothing. I shoved the ice chest onto the front passenger’s seat not a taking a moment to gauge the clearance of the ice chest handles before slamming the door-- Viola! I just earned a knick in my brand new upholstery! Note to self: get car detailed before hubbers comes home.

And then, I had an epiphany. Heavens gates parted and gave me a brain. Wouldn’t it would be a good idea to get directions before I go? Let’s not get lost in the woods. This was the first smart thing I did the whole weekend because it turns out there is a park in the town of Cassel and there is also a Castle Crags Park. You guessed it I was registered at Castle Crags.
Now Castle Crags was a beautiful park full of Sugar Pines, hiking trails and these gigantic castle-like rocks that had been formed by glaciers or were some sort of glacier-- any geologists here?

Upon arriving at campsite 46, you know the one closest to the bathroom, I was properly introduced to the camp host, a horde of mosquitoes who mistakenly thought they were invited to dinner. And like a good hostess I dosed them with a fine mist of perfume to cool them off from the heat. I was now free to set up the Taj Mahal of tents and to warn my daughters not to litter or the bears would get them.

Attention mothers trying to wean their kids from sippy cups or babas: go camping and tell them they can’t have their baba because the bears will get them or steal it. I’m telling you it works like a charm. Every time we drive by this one park, my 4-year-old says “that’s where the bear stole my baba.” She wasn’t even 2 when the even happened, but it is still wedged in her brain.

And so with a few prayers and a few unlady-like words, I got the tent mostly upright when realized I had tossed the hammer out to make room for the toothbrushes and deodorant.

I asked happy camper #48 if I could borrow his. In the back of my mind, I hoped chivalry still existed and that he’d make my tent have square corners instead of the A-frame/U-frame/Picasso look . Instead he handed me the hammer and said “cool tent.”
An hour later, I returned it and he looked at my how the heck is it still upright tent and said, “You can keep it longer if you need it.”

That night, we slept in our tent with its amazing skylights and awoke the next day to gray skies and thunder. Frantically I asked the kids to grab all their belongings and throw them in the trunk. Unfortunately, I forgot my kids don’t speak English, so I was the only one doing anything. They just asked for breakfast.

And like the well-trained mother I am I made them blueberry pancakes and hot chocolate over the fire-- though I’ll admit it took me three hours because I didn’t have enough charcoal and had to forage through the forest for wood and pine cones to keep my fire hot.

Off to the hardware store we went for a trap, hammer, camp stove and lantern. A hundred dollars later, I returned to sunny skies and no rain.

All in all it was a fantastic vacation. We visited waterfalls and hiked. I made these terrific hamburgers and grilled vegetables no one would eat. And then the surprise of all surprises.
Just as I cursed under my breath because I was too tired and crazy to camp with three small children, I heard a familiar hum. It was a car-- a faintly sick car with a bad transmission. But it couldn’t be--

Oh but it was. There he stood 25 pounds lighter than two months ago, and in his hands was a bouquet of sunflowers picked from a roadside and three peacock feathers (one for each girl). He had just 24 hours, but I didn’t care. Even with a gaunt, tired face his was the only one worth seeing that night.

He found me.

Help I've been tagged

2006-07-23T19:33:00.000-07:00

Things I Want To Do Before Dying

Hike the Pacific Crest Trail
Finish remodeling my house and let it just be
Write a book-- any book will do even if it is never read
Learn to scuba dive
Go to Europe and just wander
See all 50 states
Quit playing around with these colors

Things I Can Not Do

Sing, but I do it anyway-- but my daughters think I can sing right now so I sing to them every night before they go to bed (or at least I try to . I haven't been very good about doing it lately)
Breathe in an elevator
Breathe going across bridges
Get rid of the mint I planted for my iced tea-- it's one whory plant
Organize-- I get organized only to become undone
TYPE-- I am the world's worst typist
Math-- I used to be able to to, but according to the GRE that part of my brain stopped functioning when I went to college
Please everyone at one time
Get my kids to clean their rooms

Things I Can Do

Interview people for a story and get the goods
Be gracious in defeat
Write
Get goofy with Jose Cuervo and dance up a storm
BS
Set up a tent incorrectly
Kiss my kids each night
Watch my flowers grow
Plan a vacation
Drive and pour a drink into a sippy cup

