Adventures in Paradise

When your child goes missing from a sleepover

2012-01-29T21:35:00.001-10:00

I think we can all agree - I am paranoid. Uptight. A control freak. We don't do sleepovers much, nor do I like to let other people drive my kids. I have issues. But the kids are growing up, and sleepovers are becoming harder to avoid. Yesterday Lucy's friend from school had invited her over for a playdate, which turned into an invite for a sleepover with two little girls from her class which I reluctantly agreed to. I was feeling very unsure of the whole thing, but Sam said it would be fine, that she would be safe, that kids had sleepovers all the time. So I tried to loosen up. She was going to have fun. She would be fine. I was being ridiculous.

At about 5:30 I texted the mom to check in and see how everything was going. "Having fun!" she responded.

And that was the last we heard from her. I assumed that they would call if Lucy had trouble falling asleep or wanted to come home. I was relieved that I didn't hear from them, actually. That Lucy was having fun and had fallen asleep. She wouldn't have fallen asleep if she was upset or worried. They would have called if there was a problem.

I needed to relax.

I went out with a girlfriend and sang karaoke. I snuggled up on the sofa with Sam and the baby for a late night feeding.

This morning, I went to pick Lucy up.

I had called and texted the parents several times earlier in the morning asking them when I could come get her, and they hadn't responded. With 5 little girls running around, odds were they either couldn't hear their phones, or the girls were carrying them around in purses playing dress up. So I finally just climbed in the car and drove the two miles to their house, hoping the baby might fall asleep on the ride.

It was just before noon, and I was annoyed that they hadn't called to tell me that the girls were awake and fed and ready to go as we had discussed the day before. We had agreed: "Mid-morning, not too early." And now here it was almost noon. This sleepover had gone on way too long, in my opinion. "But maybe," I thought to myself "maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I was supposed to just come over mid-morning and get her at my convenience?" I was embarrassed at the thought that I had been so rude as to just leave my kid there all morning, and frustrated that they hadn't responded to any of my attempts at contact.

As I pulled into the driveway, my frustration turned to fear.
The house was locked up tight, and the car was gone.
I hadn't heard from the parents in 18 hours.

I had no idea where my kid was.

I panicked. Maybe I had missed a call? I backed out of the driveway and raced down the road toward the neighborhood playground, hoping desperately that they would be there.

They weren't.

I called Sam, asked if they had dropped Lucy off yet. He was confused. "I thought you went to get her?"

"I did." I gasped through tears. "She's not there. No one is there. They're not at the playground. I don't know where she is."

"Come home."

I walked in the door trying to compose myself. Sami was making Max a sandwich and I went through my texts from the day before, looking for a hint of where they might be.

"Playdate after ballet."
"I forgot to ask if Lucy could sleepover."
"Is it okay if we go to a beach on the West Side for a while?"

The beach. Maybe they went back to the beach? Why would they go back to the beach without checking in with us first? Sami was already headed for the car. He and Max drove down the mountain to look for Lucy at the beach parks. I sat on the couch and tried to call the other parents who had their kid sleeping over too. No answer at home. No answer on cell. No answer at home, No answer on cell.

Fuck.

It had now been two hours since I started trying to get in touch with the hosts.

Suddenly, my phone rang. It was the mother who was hosting the sleepover. It was confusing. She was vaguely apologetic. They had spent the night at a hotel. They were still on the West Side. They would be home later. Did I want to talk to Lucy?

Yes, of course I did. She was fine, a little confused. She handed the phone back to the mother. They were going to eat lunch and then head home.

Okay. Deep breaths.
A hotel? Coming home later? How did a playdate turn into a weekend at a hotel? I began to pace. Sam told me to go lie down and try to rest. I took a Xanax.

I texted them again a few hours later. No response. An hour after that they called, sounding slightly annoyed that I was calling them again. Did I have a "timeline" I needed her back by? Because they were still on the west side. Now I was scared AND angry. It was like "When Animals Attack" in my living room. Mama Bear was awake, and she was really pissed. I rocked the baby silently, trying to remain calm for him. At 5:30 they texted to say they were heading to our house.

Lucy arrived home at 7pm, 33 hours after I had dropped her off. "They're pretty tired." the dad told Sam with a grin. "They stayed up until past midnight." Sam's eyes were dark with anger when he came back inside.

She was sunburned, her eyes swollen and running. Her nose stuffy. Her hair in dreads. She informed me that she had not had a bath in several days, and she was wearing the clothes I had dropped her off in the day before. My heart sank. Her friend was dropped off with her, wrapped in a blanket, shivering and sleepy. Her eyes were red too. They both looked exhausted. Tremulous with fatigue, they hadn't eaten dinner. I called the friend's mom, and she was akready pulling into my neighborhood, as upset as I was. Sam bundled her daughter out to the car.

Lucy was sitting at the dining room table trying to take a few bites of hamburger before she fell asleep, as the story came out. There had been a party at the hotel room. The grownups had watched a movie, "It was a grown up movie, because it was so late at night there weren't any kid's movies on! People were getting arrested and stuff!" When it had gotten too scary, the girls had gone into a closet to tell stories. "But it was a big closet, mama!" she said cheerfully. "And there were lots of grownup friends there!" She had wanted to call when she discovered that the parents had left her bedding at their house with her blanky in it. When she asked to call me, the parents had gone out to the car to "get their phones" and she said that when they returned, they had forgotten to bring the phone back with them. The kids had been left in the hotel room with the grownup friends.

None of this makes sense.

I dropped her off at a friend's house, 2 miles from home. They were going to go to the beach for a few hours and then have a sleepover. I would pick her up in the morning at their house, not too early.

How had this gone so wrong?

I am livid. I am shaking. I am scared for what she saw, and sad that she spent the night with a bunch of strangers, without her blanky or the cozy bedding we had packed so carefully. Mostly, I am angry at myself. I am angry for having such faith. I am angry for not trusting my (admittedly very paranoid) instincts. I am angry that I put my daughter in the care of people who clearly do not have respect for others.

I am angry that I didn't call and check in at bedtime.

She is here with me now, safe in her warm bed with her blanky and her humidifier and Vicks Vaporub on her feet. And we sure as hell won't be sending her off to any sleepovers again anytime soon. I am writing this mostly because I needed to get it off my chest, but also as a reminder to all of us that having a child sleep over at your house is a huge leap of faith for their parents.

Don't make them regret it.

I feel empowered every time I hang my laundry on the line

2012-01-26T22:20:00.001-10:00

It all started with a massive electric bill. I was freaking out about our last electric bill, and sat down to assess where I could cut some corners. I started unplugging things, and turning things off, and harrassing the kids (possible subject matter: "Do you really need to be listening to that music? Think of the electricity that stereo is using!" and "No. More. Nightlights.")

I'll admit it freely, I went a little overboard. After Sami got the bathroom lights turned out on him while he was in the shower and had to find his way out of the bathroom by feeling his way along the wall, and that one time I unplugged the refrigerator for a few hours and then forgot about it until all of our frozen food had defrosted, I knew I had to find a strategy that would save us money without A. all of our food going bad, or B. my husband almost breaking his toe in the dark. I had to get really proactive. I had to do some manual labor. I had to unplug some appliances for EVER. Or at least, for long periods of time. Since the dishwasher is simply not an option (I have my priorities) and the refrigerator seemed less a luxury than a necessity, I zeroed in on the laundry.

And so, in what is rapidly devolving into some sort of sick display of domesticity, I have stopped using our clothes dryer and begun hanging our laundry out to dry on the line.

There will be two different responses to this piece of information.

Some of you will want to know if my electricity has been cut off, because why else would I be pinning my underwear up to flap in the breeze for all to see. You are thinking to yourself over the hum of your Rumba and the swishing of your dishwasher: "Dude, if your dryer doesn't work you should drive to the damn laundromat. Who wants crunchy air dried underwear?" I feel ya. Or maybe I'm just feeling the underwear, which is admittedly very crunchy when dried on the line.

Some of you will wonder what took me so long, and did I think that globel warming was just some sort of MYTH? Did I think electricity just grew on TREES? Damn ugly lazy American. Hanging your clothes to dry isn't news - it's the way 90% of the people on the planet dry their clothes. And then you will shake your head in pity slash disgust, and go polish your new wind turbine or feed your worms or sew some more reusable, earth-friendly unbleached organic cotton maxipads or something.

I can see both sides of this story, and all I can say is this:

First of all, you over there on the right? You are absolutely correct - line-dried laundry is all scratchy and hard - and I need to figure out the solution to that right quick because towels that have been dried on the line are NO BUENO. I like my bathtowels soft and fluffy. Along the same lines, crunchy jeans and underwear are an issue for me too. My delicate skin, much like my delicate sensibilities, can be easiily chafed. A few years ago (hell, a few weeks ago) crunchy laundry would even be a deal-breaker. But today, when I was hanging my clothes on the line I found myself humming like Donna fucking REED between a mouthful of clothes pins. Note to self: Tomorrow, wear an apron to hang the laundry. One with pockets for the clothes pins.

And you folks over there on the left. The ones with your vegetable gardens and Priuses and your buckets of baking soda that you use for everything from laundry detergent to toothpaste? I bought a 5 pound bag of baking soda. I am all over this shit. Teach me your ways. Do they have solar powered cars yet? Or does anyone perchance have a bio-diesel car for sale that I can power with used fryer oil? And could you spare some worms?

It's like a drug, this domesticity thing. I can't get enough of it. Last week after I hung the laundry to dry, I went and washed MY WALLS. I have never washed walls in my life. It was strangely fulfilling. I needed more. So, after I hung the clothes today I went back inside and washed the dishes, and then swept and vacuumed. And when I looked at the clock it was 10am.

People, not so long ago 10am was the time I opened one eye, rolled over, and decided whether I had to pee badly enough to get out of bed, or if I should just hold it and keep sleeping. But these days, all I can think about is that the hours from 9-11am are the hours of direct sunlight on my deck. Those are PRIME LAUNDRY DRYING HOURS PEOPLE.

So tomorrow I'll be up bright and early, doing the laundry and then maybe, oh I don't know, maybe I'll beat some rugs and hunt for free-range eggs in my neighborhood and if I have time perhaps I can set up a water catchment system.

Because you would not believe the size of my water bill.

The hitchhiker's guide to why I'm not giving you a ride

2012-01-22T20:50:00.000-10:00

Living on an island, there is a phenomenon that is much more prevalent here than in other places I have lived.

Hitchhiking.

It's not just the casual "hey can you give me a lift?" individuals. There are people who come here on vacation, or live here full time, who choose to hitchhike as their method of transportation. It is not always a financial decision, either. Some of these people don't want to be tied down, man. Or they don't want to contribute to destroying the environment.

But mostly they just don't want to pay for gas. And at almost $5 a gallon, I get that. But I don't have the luxury of sitting on the side of the road with somewhere between 1 and three children, 2 carseats, a cooler, a bag of snacks, and some books to pass the time.

Other people do.

You would be amazed at the shit peple will expect you to transport for free. I pass people on the side of the road that look for all the world like they are moving house. And so I have established some guidelines for people looking for a lift. This may help you to understand why it is taking so long for anyone to pick you up.

Dogs. You may not understand this, because I get it - you love your dog. Your dog is like your kid, and goes everywhere with you. But he's not going anywhere with me. A dog will exponentially decrease any chance you have of getting a ride. Lap dogs are actually even less desirable - if that is possible. And I couldn't care less if it's a service animal. That dog should come with a car service.

Surfboards. I guess if I had a pickup it wouldn't be that big a deal, except for my not-unreasonable fear that a stiff breeze could pick up a board and catapult it out of the back and, you know, kill someone. Like in the Lethal Weapon movie. But I don't have a pickup. So, no.

Hula Hoops. Because really? Really? This whole hula hoop phenomenon is bewildering to me, but okay. However, an adult with a hula hoop and no method of transportation = serious issues. I don't want to get involved.

40 oz of Mickey's. Unless you have one for me too. I'm Kidding. No I'm not, Yes I am. I'm conflicted. But still, you might spill it in my car, so no.

Huge Backpack. You could have anything in that bag. But usually it is your filthy stinky laundry. And the occasional cane spider or ants. And also, that backpack means you are a hiker, right? So get to it. You don't need me.

Attitude fucking problem. Yeah. You. The one who glares at me as I drive by.
Fuck You and your eye contact and judgement. Are you seriously trying to make me feel bad for not giving you a ride? Get your own car.

And after all of this, if you drive past someone who seems normal, is just carrying a small bag, has a pleasant expression and continues to walk while waiting for a ride, well. I'll consider it. But I have to weigh the relative threat of BO. Because the very worst time I ever had with a hitch hiker was a lovely young woman who smiled as I approached and held out a friendly hand more like a wave than a request for transport. And then she got in the car and immediately lifted her arms over her head to begin putting her hair in a ponytail and I almost ran off the road.

So really, you probably don't want to ride with me anyway.

Out of Sight - the slow realization that an infant might be blind

2012-01-18T20:04:00.001-10:00

He had a blocked tear duct. Maybe. That's what I thought, anyway. Hard to tell. Common in newborns, I was told. God, he was so small. And coming off the drugs he would cry silent tearless cries, mouth open, head twisting to the side, back arched.

I had other things to worry about, like keeping him swaddled and comforted and encouraging him to stay awake long enough to eat. Dealing with the umbilical cord that refused to dry up. Finding clothes that didn't fall off his five pound frame. But then one morning, his left eye started draining yellow goop and was stuck shut. And then the other eye looked a little weird.

And so, in the middle of a winter rain storm, with high winds gusting over the island and the puddles gleaming in the streetlights, I wrapped him up and took him to the emergency room. It was Christmas Eve. He was 8 days old.

Born two weeks early, the blood in his veins coursing with crystal meth and nicotine, he was still 6 days shy of his due date that night. The idea of taking him to the ER with all of it's germs and drama seemed counter-productive, but it couldn't be helped on a holiday weekend. The nurses weighed him, and oohed and aaahed and told him how very beautiful he was, as he farted and grunted and moaned loudly with his mouth agape and his head twisting, as is his way. Eventually as it neared midnight and I worried about getting home to hang the stockings, he slept quietly on the gurney and I lay next to him reading the newspaper. They took samples of the goop on his eyes and sent it off to the lab: "Could be chlamydia", the doctor informed me solemnly. We left for home at 11pm with a tube of erythromycin ointment, just in time for Santa - Baby's first Christmas. They never called back with the test results, and the pediatrician didn't seem concerned at his appointment a few days later.