What Attracted Me To My Husband

He is six foot five and he's a firefighter-- need I say more?
He was the polar opposite of anyone I'd ever date (quiet, super shy and an all around good guy)
He loved me
He wrote me nearly every day before we got married
He liked flowers
He suggested a book and I actually liked it (this doesn't happen often-- I am extremely picky when it comes to books)
He made me laugh

Things I Say Most Often

Do you understand English?
How many times do I have to say this?
Peachy Bear
Nickerbocker
Abby Dabby (Apply Dapply) Abadabadoo
Maggie Moo
I love you, baby dolls
I double "L" Curly-Q "O" with a tiny viney "v" and an enormous "E" Love you
Daddy is at work, baby girls
Why does this always happen when he is at work?
It's Murphy's Law
Will you rub my feet? I'm give you a quarter.
Look at the baby cow (with cheesy Texas accent)

Books That I Love

The River Why
A River Runs through it
The Brother's K (most of it)
My Antonia
Hope Leslie
Any Harry Potter Book - that's six right there
Gone With the Wind

Movies That I Love

Gone with the Wind
Love Actually
Crash
Slingblade
Smoke signals
An Affair to Remember

OK who wants to be "it"

Life's little recipes

2006-07-19T13:20:00.000-07:00

My life is like a big cookbook full of recipes for the day-- lists of dos and don’ts, goals, failures and memories. And so every day, I get out of bed and check off things on my list.

Get up 5 a.m., make coffee, study
7:00 a.m. look at clock and freak out, jump in shower, turn in a circle, get out, get dressed and throw peanut butter onto bread.
7:15-- dress the sleeping children
7:30 rush the kids across the street to the good sitter’s house-- one kid at a time because they always refuse to put on their shoes
7:40 rush off to Spanish class-- I’m 10 minutes late if I drive fast enough I’ll get their closer to on time
12:00 school is out
Lunch, play with kids, dinner, study bed midnight

OK, you get the picture-- same old thing day in, day out . My life had become my mother’s meatloaf and my grandma’s Sunday chicken-- until--

Last week I decided to take the kids to the lake.

Now I am not an outdoorsy kind of person. I want to be-- don’t get me wrong. If I were single,
my ad would say “loves the outdoors” “Adventurous” and “likes long hikes through the woods.”

And I do. I’ve just have never done it without the right accessories-- mainly a man to cook, set up the tent and chase away wild animals. Yes, my husband has always been the bear bait.

But alas, he is off playing firefighter and who knows when I‘ll see him again?

And so, why not take the kids to the lake? It’s cheap entertainment. The scenery is magnificent- who cares that I have never in my God-given life started a fire much less cooked over one.

Going to the lake only requires -- lawn chairs, an ice chest and charcoal for lunch so we can feel all woodsy.

This was until I saw it-- the screened-in vacation home, 14X14 with a living room and one huge bedroom-- and something called an awning. It even had two bay windows, shelves and skylights! But it looked complicated. I remembered the last time I tried to be all outdoorsy. I bought the kids these little dome tents that supposedly set themselves up-- only I managed to snap all the rods or poles or what have you before it popped up.

The salesman assured me-- heck he practically said he’d do it for me-- I’d have no problem.

“You’re a good looking woman,” he said with a hey baby-what-you-do-smile, “Someone will help you don’t worry.”

In the past, before the kids popped out, this was true. I once took a bus from Northern California to Wyoming, showed up to a kind of historical reenactment event with only a small bag of clothes and managed to score a place to stay within minutes of arriving-- no, I didn’t trade my womanly goods for a room. I also sweet talked my way into dinner at various campsites-- no I didn’t beg like a dog. I was cute and those college boys were suckers.

And so feeling overconfident, I bought the tent. Had I looked in the mirror and remembered I had three new accessories (Maggie, Abby and Nikki), I might have seen the error in this logic.

Instead, I through my list out the window and stuffed the kids, the Taj Mahal of tents and four lawn chairs into my tiny sports car. We were going camping!

Upon arriving, I lugged the tent out of the car and proceeded to be educated in outdoorsiness. First of all, the directions made no sense. Essentially it read: Attach the center pole to the gable pole and the gable poles to the side poles. Insert the tent’s S-hooks into holes on poles, snap things around poles to keep them from moving, insert legs into side-- wait you have to put it in the ring first and not the stake loop---

What the???? Which one is which? They all look alike and nothing is numbered.

An hour later, my illustrious daughter Maggie said, “You’re not very good at putting up a tent, huh?”

I shot her the stink eye.

Thirty minutes later as I lay on the dusty ground-- my face coal miner extraordinaire-- my fingers blistered from trying to make everything snap, my daughter finally sees the error of her ways.

“Not many moms would take their kids camping without dad. That is pretty cool. I didn’t think moms did that,“ she said.

OK I felt pretty good about myself. My attempt at a bonding experience was working.
And then, she brought me a notch.

“I’ll bet you’re happy I’m here to help you put the tent up because you don’t know what you are doing,” she said.

Well, I’ll have you all know, I got the tent up. It took me two hours, but I got it up. I also cooked hotdogs over the campfire, hiked with a flash light, blew up a water raft using my lung power-- and figured out how to deflate it. I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t know you had to squeeze the valve to get the air out. We sat there for an hour waiting for it to deflate until by accident I squeezed it and heard the “hiss.”

I chased away flies, stomped on beetles and chased off evil teenage boys who were harassing my daughter. And I never once reached for my list, but I did find a new recipe for fun.

****I’ve been busy with school, taking care of the kids and working so I apologize if I haven’t been commenting as much as I used to. I promise once things settle down I’ll visit and write more often.

Mount Vesuvi-B-S Erupts

2006-07-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

The fuse has burned to end of the dynamite and the rumbling has begun. And now Mount Vesuvi-B-S is about to explode.
For the past-- count them 1,2,3,4,5,6,--7 years I have received calls for a certain G.A. who lives here in Paradise. I don’t know G.A. He doesn’t know me either. I have never in my life met him, but I do know one thing-- he is a first class rotten, evil person who should be seriously ashamed of himself.

For the past seven years, this more immature than a bunch of tweens with flatulence person has been handing out my phone number to telemarketers, girls whom I assume he doesn’t really want to talk to and businesses.

Now, G.A. I know how hard it is to tell those lovely ladies you are not interested, but please if you don’t want them to call, find the inner strength, the courage I know you can somehow muster up to just be a man and say you don’t want to talk to them--because I don’t either.

I’m tired of being the fourth-grade friend who tells your girlfriend you’re breaking up with her.
Please, I don’t think you are 13. Could you just grow up a little?

Better yet, since you are the kind of guy who hands out a stranger’s phone number, why don’t you do the world a favor and take yourself off the market.

As for telemarketers, I’m with you on that one. Those guys who call just as I’m pouring my morning coffee, sitting down to dinner or putting the kids to bed make me nuts. The constant ringing, the annoying people who don’t believe I am not you, the computerized messages -- I have my own share of the pot without having to ad yours to mine.

And let me tell you, GA you are missing out on a great opportunity to refinance your home and to transfer the balances from higher interest credit cards to a new low-interest Visa card.By the way, how did your new sound system turn out because the guy called to say they were ready for pick up a couple years ago? Did you get it?

This was the one time I thought “Praise the Lord. The sun is shinning. GA is going to stop calling” because this person actually knew GA and had something he wanted, he’d paid for and was going to pick up.

The business assured me they’d take care of the problem. They’d talk to GA and say “Hey, dude this is seriously uncool.” And I believe they did talk to him, but they were trying to turn cottage cheese back into whole milk-- it just wasn’t going to happen. GA is what he is.

And I am what I am-- a fourth-grade break-up girl who has turned into Mount Vesuvi-B-S on the verge of a serious eruption.

journey into the woods

2006-07-10T15:31:00.000-07:00

At the entrance to my family’s cabin are the skeletons of sleeping daffodils, hundreds of straw-colored limp leaves with the stems of long forgotten flowers missing. Someone, I don’t know whom, but someone has walked upon my driveway and cut them all down. Six weeks ago, some man probably surprised his lover with a bouquet of hand-picked yellow daffodils straight from my garden. Maybe she repaid him with a kiss? I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. I wasn’t here to see the yellow faces or to watch my little ones hide within the rows of floral sunshine.