I dutifully applied the ointment and warm compresses as directed.

He never blinked.

I mean, I would put the ointment on the end of my clean fingertip, and then put my finger in the corner of his eye and begin to draw it across, and he never batted an eye. Never closed his eye in response to having something stuck in it.

He never blinked.

I started paying closer attention. He didn't look at me while he was being fed. He didn't look at me ever. He never closed his eye in response to having it wiped or prodded - I learned to start from the upper eyelid and encourage him to close his eye with gentle pressure, so that I could wipe it clean without touching his eyeball with the cloth.

I held up toys and lights. I danced. I waved my fingers in his face.

He never blinked.

If I spoke he would follow the sound, turning his head to look in my direction. My voice would calm him when he was upset, so I called to him from across the room or crooned as I rocked him in my arms. In bright sunlight he would squint and squirm and turn away, folding himself up into my armpit with his mittened fists pressed on either side of his forehead. He is always near me, squirming his way up under my chin or burying his face into my collarbone.

I keep him close - strapped to my chest, asleep in my arms, snoring softly in the bassinet next to me as I type this, Max and Lucy and Sam leaning over every once in a while to marvel at his sweetly sleeping form.

They say they will send a nurse to assess him. That it is early days. That he is too young to be tested. That his eye muscles may still be immature. That it could be nothing.

But I have to be sure. There is this feeling, this nagging little feeling in my chest. All of those drugs, maybe she was drinking. Maybe it is chlamydia. Maybe it is something else. Something is just not right.

I have to follow up. I have to follow through. I have to wait. We will wait here, together, he and I asleep and awake together, moving through the dark and the light in three hour intervals together.

I will not leave him.

I cannot look away. I cannot blink.

When putting on a clean pair of sweatpants is considered victory.

2012-01-15T10:59:00.000-10:00

I used to be a high heel-wearing, tequila-drinking, fishnet-rocking, mohawk-styling derby mama. And the sheer velocity with which I downshifted to parenting a newborn has given me whiplash. The night we got the call from Child Protective Services asking if we could take a placement in the morning, I was on the deck of a sushi bar cracking a third bottle of wine. We finished our sushi, toasted our new arrival and drove home. We got a ladder from the shed and went up to the attic, dragging out garbage bags of baby stuff and doing load after load of laundry. I crawled into bed at 2am, bleary eyed, for a few hours of sleep. Now, it's nothing like giving birth - I will give you that - but I can promise you I was a bit worse for the wear the next morning.

And then, suddenly, I was handed a 2 day old infant.

We have spent the last 4 weeks together, this beautiful child and I.....he asleep on my chest or wiggling in my arms or pooping on my couch, while I have struggled to get my bearings. It's been a while, and frankly there are a lot of things I can't remember about newborns. Because I have not had the benefit of 9 months to read every parenting book cover to cover so that I am fully aware of what to be expecting, I find myself with new questions and challenges every day.

The first thing I need to know is, how long after bringing home a newborn do you stop feeling like you have the flu? New parents, back me up here.... your body clock is all screwed up, you are always tired and disoriented, your eyes ache and your arms feel heavy and your back and neck are sore from sleeping in weird positions. You haven't eaten a regular meal with utensils since the new arrival, and the idea of wearing anything dressier than sweatpants is incredibly unappealing, if not impossible. Driving is ill-advised, but how else are you going to buy more diapers or find wipes that won't cause a rash or see another adult who wants to talk about something - anything - other than feedings and poop?

I wasn't expecting to be quite so tired - it was a total surprise. I always attributed new parent fatigue to birth and breastfeeding, but it turns out that you don't have to possess a functioning uterus to feel like you got hit by a truck while caring for a newborn. As a foster parent, I supposedly came into this role fresh as a daisy, rested and fed and watered and ready - and I am a total mess. I have been in a pair of ratty yoga pants and a tank top for four weeks straight. Embrace the post-partum, that's what I say. Even if you didn't have anything to do with the partum-ing.

But today I am taking control.
I am putting on a clean pair of sweatpants, and making myself a hot meal and eating it with a fork.

That's right. You heard me.
A fork.

I am totally rocking this parenting gig.

Social Media, I am your bitch

2012-01-11T12:20:00.002-10:00

Yesterday, I got an invite in the mail from Pinterest.

And while a tiny part of my heart was saying "dammitalltohell" and felt kind of like this:

a big huge part of me was all "WAHOOOOOOOOO":

And so I said to myself, "Let's do this thing." And I saddled up and bought the ticket and took the ride and ohmygodihaveaproblem. The problem being, I am never going to be able to get anything done.

Between twitter and my beloved facebook and this blog and 3 other blogs and trying to write a book, I spend all day every day in front of my computer talking to myself.

And we haven't even touched on "Words with Friends", which is sweeping the nation despite the fact that it allows you to play words that are not even words but not 'jew' because it's offensive- not even if you can put the 'j' on a triple letter score and combine it with 'be' and 'paw' and a triple word score and get like 70 bilion points using 3 tiles, and where I have no less than 10 games going at any one time. My phone dings constantly, alerting me to the fact that someone else is beating my ass by playing words like 'vanner' an- "DING" hang on, I need to get that. Shit, she put a Z on a triple word score that is like, 63 points - I might as well just resign now. Shitty shit.

Okay, where was I. Oh yes. Apparently, I am supposed to be building my brand and finding my voice and setting my tone and creating a dialogue. That is not happening. I am still at the very beginning stages of figuring out who I want to follow, and whether to retweet or quote, and why the mobile twitter app is so much better than the super-sucky desktop version of twitter, and whether enough people like me, and if I am posting so much it's really more like spamming and if so will people STOP liking me and if people like me why don't they retweet me and maybe it's because they, too, have the shitty desktop version of twitter but even so they could like me on the facebook and then share what I post, but they don't which means they don't *really* like me and THEN WHAT I ASK YOU THEN. WHAT.
(and yes, of course I have issues. Sweet Jesus Mary and Joseph of course I do.)

"DING!" Oh my god I am never going to get anything done ever, hang on I have to just check this and.....fuck me sideways she beat me again?! This is not even fun anymore.

But as I was saying, the thing that blows my mind is that there is more! How could there possibly be more? WHO HAS THE TIME? Even with this - even with ALL OF THIS - I want to pin people? Or things? Or people and their things? Or things people pin? Does this have anything to do with going steady? I have no idea. I don't have the slightest fucking clue.

"DING!" Oh my god this game is horrifying, it completely defies logic. I don't even understand how I could have 4 'i's - how can there be so many, and why do I have ALL OF THEM.

All I do know is that I have spent almost 3 hours on the computer and phone today, and have not gotten a single thing accomplished other than quizzing a lovely but completely ineffectual service rep at Bank of America about why they suck so hard (which actually, now that I think about it, was very empowering) and stalking a friend's facebook page to see if his wife had that baby yet, and cruising etsy.com with my hand in my pants like the craft porn that it is.

"DING!"
And playing Words With Friends. Of course. Lest we forget.

Trying to wrap up the writer's workshop over the din of a circular saw

2012-01-08T14:02:00.000-10:00

You know, two weeks ago when I was safely ensconsed in a boardroom with other writers talking about My Book for 5 days, it actually felt......possible. An attainable goal. I was going to write a book.

And then I came home and the kids were here 24-7 because school was on winter break, and the shed was being built, and to help that process along someone showed up with a compressor to run a nail gun, and the circular saw got set up outside my window, and now I cannot even type my fucking NAME without having to check my notes.

This is ridiculous. I just read an NPR interview where this woman self-published books on Amazon and sold over a million copies, and she said that you have to be willing to make the commitment, and put in the effort, and do the work to write a whole book.

I cannot even commit to finishing a blog post in less than 4 days.

I haven't showered since Thursday.

The baby keeps crying, the kids are always shrieking, and people are standing outside yelling at me through the windows. It's all very unsettling. I want to go back to the boardroom, with it's central air and pitchers of ice water and notable lack of power tools and screaming. I need to get that mojo back.

So I decided to review the reading materials we were given at workshop. And I fell asleep. This is a disaster. I don't understand how anyone can do this. In the spiral bound document I received on the first day of workshop, there were two important topics relative to my current status: "Structure" and "Process"

I have no idea how to even approach writing the book. Where do I begin? How do I begin? What story am I trying to tell? It actually ties in with something we talked a lot about at Camp Mighty. Intention. What is my intent, with writing this book. Is it an exorcism, a purge, or a reflection.....

Strange to see these two events coming together to lead me towards my goal. It makes me feel as though my subconscious wants me to write this book more than I do. Which may be so. My subconscious won't have to deal with my relatives if I publish a memoir. Should I use fake names, approach it as a novel, just call it "inspired by actual events"? Do I want to lay all the cards on the table, or should I just run away.

I need Kenny Rogers to tell me what the hell to do. Because I need to do something.

Process
Outside of my kitchen window the framework is slowly rising up. If you ask the county, it's a storage shed. 10 feet by 12 feet, carefully measured out to avoid the expense and hassle of permitting. Outside of the windows, a row of palm trees - short and stubby, not coconut palms - some other decorative dwarfed palm. A bright red hibiscus shrub. A plumeria tree that may or may not survive whatever blight it is afflicted with.

There will be a sleeping loft and a desk. Rough wooden floors - I specifically did not want finished flooring. Sam wonders aloud if I am channeling the Unabomber, I prefer Thoreau, but it is a matter of opinion, I suppose, until my work is complete. I think sometimes he wonders if I am losing my mind, with this manic compulsion to get things out of my head and onto the page. Who wouldn't want flooring and consistent electricity to write on a computer? I think he's making this too complicated. Solar power and no running water. It will be my refuge. Peaceful unless we turn on the record player, which will sit on a small table with a stack of 33s underneath. We went to the record store in Wailuku last week and sat on the dusty floorboards with a large Coke Icee, the fan whirring overhead, singing along to Amy Winehouse's new album, sorting through the used records choosing the soundtrack for my writing: Carole King, James Taylor, Culture Club. Because why the hell not.

The room - the storage shed - has become a necessity. All too often I am seized with a thought or a memory that I need to get out. It is almost like needing a hit, this compulsion to write. When it comes, I am unable to concentrate on other things until it is released, squeezed out of my system - sometimes more quickly than others. And standing up in the middle of dinner and telling everyone they have to get the hell out of the living room because Mommy has to write RIGHT THIS MINUTE is simply not an option (though god knows, I've tried.) Nothing is organized or planned out. The idea of sitting down and being organized and consistent enough to write a book is daunting. How will I still my mind and focus long enough for that.

Maybe I should take that Adderall my doctor suggested afterall. Adult-onset, post menopausal ADD is real, apparently.
For now, I can live with escaping to my room, shutting the door after asking everyone to just keep their voices down for a minute. Or jotting down quick notes, and settling in for a good writing session later on. Or typing a few words into my phone's memo app to refer to later. Sometimes that is helpful, and sometimes I stare at the words and think "what the HELL was I talking about?" Nothing makes me crazier than thinking of something - story, anecdote, idea or inspiration - and then - by the time I sit down to write - having it disappear into thin air.

That happens a lot these days. I can live with it, but barely.

I don't look like I just had a baby BECAUSE I DIDN'T

2012-01-05T12:50:00.000-10:00

Oh hello, RANT ON.

As the biological, adoptive, and foster mother to three lovely children all with different birth mothers, I should be used to nosy strangers, prying questions, and comments that are supposed to be encouraging or admiring, but instead make me want to kick even the sweetest little old lady in the shins. I am talking to you, changing room attendant at Old Navy. Shut up and go back to handing out plastic number tags. There is nothing to see here.

Let me explain.

You know those people who ask women when they are due, and the women AREN'T EVEN PREGNANT?

Bad form, my friends. Very bad form.

Unless the woman in question is holding a positive pregnancy test and jumping up and down with JOY, shut your trap vis a vis pregnancy, and all related topics. For your own well-being, if nothing else. Because when my son was born and I was still 60 pounds over my normal weight, and hadn't slept in weeks, and my hair was sticking up funny and I had 38J boobs - someone asked me when the baby was due and I hit them in the head with a package of newborn diapers.

But we can take this rule even further. The same can be said for a woman holding a brand new infant.

Unless you saw with your own two eyeballs the actual live birth, do not make assumptions about anything. A brand new infant in arms does not mean a uterus in belly. It does not mean anything other than that woman is holding a baby. And the details are none of your damn business, unless she is asking you for child support.

To summarize:
If you see a woman who appears pregnant, shut the fuck up and wait for her to announce her news.
Don't ask her when she is due. Don't say congratulations, or ask who the father is, or if she is having a boy or a girl, or how many other children she has or whether she plans to breastfeed. Because you might not like the answer, and she might not like your invasive questions.

If you see a woman holding a baby, say that the baby is sweet, or cute, or breathtaking if that is the only way to describe it without giggling or gagging.

If you didn't visit her in labor and delivery, or get a message announcing the baby's arrival, or watch her go through her pregnancy and know for a fact that she just gave birth with her own vagina, you don't know where that baby came from. Don't ask her how she lost all the pregnancy weight, or how her delivery was, or how breastfeeding is going, or anything else even vaguely relating to childbirth. Because A. It's none of your goddamned business and B. None of that may apply.

And my very favorite comments are the ones where people tell me that my daughter looks just like me - because while she might bear a slight resemblance, it's purely a coincidence. A lucky one, but still. I have given birth to one baby in my life but I have been a mother to many. Stop worrying about the details.

Why I should not be responsible for getting your son circumcised

2012-01-04T12:03:00.001-10:00

This blog is, as you know, my version of a journal. I have avoided posting for a few days because I am worked up about something that is very controversial, and as a rule, I don't like to get people all riled up about something I post.

But.

I have a hot button issue flashing in front of me, and it is hard to think about anything else.

One of the biggest challenges of foster parenting is not having any say over the babies' future, or much control over the babies' schedule. Foster parenting is a job. A job with terrible pay, where you do not get time off. And that is okay - it is rewarding and important work. But my time is not my own, and decisions are made that I do not necessarily agree with. I have to be at appointments when I am told to be at appointments - and appointments are not necessarily scheduled at my convenience. His parents have visitation with him twice a week, I have to be at WIC appointments once a month, and - because Dude is a newborn - we have pediatrician and early-intervention type appointments to make sure he's thriving, and to provide continuity of care when he leaves my custody. Translation: up to 4 days a week, we have somewhere to be at a specific time.