We’d missed it again. But maybe she kissed him?

At the entrance to my cabin, inside the door and on top of the armoire is my bridal bouquet-- freeze dried and dusty-- peonies and daffodils and statice or maybe a delphinium. After nine years, who knows. I just remember the peonies because they remind me or wrinkled handkerchiefs and they smell like the breath of heaven.

It’s the memories that bring me back year after year. I was married on the meadow my grandfather had hoped to buy, then I bought the meadow and later sold it for a house-- but not before husband had filled it with daffodils so my hear could break each spring. Why do we do such stupid things? A house for history. That meadow reminds me to get to work, save every dime. It hasn’t been marred with house plans or tractors-- yet.

And so I come to my family’s home instead of my own. It’s 1,000 square feet of summer stuffiness. Two bed rooms and one bathroom for seven-plus people. I’d rent a cabin, but my mother won’t hear of it. I drive up see the daffodil beds I’d made while saving to build on the meadow I’d one day sell in a fit of depression. I stop to look at the bouquet I’ll never take down or hold again. A mouse could have chewed up the leaves, but I’ll never know-- just don’t ever move it.

In this house, the bouquet keeps me upright when my mother comes to call. She would have done things differently. Her kids would be clean and go to bed at eight. They’d dress impeccably and speak fluidly. Her husband would be home at 6 p.m. every night and she wouldn’t be silly enough to dream because dreams get in the way of traveling-- or more accurately visiting her.

And so I look at the bouquet and remember how I have bended toward her, compromised and thrown everything I’ve wanted into a pile just so I could live up to what she wanted-- and I bite my tongue.

Every Fourth of July we fight a nasty fight. I’m selfish, ungrateful and silly. I shouldn’t have to work when she is there-- as she puts it. I should also be able to spend money like I’m the national treasury. Am I blameless? Of course not. I’m too defensive and I tend to walk on eggshells trying to keep everyone happy.

But not this time. This time there was no fight.

This time I let her be in her 1,000-square-foot cabin and I did what I should have done nine years ago-- I lived my own life selfishly-- not only for myself, but for my children.

I studied for the Graduate Entrance Exam two to three hours a day-- and discovered that in some ways we grow stupider as we age-- if x does not equal ), 1-x/xy=. What does that mean to me now? Who cares?

I went hiking with my children at Lassen National Forest with my children and cousins. The 2-year-old walked with me and we observed every insect, touched every flower and looked at every waterfall. We didn’t’ make it to our destination because she was too tired to piggyback any longer, and so we turned back. But it was magic to walk and talk with one so young. My seven year old and 4-year-old walked with my newly married cousin Katie and her husband Dan-- now they want kids.

I froze my toes off by going down Butte Creek on a inner tube. I flipped on some rapids and was drug for a while, but I managed to get back on.

I took my kids to Deer Creek Falls, a huge waterfall with pools at the top you can wade in-- if your kids are smart enough to stay way from the rapids. We didn’t stay too long there.

I went with my cousins and shot a .38 caliber revolver, a pistol, something called a Glock and another gun with a longer nose. I don’t know much about guns, but I actually pulled the trigger-- something I never thought I would.

The kids and I went canoeing at Snag Lake and caught pollywogs.

Every night we had a campfire with grandma and grandpa and roasted smores and told stories.

Yesterday my husband returned from two and half weeks away. He brought me a bouquet of orange "kitty paws" (some sort of fuzzy clover) picked from some mountain top while he was out fighting fires, and you know what? He got a kiss.

Perhaps some day I’ll write of the individual adventures, but today I think I’m going to pick some Black-eyed Susan’s with my kids. Make some memories here.

The big bad wolf is back again

2006-07-10T06:44:00.000-07:00

My house is made of sticks, my furniture: maple, my deck: redwood, books: reams of shredded wood, the bench where I watch my children play teak-- I am a consumer of wood. I use it, sit on it and love it. The loggers-- they are just doing their jobs.
So why is it that when I see the hillsides all chewed up near my summer home, I feel as though my house of sticks has just blown down?

* I am back from vacation and will write more later. I just wanted you all to know I’m back. Now, the forest near my cabin has been logged to high heaven, but at least the tiger lilies were still in bloom.

Hi Ho Hi Ho it's off to the woods I go

2006-06-29T10:44:00.000-07:00

I will be on vacation from tomorrow until after the fourth of July, so please don't forget about me.You see, dear readers it is time for our Annual Fourth of July Fight (family reunion).I had hoped to make one last post and to visit all your blogs before I left, but I ran out of time.I did post the first draft of poem below-- comments and critques are greatly appreciated.Take care and have a great week.

The Garbage Heap

2006-06-29T07:37:00.000-07:00

Don't let me open my eyes,
turn the corner at the old Outpost,
see Bigger's Glen-- my playground of yesteryear
its ground exploded
is now a war zone of soon-to-be houses--

Dozer tracks deep, jagged
twigs and branches
Old Coke cans-- rusted--
cigarette butts, Big Mac wrappers
an empty circle of a Skoal can
Why are you here?

Please, don't let me hear the roar of the chain saw
or the quiet snap of logger boots
Cover my ears.
The forest is quiet no more and
the birds have forgotten their song.
And all I can see are uprooted stumps
their dried bark falling
to sleep with the wreck
the loggers left behind
a nd bodies of lifeless
trees heaped into
a community grave.

I want to go back--
push sugar ants around on a stick,
mumble "Shoo Fly,"
find that time when I could wear overalls
and run heathen through the woods.

I want to go back
balance on rocks along Butte Creek,
suck on licorice and M&Ms,
grab the prickly arms of Douglas firs.
Let me find the days
when Sunday mornings came at six
and nighttime never seemed to end.

Just let me lie with daisies--
lie in meadows of yellow
centers and white petals,
smell evergreen
and sleep under the shade of dying trees.

I'm a pink lady now

2006-06-28T08:21:00.000-07:00

The beige parchment do was making me feel monochromatic, and so I looked for something new. More color. More sparkle. More youthful. But when I changed my clothes and looked at the new self of me-- up, down, side to side-- I was lost in translation-- or was I found?

OK I am truly getting sick writing this post. It is clear I only had three hours of sleep last night because it was the first day in a millenium I had no place to go the next morning. The gist is I screwed around with my template because I was bored, and now I am a pick lady. Do I fit this category? I'm not sure. I mean I like frilly, happy saucy blogs, but am I saucy or am I more like parchment paper? How would you describe parchment paper-- old, refined, expensive and monochromatic? Not sure I like this new do. Not sure I like this post. Oh well, let me know what you think of my blog's new outfit.

Why Barbie Threw a Spoon at Ken

2006-06-22T07:20:00.000-07:00

I've played the role of empty-headed
blow-up Barbie doll--
you know, the one with the big hair
yellowed wig,
skinny waist and pink plastic
teddy,
So, for God's sake,
don't look at me with those damned gooey-eyes.
It won't work.
I'm a new woman now,
and I don't want to play this game
anymore.
We are no longer
the Denny's pair of hot fudge
sundae* sharers.
I've found my own dish,
my own fork,
and quite frankly,
I can feed myself.