Doctor's appointments are the worst - the waits are long, and the visits are especially fraught with tension - mostly because Dude's mom is there, and she wants him to be circumcised, and it hasn't happened yet.

And this is where it gets tricky. We chose not to circumcise our son. Just thinking about the actual procedure makes me queasy. Listen, I get that it is the parent's choice, and in this situation Dude's parent is choosing to have her son circumcised. But I am struggling with it. As a foster parent, I am proud to care for each child as if they were my own. To use my judgement, to do my best for each of them. And in this particular case, I can't.

And it really makes me uncomfortable.

I did try to be supportive of her choice. I called the clinic for days on end trying to get someone to agree to circumcise him, to no avail. At our next appointment I asked the doctor directly. I knew it was important to the mom, and my job is to support her parenting efforts, and encourage her interest in Dude's well-being. So I did my job. I asked the doctor if Dude could be circumcised. And then I tried not to pass out at the thought of having it done right then and there.

"Getting circumcised" the doctor said sternly, looking at me over her glasses, "is the least of his problems."

I had to disagree. If someone suggested cutting off part of MY genitals, that would be a serious problem.
Just ask this guy: He stands on Venice Beach. Or at least, he did. We met him in 1998, and Sam had his picture taken with him. Right now, I kind of want to call him and ask for some back-up.

I see the doctor's point. Dude has bigger issues (more on that later). And honestly, the issue is not circumcision in and of itself. The issue is that I cannot use my best judgement, because in this case my best judgement is irrelevent, and to some people very controversial.

But what is hardest for me to accept is the idea that I am doing wrong by any of my children - the ones who aren't circumcised, and the ones who will be.

Name Dropper

2012-01-01T11:43:00.001-10:00

Maui sees it's fair share of celebrities, and after living here for 10 years I've seen a few. I don't ask for photos, I don't stare. In fact, I try not to even acknowledge that I know who they are, because I figure they are on vacation, not at work - they deserve some time to themselves. But then last night happened. And fuck it all, I gotta tell you what I saw last night.

Put on your helmets and your closed-toe shoes, I'm name dropping.

It all started not-so-innocently enough. I caught wind of a really big party in the works for New Years Eve. My friend manages a restaurant that was going to be ground-zero for some major celebrity action, and as she was describing what (and who) was on the program I got a little jealous. Here I am, unemployed, sitting at home in pajama pants and a sweatshirt covered in spit-up, and she's gonna get all dolled up and get paid to party. That used to be my gig, and man.....I miss it sometimes.

So I told her that next year, I wanted to be her assistant for the evening. I was only sort-of joking.
And then she threw me a curve ball and asked if I wanted to be there to help get everyone seated before dinner, and then stay for the show. "I won't be able to get Sam in....." she hesitated, not wanting to leave him out. "Will he min-"

"NO!' I might have shouted, but I tried to keep my voice calm. "No, no no, he won't mind! Someone has to stay with the kids!"

And that is how I ended up spending a fabulous star-studded New Years Eve trying to keep the crowd from over-handling the celebs.

Unfortunately, I couldn't go with them to the men's room - and that is where the crowd gathered. Sarah titled them "The Pooperazzi" - the people who follow stars to the bathroom and then wait outside for them to come back out, spraying them with flashbulbs, grabbing at their clothes, insisting on photos for their facebook, and generally making asses of themselves.

It was horrifying.

This is probably why Mike Myers came in through the kitchen and limited his fluid intake - so as to avoid the bathroom entirely. Good thinking, dude. Way to plan ahead.

Steven Tyler, on the other hand, went to the men's room at least twice. Poor guy.

I don't know if Clint Eastwood was similarly hassled, I wasn't keeping tabs on his bladder. But I am pretty sure he would freeze people alive WITH HIS ICE COLD STARE. He's still totally got it, man.

Weird Al was hanging with his wife and kid, a sweet little girl Lucy's age. I hope no one bothered them, they were so awesome.

Alice Cooper's daughter was mistaken for Katy Perry, so she got nailed big time coming out of the bathroom. Alice Cooper did not get mistaken for Katy Perry - but I think he came through the kitchen too.

The Doobie Brothers were all over the joint. It was hard to keep track of them.

Tom Arnold was MCing the event, and he and his wife were super sweet. He was getting enough hassle in the dining room that I figure getting groped outside the men's room probably wouldn't faze him. But having a dozen people call you buddy in the space of 10 minutes and then ask for a photo must be really obnoxious. Being friendly and approachable has it's downside.

Honestly, they were all friendly and approachable, each of them sweet as could be and nice to be around. Any attitude problems came from ticketholders, and some moments during the evening were reminiscent of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Over-indulged assholes making fools of themselves while everyone else just watched in horror.

Alice Cooper, the Doobie Brothers, and Weird Al tore it up - it was cool to watch the performers supporting each other's performances (and funny to watch Mike Meyers sitting through Weird Al's killer show-stopping "Canadian Idiot"). Unfortunately, I missed the grand finale of everyone onstage singing "Come Together" - a song title that never fails to make me laugh out loud - and I heard that Clint was going to sing Auld Lang Syne, and I never did see Mike Meyers or Steven Tyler perform. I was in my car by 11:15pm, racing home while fireworks exploded overhead, lighting the backroads as I made my way up the mountain. I pulled in the driveway at 11:55pm, ran up the stairs barefoot, threw my purse and shoes on the floor, gathered up Dude, and kissed my husband at the stroke of midnight.

2012, the bar is pretty high. I'm ready. And next year, I'm putting a porta-potty outside the restaurant's back door. The Pooperazzi will never get the best of me again.

Standing Accused

2011-12-30T15:08:00.001-10:00

Have you ever been accused of something? Or blamed for something you weren't responsible for?

It sucks.

It is worse when you cannot defend yourself, either for lack of evidence or because the accuser is not concerned with facts, or with making sense. I'm not talking about extreme situations where the wrongfully accused is sitting on death row waiting for a shred of DNA evidence to clear their name - because clearly that is an even bigger issue than someone just saying you did something you didn't. That's someone saying you did something you didn't and then trying to get you killed for it. I think we can all agree that is some Fucked Up Shit. I'm not talking about that. I am talking about the small, day to day dramas that can come up amongst family and friends, and how to rise above them, move past them, and leave them behind.

In this week between Christmas and New Years, I am remembering a particularly unpleasant situation that developed over the course of a week or two during this time of year - not life or death, but it sure did feel like my world was turned upside down. It was probably 15 years ago, and I still shudder when I think of it. I was working at a flagship store for a retail chain that shall remain unnamed but that rhymes with "snap". And sometime during that holiday season, someone in that store started stealing. At first, it was a series of coincidences, that mushroomed into money going missing from people's cash registers. I began to suspect that there was a problem when my wedding ring vanished. I had stuck my ring on a friend/co-worker's finger while I applied some hand lotion - because winter in New England + copious amounts of hand sanitizer = some gnarly dry skin - and then I got called away and one thing led to another and then everyone took lunch breaks and by the time I finally went back to retrieve my ring from her hand, it was the end of the day. And the ring was gone.

"Where's my ring?" I asked.
"I gave it back to you." she said.

I looked at her, perplexed. If she had given it back to me, it would be on my finger. I wouldn't have put it down on the counter of a busy store, or in my pocket, or anywhere but ON MY FINGER, which, conveniently, is always there, attached to my hand. And I told her that.
She was not pleased by my logic. I was even less pleased.

And that is when the small things started to add up - and the disappearances began to multiply. Specifically, cash disappearing out of my register. Until the ring vanished, I would never have given a second thought to leaving my purse unlocked in the staff room, or letting someone else use my cash drawer while I was on break. Trusting? Yes. Naive? Maybe. But I am not stupid. I figured out right quick that we had a problem, and insisted that my drawer be locked up whenever I took a break. I stopped bringing a purse to work altogether. If I had any other jewelry, I damn sure wasn't going to be letting people wear it while I moisturized. But that didn't make the problem go away.

In short order, I was called into a meeting with the loss prevention officer and asked about the missing money. I was livid. I knew that my ring had not been lost or misplaced, and I knew too, that the person who had been involved with my ring's disappearance was among the people using my register when money had gone missing. But I did not have any proof. It was my drawer that was short.

I broke down and cried. I explained about my missing ring. They looked at me in silence as I wept. They suggested that I had taken the money because I needed it. That they could understand how easy it would be to take the money, and how it would seem like it wasn't hurting anyone. I sat, clutching a tissue, mopping at my face. I was mortified. I had never stolen money - or anything else, for that matter. How was I going to prove I hadn't stolen the money? I would have gladly agreed to being strip searched if it had cleared my name, and suggested as much, to the embarrassment of the tiny store manager (for indeed, that is all I can remember of him - he was small boned and delicate, with an over-sized attitude and love of retail merchandising). He seemed so sure of my criminal activity that I began to suspect that they were not even considering that someone else could have been responsible. I was the easy, obvious choice.

I was the fall guy.

The thing about being blamed for something is that usually, you don't realize you are the scapegoat until it has already happened. You are caught completely unaware, and forced to play catch-up - if you are even given the opportunity to clear your name. And frequently, the charge is so outlandish, so out-of-character, so clearly wrong, that for a time you think to yourself "Surely everyone can see this is crazy."

And while that may be so, it doesn't mean anyone is going to come to your defense. People are all too eager to let someone else take the blame. They don't want the white-hot spotlight pointed at them. They keep their heads down and avoid eye contact and hope this whole thing will just blow over.

But for the person targeted, it doesn't blow over - it just blows.

Since this happened, I have taken pains in my life to protect myself from accusations like this. Everything is documented, noted, discussed, and copied. And even then - even with noteworthy effort to protect myself - things can go awry. A few months ago, just after my surgery, I was involved in a terribly stressful incident that led to some serious repurcussions, both post-surgically and emotionally. When the dust cleared somehow I was the bad guy. While I had been off dealing with the consequences as they affected me personally, the responsibility for the entire sordid affair was placed squarely on my shoulders, despite the fact that I didn't have a thing to do with what happened other than having it transpire in my living room. I was angry, and disgusted. I wanted to shout from the rooftops that I had nothing to do with any of this nonsense, but rather than speak up, I decided to just put the burden down and walk away. I didn't want to make a fuss, I didn't want to spend the time and energy clearing up the confusion, defending myself from a charge that seemed so glaringly unjust.

And that is where it has remained, throughout this holiday season. While I would like to say that it doesn't bother me, it does. While I know that my conscience is clear, I am bothered that people who do not know me well might believe a twisted version of events, and either hold me accountable, or just accept the story as truth and, unaffected or disinterested, move on, carrying that impression of me with them. Neither of those options are palatable, but neither is the idea of trying to make sense of something that just makes no sense at all.

In the end, the most important thing I have learned from all of this - from, despite my best efforts, finding myself once again taking the blame - is that I need to treasure my friendships, and my friends, and my family. When things are all wrong, they have the ability to make everything all right.

Hold your loved ones close this season. Hold your head high. And hold the line. Everything is going to be all right.

Oh, give me a home where the publishers roam.......

2011-12-27T14:16:00.001-10:00

Writing workshop day 3 was a spirited discussion of memory - how to write a memoir without necessarily having documented quotes and photographic evidence.

It was all very interesting. Memory is fluid. Memory is subjective. And we each have our own truths. So writing a memoir that is true to us, may not ring true to others. It's a mystery wrapped in an enigma, people. And One of the major sticking points in my writing was being very concerned about the reliability of my memory, which is admittedly fuzzy. I don't want to mis-speak, and I also don't want my content to hurt or offend anyone. It goes without saying that I don't want to find myself "Frey-ed" - accused of writing fiction and labeling it as memoir. So, how to approach the truth when separated by time and distance and a mind that has self-preservation at the forefront of every decision, as human minds generally do?

It's funny, while I understood each of the reading assignments, and their relevance to writing a memoir, the writing PROMPTS didn't really seem connected. Until I was told to describe my book as a house. What kind of house was it? Where was it? Tall ceilings? Big windows? City? Country?

So I sat down to describe my memoir as a house, and of course the houses that came to mind were houses from my childhood. Specifically, my paternal grandparents' houses. A 15 minute reflection on the house that describes my life's story:

There are two lives, in this story. Therefore, there must be two houses. They are both my grandparents'. Rather than reinvent the wheel, it is simpler just to say that. And I believe that once I have described them to you you will understand why, rather than creating a fantasy in my mind, I will describe a true Camelot of sorts.

The first is the "before". Before is in the same tiny village I grew up in, filled with two story capes in a classical New England style, with wide plank siding and 9 over 6 windows and fireplaces to stave off the winter's chill blowing in off of Long Island Sound. Before was old trees and tall hedges, a cul de sac behind the house filled with cars, a barn beyond that had been parceled out, sold off and renovated. And on the other side of a fence, the village playground.

We always entered from the back, the door opening into a sunny kitchen with a breakfast nook and wide counters, a huge stove against the side wall in almost constant use. There was a pantry and a maid's room - which was now a mud room, filled with boots, clinging pieces of hay and grass, the slight smell of manure from the horses.

There was a narrow stairway leading up to the second floor, and a swinging door with a window in it leading out towards the living rooms.

If you had been a guest arriving for the first time, you would have entered by the front door - if only to have the opportunity to make a grand entrance for once in your life. From the street, there was a wide path leading up to the broad stairs. Massive white pillars held up the two story rounded awning. Stained glass surrounded the heavy wooden doors. You would enter and find yourselves in a huge hall, the ceilings soaring far above you, suspending an enormous chandelier, gracious seating scattered thoughtfully around and gorgeous oriental carpets underfoot, with rich jewel tones of rubies and sapphires. The stairs arched upward in a truly grand staircase, leading to an open sitting area, and the bedrooms.

In time, the house was sold and a new one was purchased. And my memory of childhood is devided into the "Before" of the house in the village, and the "After" of this new property. The new home was a low slung behemoth, a 200 year-old shingled cape with an enormous addition added on and shingled in the same weathered natural wood, as though 200 years ago they were building enormous asymmetrical modern homes with indoor swimming pools. The original house was low-ceilinged, the entire second floor tucked under the eaves. The only nod to the modern was the enormous commercial range in the kitchen. The family continued to expand as children gave birth to children. Holidays were impossible to manage.

The addition was modern incarnate: all cathedral ceilings and wood floors and lit glass shelves and gently sloping hallways lined with portraits, each lit individually for proper appreciation.

There was a grand piano for the grandchildren to play for the entertainment of the adults.

In the basement was the pool table, and the wine cellar - a necessary addition due to the vineyard extending for acres behind the property. There was potential back there, my grandfather would say. Room to roam, spread your wings, disappear for hours. And so I did. I would ride the horses through the fallen leaves, down the aisles of the vineyard, past the barn. This barn was not sold off - it was dismantled, piece by piece, and trucked away by an uncle who decided to rebuild it in Virginia. Peg by peg the barn came down, each piece numbered and noted, and secured in a truck. There was a future, somewhere else. Still familiar. Still tied forever to the family home - but now built on a solid foundation far from the madness. Which is how I came to be in Hawaii, I suppose.

If you want to write the book, you have to survive the feedback

2011-12-23T20:18:00.000-10:00

Day two of the memoir writers conference was off to a late start due to Dude's one week checkup at the community clinic. You will hear all about THAT later, because whew....... blog material.

But after the visit, I headed off to workshop with Dude. He slept while I wrote, and ate while we talked, and hung out not-so-quietly while my submission was critiqued.

"Crit" was something I was dreading, but was exactly why I was at workshop. Writing a very honest memoir means talking about some aspects of myself and some choices I have made that I am not wholly comfortable with. Ao reveal those details - and then sit there and let it get picked apart - didn't sound like much fun. But it was necessary if I was going to write and publish a book. Best to get used to the idea now, before my mother gets her hands on a copy. After lunch, I settled into my chair and steeled myself for the feedback. I had no idea what to expect. My biggest concern about writing a memoir is that I wanted it to be interesting and different - and I was worried that my life did not have enough that was interesting or entertaining to fill a book. Memoir is narcissism at it's most narcissistic, assuming that others care enough to pay for your story, and then spend their time reading it is awkward.

The feedback was positive, mostly focused on the fact that I only had 12 pages and I needed a lot more. We talked about choosing the story I wanted to tell, and how to illustrate that story with events from my life. How to talk about things that happened without "outing" others. Whether people mentioned in the book should be allowed to approve the stories involving them. We talked about the outline of the book, the parts of the story that would be most compelling to others, things I didn't mention in the book but which came out during our discussion by way of explanation. Every so often I would be explaining something and someone would shout "YES! THAT! Put THAT in there....that's GREAT!"

So if I finish this book and you hate it, or you think I got it wrong, or you wish I had left you out of it entirely.....well. You are going to have to take it up with my fellow workshoppers.

They think you are wrong, and that you can suck it.

And then we had a writing prompt. Write for 15 minutes about your favorite fruit.
I sat back in my chair, and man.....I was pissed off. Fruit? Are you fucking kidding me?
Whatever. Fruit. Go. (I think my enthusiasm really comes through here......)

I hate cutting these damn pineapple wedges. The entire bar is drowning in juice, it burns under my fingernails, and I wish I could scratch my nose where it is itching. If I do, the juice will run straight down my arm and wind up in my armpit. And then I'll have to go in the bathroom and DEAL WITH IT - and really, who has the time. I keep to the task at hand. Cutting up this damn pineapple. My god, it feels like I am cutting off more than I will be able to use in the drinks. It's wasteful - or decadent, I guess, depending on your point of view, and your budget. The worst part of it all? I can't have a bite. The customers are watching, it's probably a health code violation or something. I drop a few wedges in a plastic cup to sneak out on my smoke break later. Pineapple is my favorite - I love the crunchy/soft texture. the sweet and sour, the coat of armor you have to wrestle through with a butcher knife to free the juicy fruit hidden inside.

I live surrounded by pineapple fields - I had no idea what pineapple fields looked like until I moved here. The fields covered with spiny shrubs, the pineapples nestled down between the spiky leaves like well-guarded treasure. I had never eaten fresh pineapple - it was always canned. I learned as an adult that there was a good reason for that. Buying them in the store is a chore - they make holes in grocery bags, and crush the more delicate produce, and every so often they have a stowaway beetle or spider that alights on my kitchen counter much to the entertainment of my children, who scatter with delighted shrieks.

My childhood summers were filled with big cans of pineapple juice and the much smaller cans of coco lopez. My father wasn't much of a rum drinker - he was a vodka man - but my mother loved her pina coladas. So they would make a huge batch - without alcohol - pour some into cups for the kids, load it with another scoop of ice and a few slugs of rum, and make the adult beverage my mother believed was synonymous with hot summer evenings on the deck watching the sailboats sail past Castle Hill on their return to the harbor. When we were invited to picnics or barbecues,, my mother would bring ambrosia salad, loaded with chunks of pineapple and coconut, and mini marshmallows, the other ingredients almost an afterthought.

We never made a ham with rings of pineapple - and we never ate pineapple in the water months. Every so often someone would arrive with a shivering green jello mold for Thanksgiving dinner and my mother would discreetly shake her head and move it to a discreet corner of the buffet.

Now that I live here, and it seems as though pineapple grows everywhere I look, we eat it year round. But each time someone hands me a pineapple to cut up I always have the same thought. "Ugh. This is going to be such a pain in the ass."

I don't want 15 minutes of fame. I just want 15 minutes.

2011-12-20T20:34:00.000-10:00

This week I am participating in a writer's workshop. I have never attended one before and this is all new to me. I didn't know what to expect, and I am going to share the experience here both to provide a record for myself and perhaps to encourage others to consider taking their writing to a workshop as well. I don't know if this would fall under professional development or not - but I am enjoying the process thusfar.

In the workshop, we have reading assignments, selections from published works in addition to reading pages submitted by our fellow attendees. We will be providing feedback within specific parameters (3 things you like three things you think should be developed further) and also following writing prompts to help us explore the creative process.

The first assignment was: write for 15 minutes about where your writing comes from.

This is what I came up with.

Where Does Your Writing Come From? A fifteen minute writing exercise.

We had a foster baby placed with us yesterday. These things happen very unexpectedly, and you can almost count on a foster placement sticking a rod in the spokes of your carefully balanced life cycle.

A 2 day old infant in the throes of withdrawal adds a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole scenario.

I have been awake for 36 hours, trying to prepare for, feed, and support this very small person, who has begun life in such an inauspicious manner, taken from his mother and his narcotic in one fell swoop as he was. Yesterday was spent lying on the sofa in sweatpants trying to get a handle on the situation. Today I had to get some shit done. Simple as that. Baby or no, it is the first day of the kids' winter vacation, the day before a writers conference, and 6 days before Christmas.

I spent this morning rushing around buying last minute gifts, getting them in the mail, driving 30 minutes to the bank to make a deposit - and back home again. Feeding the kids, changing diapers, convincing the baby to eat, fielding texts and phone calls, cleaning the house, wrapping more gifts, writing work emails, printing out phone lists, making phonecalls, setting up childcare and drivers and doctors appointments for the week, changing more diapers, and then, FINALLY, at 4:30, I sat down to spend 15 minutes answering this question before the workshop. The kids were watching a movie. The baby was asleep. The husband would be home in an hour. I could do this.

As soon as I opened a blank document the kids walked in this room, sat down next to me, and began a raucous game of Uno.

Considering that I cannot so much as turn on the dryer without getting complaints about the noise and the disturbance said noise is causing to their delicate senses, the fact that they came in and sat down right next to me and dialed the volume up to a 12 led to some strongly worded suggestions that they relocate.

After two peanut butter and jellies and 15 minutes - MY FIFTEEN MINUTES - they decamped to another room, and I settled down to write. And then the phone rang And then the baby cried. And now my husband will be home in fifteen minutes. This is all I've got.

Fifteen minutes.

My writing comes from a desperate attempt to claim my fifteen minutes.

MY fifteen minutes. Mine. Not yours.

my FIFTEEN minutes. I think I deserve fifteen of them to myself.

my fifteen MINUTES. Jesus H. Christ, we're talking minutes here - not hours. Is that so much to ask?

I didn't go to college. No money - I was on my own. No time - I was trying to hustle for the money. No support - have I mentioned I was on my own?

Now I am decidedly not on my own. In fact, the very last person I have time to worry about is myself. Mostly, I like it that way. It keeps me from remembering that in the pursuit of a life worth living, I have given up a lot of myself. No degree, no career, no long-term plan other than paying off the mortgage before I die.

In my attempts to write so much as a resume, I am stymied. My experiences make for excellent stories, but not much in the way of professional development. And so I write. I write about the life I live. The life I aspire to. The life I didn't get to experience. The life I experienced and then put away because - at the time - it was better to do so. And the life that I am too busy to appreciate in the moment.

I am claiming my fifteen minutes. Make your own fucking sandwich.

In the pursuit of awesome, the road can get bumpy

2011-12-19T22:03:00.001-10:00

12 days until awesome.

I have given myself until the end of this year to indulge in my fantasy of being a writer.

After that, the real world with it's real bills and real deadlines is going to kick in, and I am going to have a massive reality check.

But of course, the real world doesn't operate on my timeline. Fate doesn't adhere to a calendar year.

Which is why my two weeks were cut short so abruptly by the arrival of the Dude.

This is how my life has unfolded, and how it continues to unfold. I can't believe it happened again, now, at this moment. Fate literally reached out and said "Are you high? You must be high. You must have lost your Ever Loving Mind to think that this...... that all of this was going to just happen without my say so."

"I'll always have Camp Mighty" I consoled myself. "I snuck that one in there. This whole year has been amazing. I have traveled and spread my wings and spent time as I saw fit. I quit the awful job, and I spent the summer in my childhood home, and I traveled with the team, and I wrote and wrote and wrote. It was a good run."

It was. It was a good run.

But now I am at the end of the line. I have a 3 day old baby staying with me indefinitely. I have two kids in private school and I have run up quite a tab this year, trying to experience some of the things I was sorry I missed when I was younger. I may not have been allowed to experience dating Eddie Vedder, and Sam refuses to live in Manhattan so I guess that'll never happen - but I crossed some stuff off that list I had in my head of "shit I happily sacrificed to have a family, but kind of wish I could try anyway."

And the last thing on the list - attending a real writer's workshop, and having my writing critiqued and maybe even getting some writing together that I could send to a publisher - was supposed to happen this week.

The workshop starts tomorrow.
Dude arrived yesterday.
The kids are on Christmas break.
And I can't justify spending money on a writing workshop - it is ludicrous.

I have to stop now. I have to stop, and accept the wonderful things that I have been given, that I have experienced, that I continue to enjoy. My friends, my family, my Dude.

I sat down last night and held the baby and realized that. That it was a sign. That I was getting greedy. That I had been given enough - more than most. That I didn't need a book deal or a fancy job or an apartment in the city. That I was not brave enough or strong enough or good enough for that. I was a mom, and a wife, and a friend, and a sister and a daughter.

It was enough.
It is enough.

And then I got this text from Sarah:
"If you need baby help so that you can go to your conference, I'm off Tuesday and Wednesday. It's important that you go if possible."

It was a glimmer. It was a brass ring.
And I grabbed it.

In this season of giving that I hate so very much, I have been given something I can't really explain to you, but that has restored my faith. Restored a part of me that has been elusive. The part of me that believes that it is okay to reach for things that seem completely out of the question without looking foolish. It is okay to dream big. Even when you are a middle-aged stay-at-home mom who lives in the middle of nowhere.

I don't think this writing conference is going to be my big break. I've been writing for years, and god knows no one from the publishing world has been in touch. This workshop could just be another thing I use to distract myself from my actual life of running a household - which is decidedly unglamorous and not particularly fulfilling for me intellectually. This workshop is like getting on a merry go round and picking the horse of your dreams and pretending you are galloping through the countryside with Mary Poppins, the wind in your hair. Buy the ticket, take the ride. So why do I bother? Have I forgotten that merry go rounds make me nauseous?

I bother because if you don't keep reaching for the brass ring, what's the point? If you give up, you'll never know how far a little faith can take you.

So for all of you people out there who don't have a job, or hate your job, or feel trapped or left behind, or who are afraid to reach for something that seems unattainable, who believe that it is too late, or too crazy.......close your eyes and reach out your hand. I am right here. And I am cheering you on.

Let's do this.

How to prepare to bring home a newborn baby with 12 hours notice

2011-12-18T20:19:00.001-10:00

A few weeks ago I said to Sam "I want another one."

He said "No. Absolutely not."

I said "What if someone just calls up out of the blue and offers me a baby again?"

He said "That isn't going to happen."

"But what if it DID?" I persisted.

He sighed and shook his head sympathetically at his poor, delusional wife. "Sure, honey. If someone calls and offers you a baby, you can have another one."

At 7pm last night, we got a call.

"Hey there." our social worker said. "Want a baby?"

"&%$#" Sam said. "How did you DO that?"

We have been licensed foster parents for the state for eight years. In that time we have taken in several infants, so this phone call didn't faze me in the slightest. But we haven't had a placement in a while, and Sam was caught off-guard. I give him credit: he climbed right into the attic, and started pulling out garbage bags and storage boxes labeled "BABY". We washed, and laundered, and folded, and assembled.

By 7am, aside from a few mysteriously AWOL items, I was totally ready.
Meet Dude. He's staying with us for a little while. Scrumptious.

Please consider becoming a foster parent. I can assure you, it is the most amazing gift you could give - or receive. Especially one week before Christmas.
And for all of you women out there with baby registries, this is for you:

Don't buy into the hype. The reason second and third and all subsequent children don't get a bunch of new stuff is because all of that stuff that you think you need ends up being totally unnecessary. I have taken care of COUNTLESS newborns, and I can promise that you need very little.

Really.

I know this, because I bought it. All of it. Some of it I bought twice. And I regretted it even more the second time. Newborn babies need the very basic necessities. They do not need the very latest gadgets.