*previously Sunday sharers, but I changed it because I didn't think it worked

Just a simple thank you

2006-06-20T16:23:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life's great mysteries uncover immeasurable bounties.
I started this blog about a month ago-- on a whim. A friend of mine had a blog, so I read it and thought why not? I write for a living. This should be a piece of cake. I'll have like what 10,000 readers by week's end.
Yes, the ego of a small town columnist can be overbearing, but put her in the blog world and little miss ego is checked repeatedly and eventually (I hope) she (the ego) disappears all together.
She serves no real purpose other than to stifle my voice and to make me mistakenly think I know all the answers.
I know nothing. I'm a voice in a chorus of millions.
A lone voice screaming too loudly will soon develop a horrendous case of writer's laryngitis. And so, I couldn't write my deepest desires. I couldn't laugh at life's insidious misadventures because I was searching for something much more than a writing outlet.
I was searching for a community, and being of a shy nature I wrote with timid fingers.
Now, most people find their community through their church or synagogue, but I was utterly alone and didn't even know it until one day I was a woman on the verge of a very terrible scream. I poured my heart onto the page, and the next day I clicked on fellow blogger's blog and read.
The message was simple really-- don't make the same mistakes twice-- but it broke through me.
Suddenly I realized I had the power to not be miserable.
I realized I was alone or so I thought, and I didn't' want to be. I wanted that voice and a chorus of many more.
Now many voices do fill my world--actual voices, important physical voices.
Yes, I have my three adorable children-- my lifelines that keep me from falling into the stars. I have my husband-- my frustration, my love, the polar opposite of myself, my completion.
And yes I have God though I was too busy being miserable to listen to Him, but many of you have taught me to stop and listen.
And so, with one click the journey began.
I wanted so much to connect with people even virtual people, to learn how other people are making their lives whole, to laugh at misadventures in dating and parenting-- all of it.
And so, I wrote tidbits, shared a few ancedotes and did a lot of reading.
I learn more everyday. I'm starting to find my voice again. Though I must admit, I am having trouble writing this post, and so I will keep it short. Perhaps I will try it differently another day.
But I thank you for letting me into your community.

Conversations with Mama

2006-06-15T15:45:00.000-07:00

You see me as a lump
of wax you can mold
and shape, fancy into your perfect
wax statue-- a seven-year-old
Madonna with wide eyes
and you look at me, and you say I look fat,
and I say, "No, mama, I'm just not seven anymore,"
but to you, my words are just newspaper print,
and you're too busy picking
lin toff my sweater to hear.
Like potter's clay, you spin me
round and round. And I turn
around, an dyou look at me, but you eyes
look past me like they want o pull me
back into the circle of you, start over again,
and you say I smell like baby's
breath, and I say, "No, it's White Lenen, Mama,"
and you pat my head,
and I swear, your fingers want to take me,
knead me like dough,
roll me out flat, shape me round,
into your candle,
your virgin
who speaks no more.

And now it is time for the weekend update . . .

2006-06-12T14:05:00.000-07:00

(also known as the post you can skip if you are sick of reading weekend updates-- I never am:)

Paradise hosted its third annual Unity in Diversity Festival, a festival aiming to bring all cultures and races together as one in a town of 97.9 percent white people.

It is a festival with good intentions. We should all love one another regardless of our differences. I think most of us can agree on that.

However, (at least in the past) our little festival is bizarre at best. What usually happens-- and here is where in my opinion of it gets slightly offensive-- is that ethnic groups are bused in or invited to perform for the locals.

To me, this is like saying come let us stare at you-- and entertain us while you’re at it so we can feel good about being diverse when we are not a diverse community.

I wish we were. Sometimes I feel like I live in clonesville.

Sometimes I miss my hometown-- San Antonio, Texas-- a melting pot among melting pots-- where the fiestas are just a tad more grand than Oktoberfest. It’s odd that I ended up in wonder bread land.

Maybe I’m being too sensitive. Maybe I should give the fest a break. You know at least the kids are being exposed to different cultures. I can’t argue the intentions for the festival are always good. Maybe it was better this year.

I don’t know.

I went to Lake Tahoe with the kiddies and the hubby this weekend. I was a wench, he a nicely dressed peasant and the kids equaled two fairies and a princess. This was a great day, but the trip there provided the best entertainment.

On the way to Tahoe, I got the prime opportunity to listen to my children talk.
Here is the conversation.

“Abby look at the buoys,” Maggie said, pointing to the buoys on the lake.
“What boobies?” Abby said.
“The ones on the lake,” Maggie said. “They are the white balls floating next to the boats.”
“I don’t see any balls or boobies,” Abby said. “What are boobies doing on the lake? You’re silly Maggie.”
“The boats are tied to the buoys-- they are the white balls,” Maggie said.
“The boats are not tied to boobies. They are tied to the balls,” Abby said.

I should have corrected herafter all this is the child who brought us the chicken eyeball, but I was laughing too hard. I will. I promise.