You need one carseat (car owners: with two bases if possible. You can leave one base permanently installed in your car, and have the other for other people's cars, travel, etc.)
You need a stroller frame (one with a cupholder and a place for your phone and keys is great) to hold that carseat.
and/or
You need a carrier - I recommend the Ergo which is heaven on my back - get a newborn insert. (The Baby Bjorn really hurt my neck.)
You need a place for the baby to sleep. Babies can sleep anywhere, including mangers and laundry baskets.
You need burp cloths. We use cotton diapers.
You need diapers. Whatever your pleasure - cloth or disposable, organic or not.
You need wipes and/or washcloths for bath and cleanup.
You need some clothes and some blankets.
And we have a vibrating seat that is great for when I am in the bathroom, doing laundry, cleaning, or trying to type/eat/drink hot beverages. You don't need it, but some sort of seat or swing is nice to have from time to time.

You do not need to buy it all brand new. Except the carseat - you shoudn't buy a used carseat for safety reasons. If a carseat has been in an accident, it's frame may be weakened. Best to buy new, just to be safe.

Stay out of Babies R Us, you will want one of everything. We asked friends, bought off craigslist, watched for sales, and now have everything we need stored in a corner of the attic. About $350 for the whole shebang.

$50 wheeled bassinet for sleeping (optional!)

$20 vibrating chair

$125 stroller/carseat

$100 ergo

$55 clothes, blankets. diapers, bottles

Easy peasy lemon squeezy, as Lucy likes to say.
Don't go crazy. Just go.
(Mmmm babies. Yummy.)

This is (really) it. This weekend is your last chance.

2011-12-15T22:18:00.002-10:00

Ten days til Christmas. Well, nine.
I really need to get on that.

I am not done. Not even remotely done. I am not ready. Not even close to ready.

And I am panicking.

I am cutting it too close. Again.

It's a delicate balance, the timing of gift delivery. I avoid sending the boxes too early, because inevitably I find a few more things tucked away in my closet, and have to send a second box. And I hate trying to hide packages that arrive in November - where the hell am I supposed to put them? I wouldn't do that to someone I care about. I think having presents arrive just in the nick of time is considerate. Minimizes clutter.

You're welcome.

But if - in an effort to be considerate - I send the packages out too late, then they arrive on the 27th. So the recipients don't get their presents in time for Christmas, and think I didn't care enough to send them anything. And I got stuck paying for the express postage for no good reason. That just sucks for everyone.

To keep things as simple as possible, I was going to buy a bunch of gifts on Amazon and have them wrapped and shipped directly. But seeing as how I am currently boycotting Amazon because they screwed up two orders in the last two weeks and they have hideous wrapping paper, I had to find a new approach to holiday gift giving for the overseas set. First rule of order: if I am going to pay for gift wrapping, that shit had better be festive. But it's more than convenience and customer service and pretty paper.

Amazon doesn't need my business, and small businesses do.

Luckily, there are a lot of small business owners out there who are very happy to help me get presents to my family members on time. The big box stores, catalogs and online retailers don't give a crap. Not really. And who wants to stand in line at the post office the week of Christmas, anyway? Not this girl.

Here are some businesses that were recommended to me by friends, famlies, and readers. Heavy on the etsy, because I LOVE THE ETSY. Consider this a grab bag - each link is a surprise! Please visit them. Call them. Email them. Buy from them. They will get your packages in the mail and where they need to go - they have unique gifts, and you are supporting small business. Yay.

Have one to add? Leave a comment, I'll happily add to this list :)

http://www.etsy.com/shop/stitchaline509?ref=ss_profile
http://melaniegracedesigns.com/
http://www.etsy.com/shop/PueoBoutique
http://www.etsy.com/shop/JoeCLAY?ref=ss_profile
http://www.etsy.com/shop/stitchaline509?ref=ss_profile
http://explodingdog.com/
http://www.etsy.com/shop/Feistyattire?ref=ss_profile
http://www.etsy.com/shop/mandyrae3883
http://www.etsy.com/shop/JashleyCreations
http://www.etsy.com/shop/hobocampcrafts?ref=ss_profile
http://www.etsy.com/shop/aroundtheisland

Just like a fairy tale. But with sex.

2011-12-14T22:47:00.001-10:00

None of it went according to plan.

The plan was to get married and have a baby.

And then I got married. And then I couldn't have a baby. And then he didn't want me to have a baby. And then he didn't want to be married. And then it got ugly. And then he left me.

And I was 20 years old.

I tried to reboot. Fresh start, new town, new job, new friends.

I ended up moving back home and bartending.

I tried to escape. Ran away to a tropical island with a guy I had just met, leaving our cars in the driveway to be repossessed.

I ended up moving back home and working at the mall.

I tried to move to the big city. Got a fancy job with my fancy high school diploma, lived in a fancy apartment with a fancy guy who drove a fancy car. I thought that was the dream. But I hated the fancy job. And the fancy apartment. And I wasn't too fond of that fancy guy, either. I think the feeling was mutual. Mr Fancy-pants told me that he would never marry me, because I couldn't get pregnant. But I should live with him, and cook for him and clean and launder and shop for him. And sleep on the couch, or with him. Whatever. And he would just keep an eye out for someone more suitable to marry.

It didn't sound very fancy.

I was 22, and I was starting to think that maybe it was me. I was damaged goods. I was unlovable. And definitely unfit for marriage. And I needed to stop thinking about the fact that I couldn't get pregnant. I needed to make a different, better life for myself.
Because clearly, things were not going to go as planned.

And then I met this guy. He was not fancy. He was the Anti-Fancy. He was also extraordinarily kind. And sweet. And determined to date me. And unimpressed with the fancy guy and his fancy job. In fact, he told me (and anyone who would listen) that the fancy guy I was living with was an asshole.

I was shocked.

I was also relieved. So I packed up and moved out of the fancy building, and into an apartment on Dot Ave in Dorchester. And then a little while later, I moved in with Mr Anti-Fancy.

And then?

I got married.

And then?

I got pregnant. With a little help, and a lot of determination. (I told you he was determined.)

And eleven years ago, I had a baby. A Sagittarius, born in the year of the Dragon.
Pretty auspicious, considering that I couldn't get pregnant.

Hey, Mr Fancy-Pants, who's still single and miserable in a fancy apartment, alone?
Suck it.
My kid is eleven years old today, and cooler than you ever were. Thanks for not contaminating my gene pool.

And his little sister could kick your ass.

Happy birthday to my little dude. And thanks to Mr Anti-Fancy for being so gosh-darned determined to knock me up. You sure showed them.

In which I got dressed up for a fancy dinner at a posh resort and wound up in a shrub in the rain at 1am

2011-12-07T20:36:00.002-10:00

With 3 weeks left until my self-designated deadline for awesome, the pressure is mounting. And when the pressure mounts I do a few things: I shop on Etsy, I watch Netflix, and I drink tequila. Which is what happened last night. Before I get into this, I am leaving a note here for myself:

Reminder - go find my missing shoe under the house.
More on that later.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not really. I needed a little stress relief, and Sarah proposed dinner - she had a gift certificate that was about to expire. The only thing better than a nice dinner is a nice dinner that someone else is paying for, so I enthusiastically agreed to help use up that poor, almost expired gift certificate. We were headed to a resort near her house, which is a long way from my house, and I offered to pick her up on the way. Nice night, beautiful drive, I arrived to find her standing on her desk rummaging around on a bookcase. The gift certificate, it seems, was missing.

On to plan B - a sweet little BYOB place across the street from the ocean. Sarah dusted off a couple of bottles of red wine from her wine rack and stuffed them in her purse, and we headed over. There was a wait for a table so we went to the mexican place next door and sat down at the bar, the bottles of wine clunking together in her bag oh-so-discreeetly. And that is when things went south (of the border). "Our drink special tonight is a double house margarita for $4.50" the bartender cheerfully informed us.

"Well then I guess I'm having a double house margarita rocks, salt." Sarah replied without blinking.

I blinked.
"Uh, sure. Yeah. Okay." I smiled weakly at the bartender and she headed off to make our double margaritas.

I may have said "sure", but inside my head was saying "ARE YOU INSANE?"

Fast forward thirty minutes, and I am completely wasted. Give me twenty minutes and one strong drink, and I am stumbling, knocking things over, dropping stuff on the ground wasted. I have no idea how I survived my twenties. I texted Sam "Already drunk sleeping at Sarahs Sorry." His response: "WHAT HAPPENED?" I looked at the clock. It was 8:14pm. I drank a glass of water and paid the tab. I needed to get some food quickly, or there was going to be trouble.

But of course, it was already too late.

Dinner was Sarah ordering, and me raising my fists in the air and hissing "YESSSSSSS" after each item. "I love that you are getting arm boners over chopped salad." she remarked as the waitress walked away. And then the cheese plate showed up. More celebratory arm boners ensued. "We are going to need the wine." Sarah informed me solemnly as she reached into her purse.

I didn't care about the wine - I was grinning like an idiot, trying to somehow get the goat cheese from plate to crostini without dropping it on the table. The cheese made it, and I spread it oh-so-carefully, before topping it with mango chutney - but then I ended up dropping the entire crostini in my lap. I also dropped my knife. And fork. I stayed away from the red wine because I was afraid of breaking the glass.

It was a short dinner, mainly because I was having trouble maintaining eye contact. Needless to say, I was not driving home. Or anywhere. I did manage to get in the car and be driven to Sarah's house, where I drank another glass of water, tried to have a conversation, and then passed out. I woke up at midnight, sober and horribly hungover.

"I think I have food poisoning." Sarah muttered from the other side of the bed.

I stood up to make sure I was really sober. Sadly, I was. Truly, miserably sober. And sick. The thing about being a lightweight with a crazy metabolism is that you get drunk fast, and you get hungover even faster. "I think it was the margarita." I said, wincing. "Or the goat cheese. Or the lamb. Or the red wine. I need to go home now, I don't feel well."

So I drove back up the mountain in silence because the radio was so loud and dumb and people were singing and talking and they just wouldn't stop. I spent the entire drive thinking about what a TOTAL MORON I must be to drink a double margarita on an empty stomach, and then fill my stomach with anything other than a taco. I got home by 1am, and it was windy and drizzling - the rain whipped my face as I climbed the stairs barefoot, carrying my shoes and purse in one hand, and clutching the handrail with the other. The dog greeted me with his usual unbridled enthusiasm, leaping in the air and twisting around in unthinkable ways, landing and running in circles before leaping up again. Ignoring him, I turned the door handle and leaned on the door with my shoulder to open it.

It didn't budge.

The deadbolt was locked.

I put my purse down and found my keys, and then turned back to the lock, trying to get the key to turn in the dark with the rain pelting my back. The key didn't fit in the lock. The key was for the doorknob, not the deadbolt. I was locked out. At 1am. In the rain.

I walked over to the sliding door.

Locked.

The bathroom door.

Locked.

The porch door.

Locked.

The dog was beside himself. Was this a new game? Was I going to let him in the house? AND DID I HAVE ANY LEFTOVERS?

I turned and headed back out in the rain to check the front door.

Locked.

I stood for a minute trying to clear my head. I called Sam's cellphone as I leaned my forehead on the cool glass of our living room window, and watched as his cellphone lit up on the kitchen counter. He was never going to hear that. Shit.

I knew what I had to do.

I walked down the stairs, across the yard, and over to the side of the house. Standing in front of our window is a large hibiscus shrub. And I was going to have to climb it. I stepped into the mud that surrounds the foundation during rainy season, and reached up for a branch to use for leverage. I climbed up. And up. And up. The entire bush bent dangerously. A shoe fell out of my hand, Why was I still carrying a shoe? My purse tipped and in an attempt to keep it from dumping all of it's contents out onto the ground, I grabbed for it and let go of the branch, falling/jumping out of the shrub and calling for Sam as I hit the ground. The window slid open.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" he hissed.

"Let me in, I'm locked out."

I was forlorn. Pathetic. Standing in my front yard covered in mud, soaked from the rain, holding one shoe and clutching my purse to my chest with the dog going apeshit beside me.

To his credit, he let me in.

But I don't think I'm going to be going out to dinner with the girls again anytime soon.

Half melted chocolate covered with white stuff is better than NO CHOCOLATE AT ALL

2011-12-04T21:58:00.001-10:00

I am declaring a small victory over the 2011 holiday season, people.

- I got that damn tree up before December 1st, complete with lights that don't make me want to gauge my eyeballs out.
- I read all of my favorite holiday stories, and watched Elf twice this weekend.
- I have a new bottle of rum, and some Coconut Nog - because Egg Nog and I have a difference of opinion about digestion without a gallbladder.
- And I finally used the last of the Thanksgiving turkeys to make epic turkey soup.

I am even contemplating taking a photo this week for our "Thank God THAT'S over" post-~~apocalyptic~~holiday card to send out in January. Complete with matching outfits and the dog wearing antlers.

But the final touch, the one piece of evidence that says I made the 2011 holiday season my bitch, is that I remembered the Advent calendars hidden in the attic - before Christmas, mind you - FOR THE WIN.

Best mother ever award goes RIGHT HERE thankyouVERYmuchindeed.

Because usually, you see, I discover the calendars on Christmas Eve when I am frantically trying to get the wrapping done. They are inevitably wrapped in a grocery bag, stuck inside a box of gifts I have hidden in a corner of the attic to keep them safe from prying hands. (I don't care about prying eyes - it's the hands that do all the damage.)

BUT NOT THIS YEAR.

Sadly, the reason it didn't go down like that is because I have no presents hidden in the attic for Christmas.
I am little bewildered - because I usually have this all taken care of by now, so that I can sit at home and absorb Nog in peace. Not this year. I honestly have no clue what I am giving the kids this year. No. Clue. Which means I have to leave the house and go shopping, I guess.....

BUT STAY FOCUSED ON THE POSITIVE which is that this year, my kids got their advent calendars on time. Okay, almost on time. They should have gotten them on time, because Auntie Sassin the step-monster reminded me to give them out when she came over on December 1st, and I still forgot. And then I remembered, and forgot, and remembered, and forgot, and then tonight I REMEMBERED AND I DIDN'T FORGET and when I came out of the bedroom after dinner clutching those cardboard boxes filled with cheap candy behind numbered flaps it felt like the angels were singing and I was bathed in a heavenly glow because I was ROCKING THIS PARENTING THING. The kids eyes grew wide and they couldn't believe their good fortune and then they tore off the wrappers and opened the doors marked "1" and the chcoclate was nice and chocolately brown and not all misshapen and hard and covered with white powder from melting and solidfying repeatedly. ANOTHER MIRACLE. (I can't really say whether every Advent calendar that makes it to Hawaii from the mainland has melted and re-solidified chocolate hidden inside. But every Advent calendar my children have ever received certainly has.)

EXCEPT THIS YEAR.

All is right with the world. Please pass the rum. I'll take my prize in a lump sum, thanks. Small bills if you got 'em.

Things I Love: Children's Holiday Books

2011-12-01T11:18:00.000-10:00

It's December First.

This means I have 25 days until I can shove the christmas tree back in the attic, and approximately 33 days until the eggnog starts going bad. I am going to need more rum.

While I have serious issues with the holiday itself, however - and with the associated consumerism - I have a wholehearted love of the drunken debauchery of a good office party, and a warm fuzzy feeling about my favorite children's holiday books. I truly look forward to dragging down the box every year on Thanksgiving, and reading these stories to my children. This is my top five list - and all of these books have one thing in common: if there was any way that I could possibly live inside one of these books, I would. It is escapism at it's best. (I am providing links, they take you to Amazon.com. Amazon does not have anything to do with me writing this post or linking to them - I was just trying to keep it easy.)

The first book I reach for on Thanksgiving night - the one I can't wait to read, the one I sneak into the attic and look at in August when I am feeling blue, my very very favorite one of all - is A Beacon Hill Christmasby Barbara Westman. Published in 1976, it is a rolicking tale set in Boston, of the bon vivant Maud, her "special friend" Arthur (who is either the guy she's sleeping with, or her gay friend who accompanies her to events - I just can't be sure) and the days leading up to Christmas. She cooks, she parties, she ice skates, and she makes lists.
I love Maud. I want to be Maud. If you can get your hands on this book, DO IT. It's out of print. You should ask Santa for a copy.

The Sweet Smell of Christmasis next on the list. This is a Scratch and Sniff book - I buy a new one every couple of years so that the sniff stays fresh. (But let's be honest - they really haven't found a way to keep scratch and sniff books sniffing good for more than a few months. Phooey. Scientists: get on this, would you?) This is a tale of a family of bears (vey sweet, non-threatening bears) getting ready for Christmas at their little home in the woods. I could spend hours sniffing the drawing of hot cocoa, but I guess I have some other stuff I could do. This book is my version of sniffing glue during the holiday season.

Next up is The Polar ExpressWhen they made the book into a movie I was furious. How dare they? The book is PERFECT. But damned if they didn't get the movie just right. So we watch the movie after we read the book. Over and over again. I love Chris Van Allsburg's writing style and glorious illustrations - so soothng and peaceful even when something crazy is happening. The movie is more of the same for me.

Then we page through Christmas in New Yorkwhich is a pop-up book that takes pop-up to a whole new level. Incredible. And it makes me happy to look at illustrations of all of the beauty of new York City during the holidays. A few years ago I took the kids to NYC for the week after Thankgiving - it was amazing. We skated at Rockefeller Center, looked at all the shop windows, went to FAO Schwartz AND the Times Square Toys R Us, and made snow angels in Central Park after I carefully explained to them the perils of yellow snow. (Kids from Hawaii don't have a clue about yellow snow, it turns out.)

And then, it's Eloise at ChristmastimeOh, Eloise. I love you and Skipperdee and Weenie and Nanny. I want to live at the Plaza. Everything about you makes me grin like an idiot. Let's be friends.

There are tons more, of course - I am always on the hunt for a new classic - but these are my top five favorite holiday books of all time, and they are pretty unshakeable. However, suggestions welcome, please add your favorites to the list!

What an unfortunate use of needlepoint skills

2011-11-29T10:11:00.000-10:00

I am from New England, which is a funny place to be from. Full of contradictions, New Englanders have a distinctive accent that wavers between high-and-mighty and completely uneducated, they keep to themselves which can come off as being incredibly rude and exclusionary, and they embrace both ends of the political spectrum from liberal to conservative. Sometimes in the same sentence.

On the one hand, we New Englanders are sensible, no nonsense folks. We wear sensible shoes, we drive sensible cars, we own a sensible winter coat, etc.

On the other hand, we also embrace pants with animals embroidered on them, stupidly expensive sports like sailing and polo, and home decor with irreverent sayings that are supposed to be amusing but instead are borderline creepy. Case in point: This little gem my mother gave me shortly after my divorce. I was 20 years old, dating for the first time ever as an adult, and I can assure you that this put a damper on things in her guestroom, where I was living at the time, which I imagine was the whole point of giving it to me.

Like the classic musical number "Baby, It's Cold Outside" which my friend Matt recently pointed out seems to be a song about date rape, this is another entry in the annals of "I can't believe that's considered festive. Or appropriate." And then, just when you think you've gotten as festivly uncomfortable as possible, rising above the fray, there is my absolute favorite piece of holiday decor, the collectibles that remind me of home and traditions and the ones I love, that really says "It's the holidays. Relax and let me help you enjoy the season.":

Santa and his merry band of carolers.

You guys, meet The Eunich:

My gosh, I just love the holidays.

I just wrote "moldy" instead of "holidays". A subconscious mind is a terrible thing to waste.

2011-11-27T11:28:00.000-10:00

Hey, we made it! One holiday down, just a few more to go.

Now that we are officially in "the holiday season" - which I judge solely on the presence of eggnog in the grocery store - I decided to put up the tree.

Putting up a Christmas tree when you have OCD is possibly the most exhausting task ever. We had to get a fake tree because I couldn't handle the needles falling from a cut tree. And the water spilling on the floor underneath the tree. And the stickiness - I hate sticky. But by far, the hardest part of having any Christmas tree, real or fake, is the decorations. I have to physically leave the neighborhood in order to stop rearranging ornaments and lights. Wait. Hang on. Speaking of lights, that lightbulb is pointing UP when all of the other lights are pointed DOWN and I just have to.....okay. Better. Much better. Wait. There are two red bells rightnexttoeachother on the tree. My god, they might even be hanging from the same branch. Damn kids, not taking the "even distribution of ornaments" lecture that I gave them seriously. I knew she wasn't paying attention to my diagram when I reviewed it exhaustively before opening the boxes. Why I thought it was going to be a good idea to have the kids do the decorating is BEYOND ME because my right eye has been twitching for 18 hours and 4 ornaments are broken and things keep falling off because they haven't been hung in a secure fashion ( which is 1.75 inches-2.5 inches from the end of the branch, FYI). And then the Christmas lights stopped working. Only half of them light up. It took me YEARS to find lights I could stand, and these are perfect and I have treasured them for lo and this many years and now they are KAPUT and that is NO BUENO.

Trust me when I tell you that the irony of my obsession with decorating the tree that we put up in honor of the holiday I despise is not lost on me. No, I am well aware that from the outside, it seems like one big huge contradiction - but from the inside it just feels like blind panic. Wrapped in the holiday spirit with a festive bow (a coordinating bow thankyouverymuch) on top.

So I grabbed my purse and went storming off to Ace Hardware in my pajamas, looking for a replacement for my precious perfect string lights. The pickings were slim. I found some nice looking lights, but they have LED bulbs and LED bulbs make me feel like my corneas are on fire. Which means that we have to go down to KMart and hope to GOD that they have a non-burny option. So I came home and informed the children who are cuddled up on the sofa watching movies that WE MUST GO TO TOWN. They looked at me standing theere in my pajamas with my hair standing straight on end and you could see it in their eyes: they think I am insane.

I am not insane, I am festive. WITH A COORDINATING BOW ON TOP.

I'm sure I would have cleaned the fridge EVENTUALLY universe. You don't have to be such a dick about it.

2011-11-24T08:16:00.000-10:00

Happy Thanksgiving! Or, Happy Thursday! (special shout out to my beloved Canucks and Kiwis! xo)

My god, I can't beleive it's finally here. My favorite day of the year, with it's $3 turkeys and mashed potatoes covered with gravy that is approximately 25% alcohol and 75% fat. I love everything about today.

Except when things go wrong. It is such a bitch when something happens to cast a shadow over this, the bestest day of the year. I blame it on the turkeys. They are nothing but trouble - dead or alive.

I bought the turkeys on Sunday and carefully set them in the fridge to defrost slowly over time as directed.
By Tuesday afternoon, not only were the turkeys still frozen solid, but everything ELSE in the fridge was frozen too. I discovered this quite by accident.

You see, on Tuesday afternoon I opened the refrigerator to get out something for lunch. I noticed some brown liquid under the turkeys.

"Damn." I thought to myself. "I should have put a tray or somethng under them before they thawed out. Now my whole fridge is going to be covered in nasty turkey juice." So I started dismantling the inside of my refrigerator, taking out the turkeys first. Which is when I discovered that they were still totally frozen solid. "Hm." I thought to myself. "These are not even close to defrosted. Where is all of that stuff coming from? And more importantly, WHY ARE THESE DAMN BIRDS STILL FROZEN SOLID?"

So I threw one turkey in the sink to rinse it off, and then I opened the veggie drawer and discovered that the bottom of that drawer was also full of this mystery liquid - and all of my vegetables were frozen.

"Hm." I thought to myself. "What the fucking fuck?"

So I took all of the veggies out of their plastic bags that were covered in the mystery spooge, threw the bags out and filled a bunch of tupperwares and paper bags with the frozen produce. I took the veggie drawer to the bathroom and rinsed it out. Or at least I tried to. But the brown ooze was sort of solid. Not frozen.

Syrupy.

"Hm." I thought to myself. "What could this be? It looks lik- OH FUCK it can't be."

But it was.

A bottle of maple syrup had been knocked over in my effort to fit all three turkeys in my refrigerator, and now my turkeys and the contents of both produce drawers, along with the entire bottom of my refrigerator, were all completely covered in semi-frozen maple syrup.

I have two things to say:

Maple syrup is a bitch to clean up
Maple syrup is expensive as all hell, and I seriously debated scooping it up and trying to save it.

It was not my finest hour.

In the end, it took foaming bathroom cleanser to get the mess under control. Half of my refrigerator was on my kitchen counter for over an hour while I sprayed and scraped and scrubbed and cursed.

And then I had to deal with the turkeys. The frozen turkeys.

This is my solution. They will stay in here until they are defrosted, dammit. And then I can worry about whether they were cold enough while defrosting, because god forbid I not have something life-threatening to worry about on a holiday. Yes, food-borne illness will do nicely. And when I get these suckers out you can bet I will be spraying the entire bathroom down with bleach and scalding hot water.

For my peace of mind, you see.

In the meantime I will get my silverware polished. Because yesterday, I bought 8 forks at a thrift store that were tarnished, and apparently tarnish means that is is silver or silver plated or GOOD ENOUGH TO POLISH.

(those magical glints in the photo - just come natural, ya'll. BECAUSE SILVER IS SHINY EVEN WHEN TARNISHED)

I just can't believe how grown up I feel talking about how I need to get the silver polished before our guests arrive. Does it matter that the forks cost 50 CENTS? NO IT DOES NOT. Unless is it makes it even better. I am going to be telling my children to go polish the silver before every dinner party. I mean, isn't that why we HAVE children? I am going to be snapping up silverware for them to polish at every opportunity.

I am officially my grandmother. If you see me stuffing a tissue up my sleeve, I want you to punch me.

5 things from Camp Mighty

2011-11-22T10:38:00.003-10:00

Memories of Camp Mighty have come back in dribs and drabs, and are covered with glitter and sticky with Tang. I still have water in my ear, actually. I am terrified of losing my index card where I made note of the 5 things I am going to accomplish this year, so I am going to record them here. But before I do, I want to tell you something.

Yes. You.

If you read nothing else that I have written here, I just need you to know this:

If you are ever presented with an opportunity to attend something like Camp Mighty, you must take it. You don't have to be a blogger. You don't have to have a twitter handle. But if you would like to be inspired, to be surrounded by a group of compassionate and generous people and then challenged and cheered on, then you should attend an event like this. Something small-ish in size but big-ish in energy, in a cool location. The location of Camp Mighty was perfect - being in Palm Springs is like being on another planet, but with a hot tub and lots of fresh air. The people I spent time with were so amazing and kind and supportive and wonderful. Their encouragement made me brave. Which is good, because I needed it. I had a life list to wrangle.

But first, we had to get there. If you are contemplating attending an event such as this, but you think it will be too complicated or too hard to arrange childcare and buy plane tickets and rent a car and find someone to share your room with.....it's not. You can make this happen. I promise you. We flew from Maui to San Diego, had a great dinner with friends, and then drove through the night to LA, stopping to sleep and visit family for a few hours. After a quick shopping trip on Melrose, we pointed the rental due east and Sarah hit the gas.

I had never driven through the desert before. When you round a corner in the middle of absolutely nowhere and suddenly find yourself face-to-face with lush green landscaping and mid-century architecture, it's pretty surreal. We drove to Palm Springs from LA on Thursday afternooon, and drove to San Diego early Sunday morning to catch our flight home. Really early. We left Palm Springs at 1am, coasting through the desert overnight, high on adrenaline and Redbull, talking non-stop about what we were going to do and where we were going to go, and how amazing the weekend had been.

I was emotional. I was simultaneously pumped up and drained. Inspired and overwhelmed. It was exactly what I needed to shake myself out of this holding pattern I've been in, and choose a path.

I wished that I could have had one more day with everyone, with no flights to catch and no schedule to keep.

I wished that I had gotten a room at the Ace instead of the budget motel down the street.

I wished I had brought the bottle of red wine for the drive.

But these are not regrets - all of these wishes are good things. They are part of what I learned. If I ever have the opportunity to attend another Camp Mighty event, I will get even more out of it, because I know what is important to me.

Now that my memory has returned, that is.

Before arriving at camp I had a life list and a list of the events planned for the weekend. Knot-tying and opening a bottle of champagne with a sword were top on my list of camp events. But when we got there, I realized that this was going to be So. Much. More. than fun activities and an open bar. The things that had the biggest effect on me were not the cool stuff like wielding a fire extinguisher or learning how to make the perfect mix tape. Instead, I was fired up about the inspiring speakers (seriously inspiring - relatable and accessible and fun) and a long breakout session discussing our life lists.

And oh, those lists. We had to pick our top 5 items to discuss with the group. And by the time the first person had gotten to her third item, I had the Kleenex out.

People got real.

And in the midst of revealing some huge goal or challenge or dream - something personal or profound or just plain hard - inevitably someone else in the group would reach out a hand for a supportive squeeze, or chime in with an "I can help."

And help they did.

Since camp, missing people have been found, art has been created, friendships have been forged, things have been accomplished at an accelerated rate. Here's my list, which is rumpled but still on my bedside. Dana suggested "Rock Lobster" by the B52s as my karaoke song - duly noted, my dear:

1. Bake my grandmother's pie. The pie in question is a lemon meringue. I have her cookbook from 1952 - Meta Green's Modern Encyclopedia of Cooking. The note inside says "December 11, 1952" with her name and address at that time. In December of 1952, my grandmother was 40-something with a brand new baby that had been a big surprise. She was living on Long Island, and I can't even imagine what she was feeling. Maybe this cookbook and these recipes were a way for her to take back some control over her life. To plan meals, to bake during naptime, to create and express herself in some way. She had wanted to be a pilot, you know.

I'm going to make this lemon meringue pie, and then I am going to learn how to fly a plane. Two items off my list. I miss my grandmother.

2. Build a guest room. If you are a building inspector from the county, and saw our load of building supplies being delivered last week, FEAR NOT! We are not building a guest room. Oh my no. We are building a "storage shed". (To store our guests.) Nothing to see here. No permit required. Our guests love battery powered lighting!

3. Decide what I want to be. This is a big one. I don't know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I am one of those mothers who's kids are in school all day - not long enough for me to get a full time job without hiring a nanny, but long enough for me to be home every day bored out of my mind and looking for things to do. I have to decide. Am I going to work from home? Am I going to write? Should I learn a new skill? Which leads me to number four:

4. Learn to work a drilling rig. Part of attending camp was raising money for Charity:Water to buy a drilling rig. The rig will dig wells in Ethiopia, and provide clean fresh drinking water to people who have none. I want to learn how to operate one of these things. I want to understand how they work, how they choose the place to drill the well. And then? I want to travel to Ethiopia and see the rig at work. They don't have to let me operate it (although I will be wearing a hard hat JUST IN CASE THEY DO). I just want to be a part of something that changes someone else's life for the better. I want to put away this laptop and go outside and learn something new - something that will benefit others. I want to help.

5. And then, in the middle of saving the world, I want to nail a karaoke performance. Choose a song that will bring the crowd to it's feet, sing it like it's my JOB, complete with some sort of dance that doesn't look like I am having a seizure, and leave everyone cheering. I can't decide if this would be easier in front of a crowd of strangers, or people I know and love. I'm leaning toward strangers - at least the first time. Once I've got it down, I'll sing this one penultimate song at every opportunity. My apologies in advance.

So that's it. My list. I'm ready to go build the storage shed (for storing guests) and bake a pie. The rest will come in time. I'm gonna need some more Tang.

This is not a playdate, this is free babysitting

2011-11-20T19:15:00.003-10:00

I must be sending out some sort of childcare pheremone, because my phone has been ringing off the hook lately with requests for playdates. Playdates at my house.

I've offered to host playdates, of course. I do love having kids over, love to have the house full of laughter. But I wasn't expecting all of my casual "we should have a playdate sometime" offers to be called in at the same time. This weekend our cup, it runneth over with friends who want to play. Here. At our house.

Our sudden popularity began at 8am Friday, when I got a call to ask if I wanted to host an after-school playdate. The mom who called was thrilled when I said yes, because she'd "be able to get some work done!" Hey that's just gr-wait. What?

By 9am I had gotten another call from another mom (which went to voicemail and was not retrieved until much later) asking me to give her child a ride home. The request was cushioned by the "let's ride share and be eco-friendly!" approach, and suggesting I do the driving "since I was already going that way". Except, I wasn't. It wasn't my day to drive carpool.

Just a few hours later, on Friday afternoon, I was completely bamboozled. When asked casually by a friend whether I had plans for the next night, I replied that Sam was working all day Saturday, and we were planning a quiet night at home after that. Maybe lie on the sofa in my underwear reading a magaz-....her eyes lit up. Oh good! I was going to be home! So, could I have their kid over for the evening? Because they really needed a night out alone. Since we didn't have any plans, it shouldn't be a problem, right? And because the alternative was too awkward to contemplate, I agreed to facilitate their date night by providing free childcare.

You know, since I didn't have any other plans.

After all, I could relax at home with the family Friday night in my underwear, and leave Saturday night free and clear for ~~babysitting~~ a playdate! Yay!......yay?

Honestly, it would have been fine, except I went out Friday night. Selfish, I know.
About 7 hours after I climbed into bed ~~late Friday night~~ early Saturday morning, I got a call inquiring about another playdate - also hosted by me, because the other mom had been out late the previous evening (unlike myself *yawn*) and they lived a minimalist lifestyle (as opposed to my cluttered home) and didn't have a lot of fun stuff to play with (I think it was supposed to be compliment?) Only, her kid had sprained his foot and couldn't actually do much playing on the playdate. The one I was hosting at my house. Apparently. So, no hiking, or bike riding or skateboarding....She could drop him off right away! (Yay?) To do what, I have no idea.

But hey, at least she was straight with me. She was tired, and her kid was stuck at home bored.

S. Oh. fucking S.

I get it. And I felt for her. Through my mind-numbing exhaustion, I totally got it. Hell, I would have been asleep when she called, except I was already on the road, driving Lucy to ballet. And so I agreed to the playdate since we had another one already scheduled anyway - now both kids would be occupied and maybe I could lie on the couch with a magazine. I would have to keep my pants on, but it could still be relaxing. I picked up a gossip rag for the occasion.

The first playmate was delivered at 11:20 (This was an hour after our planned drop off time. The planned drop off time that I had rushed home from ballet to meet. Yay?) Before she ~~ran back to her car~~ left, the mom informed me that her daughter had been up late the night before (join the club, kid) and was tired, and the mom hoped she wouldn't be cranky. She then outlined signs of sleepiness I should look for, before reassuring me that her child would revive quickly, and that fatigue and/or crankiness should not mean the end of the playdate. (Yay?) Let the good times roll. About 10 minutes after her mom drove off, the girl came into the kitchen to inform me that she was hungry. I asked her what she wanted to eat. She didn't know, she told me. It was hard to think, she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

She proceeded to eat for the next 6 hours, which eliminated my dream of reading a magazine on the couch. As I was loading the kids into the car to bring our guests to their homes in time for dinner (Yes, I deliver! Full service ~~childcare~~ playdates!) she asked if she could have a snack for the car ride. I didn't have time to make another snack, however, because I had to get everyone home in time for our evening playdate.

Does this sound like I am complaining? I don't mean to complain. I am happy to host playdates. I love having kids over here to play, I love setting up tea parties and making popcorn and I am thrilled that we have fun things for the kids to do here. What I don't like is being made to feel that I am being used. And I don't like being tricked into watching people's kids simply by admitting that I have no other plans - having no plans doesn't mean I am available to babysit. I don't think you should call to arrange a playdate and then expect that other parent to host it. Whatever happened to waiting to be invited? And for crying out loud, if you have to drop your kids off with caveats about injuries and fatigue, don't plan a playdate. Rent a movie and let them chll at home.

The truth is, I felt terrible not being excited about having all of these kids over, and actually considered driving all the way to school Friday afternoon JUST SO I COULD GIVE OTHER PEOPLE'S KIDS A RIDE. The very thought of saying "No" to someone was too awkward to even contemplate. It's a sickness: I have a pathological fear of saying no and having someone be disappointed in me. I know this. I'm working on it. Years of being "odd man out" in school compell me to say Yes to every request and invitation.

But I am shy about issuing them myownself.

When I need to get work done or have a date night, I hire a sitter. When my carpool falls through, then I bite the bullet and drive the kids myself. And if my kids are bored, I invite friends over to play - I don't try to find a parent willing to have them over. Playdates are not a substitute for childcare or parenting, and I don't suggest them unless my intention is to invite the other kids over here. If I can't deal, or I am too busy, my kids don't have playdates unless they are invited over. Maybe this is my hangup. Maybe I shouldn't be so shy about asking for help in the form of a playdate. But it makes me feel uncomfortable to call and ask someone if I can drop my kids off with them so I can get stuff done. And if I do need that help, I am always very direct about it. I don't call and ask for a playdate, I call and ask for help. It's not easy for me, which is probably why I don't do it very often. Over the past few months I have had to ask for help a lot - it was hard, and I was so grateful to my friends (Jerz, I am looking at you in particular) for being there when I needed an extra adult.

Here's the undeniable truth:
As hard as it can be to ask for help, being asked for help (and being able to help, and then thanked for it) feels good. It's easy to make asking for help - and helping - a win-win.

Bottom line, in addition to the fact that I was overwhelmed by getting all of these requests in a 24 hour period, each of these phone calls and interactions made me feel that the other parents were somehow busier or more important than me, or that I could provide things for free that they didn't want to spend the money on. Because of that, because no one came right out and said "Can you please watch my kid?" and no one said "thank you" when I agreed to do so, I got pissy.

And then I realized I was being a total bitch. This was my hang-up. The parents didn't know my phone was ringing off the hook. I had offered to have their kids over sometime. And clearly, that time was now. I needed an attitude adjustment.

I decided that rather than sitting around feeling like a doormat (because I guarantee no one had that intention - this is definitely my issue and I could easily have said no at any time) I needed to clarify when I was available. I took some control over the situation, and my day, and suddenly it was on my terms, and I felt good about it. The after school playdate and ride home were not convenient, so they didn't happen. I had errands to run before I could host a kid with a bum foot, so his mom brought him over when we got back from town. I needed a haircut, so one of our playdates involved a trip to the barber. And if you want to go out to dinner with your husband while I watch your kid in the middle of our evening routine and family time, you are going to have to do that when I am available.

So I clarified - in my own head, and then with each parent - what I was able to do, and what I still needed to get accomplished during the day. And you know what? Telling the other parents what I was able to do was okay! Except for the mom who needed a date night. When she texted me to ask if I still wanted to have her kid over for a playdate, I set my boundaries. (Aren't you proud of me?) I responded saying that we were going to be home by 7pm, and the kids would be awake until 9pm, if they wanted to go out to dinner between 7 and 9pm in the little village a short walk from my house. I raced in the door at 6:50pm with extra dinner so that I would have enough for a 3rd kid.

They never showed up.

And I spent the evening on my couch in my underwear. I totally earned it.

I don't care what you want for Christmas, Santa ain't buying that.

2011-11-17T23:16:00.004-10:00

It's that time of year again.

We are not spiritual in any sort of organized manner, and I lost my religion right along with REM about 20 years ago. Because of this, our children have had very little exposure to Christianity - aside from Lucy's brief stint in a Catholic nursery school that had me on my knees by Easter. ("Mommy, do you know what sounds ouchy? A crown of thorns! And having nails hammered through your hands and feet!")

And so, Christmas has absolutely nothing to do with Christ in our house.
It has to do with presents. And boozy eggnog. For me, not the kids. Mostly.

Listen, they know the story: the manger, the wise men, the baby born in Bethlehem. But they also know about the Polar Express. In their minds, one does not stand above the other. And one is not truer than the other - they are both stories about the season that have been told and understood, but in one story the kid gets gifts of oils and a camel, in a barn, and in the other the kids get toys from Santa and a ride on a magic train with hot cocoa. They appreciate one, and they want the other one to happen to them. I, on the other hand, don't want to have anything to do with either scenario. I don't think that Christmas - as it is celebrated by the vast majority of people I know, anyway - reflects the religious beliefs upon which it is based. I feel the same way about Easter. I feel almost disrespectful celebrating religious holidays when I don't practice religion of any sort. I don't practice because I don't have a specific belief. (Except for the virgin birth part. I got pregnant without sex - IT CAN HAPPEN.)

I hate the secular form Christmas for many, many reasons. I have some personal memories and associations that bring up a lot of sadness and anxiety. And then, of course, there's the money thing. And I hate feeling forced to buy gifts. I so much prefer giving gifts "just because", or seeing something little and perfect and wrapping it up for later. And I can celebrate your birthday like no one else. But I just don't get excited about Christmas. I hate being stressed about getting everything wrapped and in the mail on time. I hate worrying about whether the gift I chose was appropriate/sufficient/appreciated/useful/unique/reflective of how I feel about the recipient. And then I realized that all of my concerns were totally of my own making.

The paragraph above is about buying gifts for OTHER PEOPLE and yet the word "I" appears ELEVEN TIMES. Holy megalomaniac.

So, in an effort to make this about something besides me and my issues and my issues with organized religion, we sat down tonight with the kids to work on some seriously secular Christmas lists. Our families like to send presents for the kids, and in a concerted effort not to ruin the holiday for my children - and to assuage some of my guilt about having people buy them things they don't need in honor of a religion we don't practice - we have decided that the best way to make Christmas lists is searching for gifts on sites like etsy.....and sites that offer free shipping. I buy mostly handmade or locally sourced gifts, because who doesn't like a present from Hawaii? but I am reasonable enough to accept that the kids want to get their hands on some toys. So we sat down with the computer and started taking notes.

We don't have cable TV, and the kids go to school off the grid in the jungle where they do things like pick fruit off of trees during recess.....so we don't see commercials or much in the way of mass-produced toys. I have no idea what is out there, and not a clue as to what is "hot" this season. Don't get me wrong. I'll buy toys. Even plastic crap from China that will make me feel guilty. This isn't Little House on the Prairie for crying out loud - I'm not giving them a new whittling knife and a corncob doll. Well, I might - but they'll get other stuff too. My point is, we do have a different approach to choosing items for their wish lists. The kids have general ideas about what they want, I type it in the search box, and we see what comes up. (Yes Virginia, this is the modern day version of the Sears catalogue.)

Lucy wanted a scooter. We typed it in, a list of scooters came up, she chose the one she liked best, and BAM! Wishlisted.

Max wanted something called a Hexbug. I typed it in. And then I had a stroke.

First of all, it's gross. It's little and skittery and has a lot of legs and if he likes that damn thing so much why does he scream every time he sees a cockroach I ASK YOU WHY. I stared at him in the glow of the screen. "Are you serious?"

He stared at the screen. "Yessssss. I want that one." He pointed at some sort of plastic track that apparently these little yucky things were supposed to race around on. It was $45 dollars.

I shook my head. "No. I will not ask for that."

"It's my list."

"No. Absolutely not."

He glared. I glared back. I glared some more. I added the damn thing to his wish list.

I hate this holiday.

It was all going so well until I fell in the hot tub.

2011-11-16T10:42:00.001-10:00

I've never been graceful.
In any situation.

I am either falling over my feet, or inserting them in my mouth following a particularly inappropriate/insensitive comment.

In school I regularly discouraged coaches (field hockey, lacrosse, soccer AND basketball thankyouverymuch) with my utter lack of control and fluid motion. More times than I care to remember, social events have involved me me sitting in a corner in silence, or drunk dancing and shouting incoherently. Even my drunk dancing moves are heavy-limbed and clumsy, causing people to avert their eyes or remove themselves from the dance floor. And I have absolutely no natural ability to start a conversation with someone I don't know. Hell, I can barely bring myself to send a friend request on facebook because I am afraid of getting rejected.

I have never attended any sort of blogging conference before, mostly because it is really hard to justify buying a plane ticket from Maui to an event that focuses on that thing I do for free sometimes while the kids are at school, just for fun, to "express myself". This isn't my job. I don't have a job. Why would I go to a conference? But this wasn't a conference, silly goose. Oh my no - this was CAMP. Camp Mighty was.....different. It wasn't about blogging, it was about living. And not just getting through each day - about getting the very most out of it.

I needed that.

And when I registered, it didn't occur to me that there would be people there that - in my very small blogosphere - are internet famous. So when I arrived at Camp Mighty and immediately started recognizing people, I broke out into a cold sweat. I saw a group of faces familiar to me from avatars and websites I have seen over the years, gathered in a relaxed circle by the pool, and I immediately thought to myself "Just stay quiet and maybe they won't realize you are a complete and total imposter."

"After all," I said in my frantically spinning brain, "these are women who clearly know each other and probably attend these sorts of events all the time, their trips paid for by their advertisers or employers - of which I have neither. Do not draw attention to yourself for the love of god DON'T DO IT." I pulled up a chair behind them, content to claim my seat and my role at this event as outsider. Sarah, who doesn't read blogs and had no idea who any of these people were and really wouldn't have cared even if she did because she is So. Much. Cooler. Than. I. Am., was having none of it. "Aren't we going to go register?" I looked around, bewildered. Register? She pointed to the tables that had apparently been set up for just that purpose. I stood up as a few people looked over at me with faces that said "Oh, the poor sweet dear. Bless Her Heart she can't even figure out how to check in by herself."

Way to go, there, with that "invisible" thing, Daffodil. I felt like crawling uder the registration table and just eating the s'mores they were handing out.

The only coherent thought I could process was "What the hell am I doing here?" I mean honestly. What am I supposed to say to someone when I have read every post they have written for the last two years, and they have no idea who I am?

Let me guess. You wondered the same thing? Yeah, it turns out, we are not the only people who were having that thought. Isn't that amazing? As soon as I put it out there, as soon as I turned to a stranger in the hot tub and said: "So. This is totally freaking me out." I was reassured that pretty much everyone felt this way about someone who was at the conference, and possibly even sitting next to us in the hot tub.

Now, I'm not going to wrap this up and tie it with a pretty bow - I never worked up the courage to speak directly with several writers I admire, because I just had no idea what to say and never found myself in the situation where I could approach them without veering into crazy fangirl stalkerville. I have my regrets about that. And the sad thing is, I didn't approach them in a desperate (and in the end, completely pointless) attempt to avoid embarrassing myself.

Because don't you worry.
I managed to totally embarrass myself.
Over and over again.

The first night went by like a dream. We walked into the opening night reception (which sounds so ooh la la fancy because it was) and walked right up to that open bar. Which might explain how gosh darn easy it was to relax. But it was more than the wine - Sarah and I were greeted almost immediately after walking away from the bar by a table full of smiling faces. It was such a relief. Total strangers saw our panicked looks and called us right over to join them.

And thus, the Palm Springs Posse (aka "da PSP" which sounds like a hallucinogenic but wasn't. Unless you count the Tang we were drinking.) was formed.

My utter lack of grace and confidence vis a vis the world in general and Camp Mighty in particular was overlooked by my beloved PSP. Together, we skipped over the awkward new-ness of it all, and launched right into getting to know each other. I think that every convention should have a welcoming table of friendly folks who just smile and wave and shout greetings at people as soon as they enter, offering hugs and a place to stash your bag and a nice compliment about that scarf you have on. There is strength in numbers, and everything was so much less overwhelming with a new friend on each side, holding your hand and passing you a kleenex when necessary.

If only someone had been there to hold my hand as I tried to get in the hot tub the next night. After a full day of rigidly trying not to embarrass myself, I decided to climb into the hot tub and "relax". Instead, I fell into the hot tub almost directly on top of Megan, while Maggie watched the whole thing and greeted me with a "Well, NOW you're in the hot tub!" when I popped up to the surface.

Very relaxing.

That is when I lowered the bar from "Don't embarrass yourself" to "Try not to ugly-cry until you get home". Which meant that I had a face cramp and a whomping headache for the next two days.

Worth it.

I need to send a lot of love and thanks out to Team Four (who formed my beloved PSP), Maggie and Laura, The Ace Hotel Palm Springs, The TonTons for making the opening reception so rad, the generous sponsors of the event, and all of the amazing and inspiring speakers throughout the weekend (see the list below). I laughed and cried, and made lists and crossed things off, and ate and drank and swam and danced. It was exactly what I needed.

Thanks to all:

Brian Piotrowicz (Who is not afraid to cry. About anything. Ever. Love him.)
Evany Thomas (Who taught me the power of cantelope, and showed me the most disturbing photo I have ever, ever seen. Long story short, if somone suggests a puppy pile, head for the exit.)
Kenna (Who's mom is really concerned about when he is going to meet a nice girl and start having babies. Somehow, I don't think it's going to be a problem, ma'am. And Happy Birthday.)
Lisa Congdon (Who single-handedly made me feel like starting over at my age was what all the cool kids are doing. And doing it better than those young whipper-snappers ever could. I wish I had thanked her personally.)
Buster Benson (Who gave me a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and then told me I couldn't eat it. NOT NICE, BUSTER.)
Catherine Connors (Who led an inspiring session that I missed out on because our team was in the middle of some serious group therapy. Bummer, because I brought my tutu.)

Johnson & Johnson - I am excited to hear more about their new &you platform
Ronald McDonald House Charities - When your child is sick, they can help you be there for them.
Intel - They sponsored Maggie's Life List, and think clean water is important too.
Care.com - They gave me s'mores and a tube of toothpaste. And can help you find care providors.
Alliance for Biking and Walking - I think I agreed to ride a bike from San Diego to somewhere in Mexico. I should follow up on that. peoplepoweredmovement.org

I have about 6 weeks until awesome

2011-11-14T20:43:00.000-10:00

About 6 weeks ago, I lay in my hospital bed and said "Seriously? This is ridiculous. You are done being sick. You are done with excuses. You need to get your shit together." Right then and there, I gave myself until the end of the year to figure out what the hell I want to do, and take the steps I need to take in order to get a job doing it.

I am halfway through my designated "get it together" time frame, which leaves me with about 6 weeks to really dial in the awesome.

The thing is, "getting my shit together" will require driving an emotional dump truck from location to location, shoveling stuff in the back as I go. I have a lot of shit, and it's spread out all over the place. I have self-help books, and journals and lists and I am meditating like a crazy person. But I needed a little something extra. This past weekend, in an attempt to corral and organize the aforementioned shit, I attended Camp Mighty. It was frightening and thrilling and sort of surreal, with some great lighting and very intelligent, fashionable cohorts. "I feel like I'm in a Wes Anderson movie, like the Royal Tenenbaums or something." Sarah said as she lounged on a chaise by the pool. I murmured in agreement as I munched fistfuls of gorp and considered ordering a bloody mary to take with me to the next session.

Thank god Sarah was there with me. In a stroke of genius, it turns out that supporting each other on and off the track is one of the basic tenets of derby wifedom. The fact that I don't actually get on the track anymore is kind of beside the point, but do me a favor and don't point that out to her, I need all the support I can get. Besides, she's hot as hell. If I had been alone, it's a pretty safe bet that I would have spent a great deal of time this weekend crying in my crappy motel room - which was down the street from the much cooler and more beautiful Ace Hotel and Swim Club where Camp Mighty took place. The fact that the Ace was sold out would have been a lot harder to handle if I had not had someone to accompany me on the walk of shame back to the parking lot each night. Without Sarah's steadying presence, I am confident that I would have spent the weekend in that "affordably hip" motel room that smelled like old men and hair dye, watching Food Network and infomercials while drinking iced tea out of the minibar.

I went into this weekend thinking "WooHOOOOO! Weekend in Palm Springs, opening bottles of champagne with swords and learning how to punch people and tie them up!" I glossed over the fact that there was going to be some accountability involved, and that I was going to have to actually make some long-term plans and commitments to someone other than my kids and spouse(s).

Someone like myself, maybe.

And it never occured to me that it might not be all sunshine, champagne and Sinatra in Palm Springs.

When we discovered that, in fact, it was cold and rainy in the middle of the desert, and then opened the door to our motel room and immediately gagged and ran to open the windows, assuming that someone had died in there and they had used stinky chemicals to clean up the blood stains, it could have been the beginning of my spiral. The fact that the champagne opening class was cancelled due to a torrential downpour would have given me an extra shove in that direction. Someone would have found me mid-week in the middle of the desert breathing into an empty In-N-Out bag and tying my shoelaces in knots.

That didn't happen.

Instead, I learned three important things this weekend:
1. Staying anywhere other than the Ace is depressing - sleep in your car if you can't get a room there.
2. If you put an "A" in "definitely", you're definitely an asshole.
3. Cantelope makes everything better.

These were important life lessons, and even if I don't figure out what I want to be when I grow up, at least I have these three things that I know in my heart are true. The rest is still a work in progress. Turns out, trying to pull it together is hard, people. Really hard. It is physically and emotionally draining. Thankfully, I had my fabulous Sarah with me, and we met an incredible group of people almost immediately after arriving (more on them later). I am a lucky duck. I may be without direction, but at least I can stay afloat.

Except in hot tubs. But that is a story for another time.

He can take me out and buy me dinner, but we'll still be sound asleep by 8:30

2011-11-08T09:37:00.001-10:00

I don't date much. Being married with kids is really cramping my style. At the end of the day, everyone is tired and hungry and needs a shower. We're rushing to get dinner on the table, I am still glued to the laptop while the kids are working on homework, and the evening flies by in a crush of cooking, cleaning, laundry and spelling lists, until finally one of us climbs into bed and passes out - sometimes still holding the towel we used to dry the dishes. I have a lot of guilt over how distracted I am in the evening, which is added to the guilt I feel about being sick or in pain for most of the last 5 months. In fact, I've been in pain for most of the past 15 years. Sam has been an incredible source of support - patient and kind and loving even when I am clutching a heating pad and living on ibuprofin and hot tea. Because you know what else is cramping my style? Cramps. Endometriosis is a disease that has affected my daily life since high school. The thirteen surgeries, rounds of drugs, tests, ultrasounds, clinical trials, alternative therapies and plain old bedrest have been part of the routine at one time or another for as long as I can remember.

I haven't been a lot of fun, that's for sure. And there hasn't been a lot of time for romance.

However, it has come to my attention that I am not alone. I was talking today with a friend (one of many) who also has endometriosis, two kids, and a busy life. She had just gotten back from a doctor's appointment. Because she used her vacation day to go to the doctors, of course.

"You know what he said?" she remarked with relief "He said most women don't seek help until it hurts too much to have sex."

This did not surprise me whatsoever. It is not an excuse. This is not a case of "Not tonight, honey. I have a headache". I think the fact that I still have sex is a testament to willpower and no small amount of desperation to feel normal - and maybe even attractive. Women can (and do) handle pain at such an extreme level that most men in the medical profession find it alarming. Or at the very least, impressive. Any dude who has watched a woman give birth has got to give her some props.

Seriously.

But it is sad when a woman who is experiencing severe, chronic pain, has to have her pain vaildated by a doctor. And while she is sitting around worrying about why she is in pain, and how much she isn't doing because she is in pain, and trying to remember the last time she had sex, or an uninterrupted conversation, or even eye contact with her partner......well. Your romance can suffer. It's time to make some changes. I am inspired.

I am bringing sexy back.

My life list has one particular item on it that I have been meaning to check off:
#94: only use the computer during working hours

Step One: Turn off the computer the minute the kids get home.
Step Two: Do not turn it back on again.
Step Three: Look in the mirror at some point before my husband gets home, and maybe even brush my teeth.
Step Four: Start dinner.
Step Five: Consider baking something.
Step Six: Decide not to get carried away with this new lifestyle. This is not Leave it to Beaver. This has nothing to do with beaver.
Step Seven: Hire a sitter for the kids and go on a date - just us - once a month. A date with talking. And eye contact. Maybe even sex if we can stay awake that long.

So tonight, I am hiring a sitter, taking a shower AND brushing my teeth before he gets home, putting on some hot little number and some real high heels, and going out on a date. With my husband. And I am totally leaving my heating pad at home. Maybe.

I would have been the one naked on the sorority roof.

2011-11-06T21:40:00.000-10:00

This is the first post in a series I am writing this month on being thankful

I only spent one semester in college - and I wasn't really there at all.

I had a dorm room, and then a few blocks away I had an apartment where I slept each night. I had classes, and I also had two part time jobs. I had a roommate on campus and a fiance in town. I was eating in the cafeteria during the day, and grocery shopping at night. I packed up my dorm room before Halloween, and by mid-November I had stopped attending classes. By March I was married. I had just turned 19 a few weeks before the ceremony.

I missed out on a lot of things that fall semester, and still had more than enough on my plate. More than one reason to request a withdrawal from school mid-term (a request that was to be denied, as it turned out).

I missed out on the mandatory freshman "orientation" class that apparently every other freshman knew about. You know that nightmare where you dream that you don't go to class all semester and then you have to take an exam in order to graduate? That actually happened to me.
I missed out on the computer science class, and the college email account. Ergo, I only joined facebook a year ago.
I missed out on having female roommates, and living in a dorm, and all of the bonding and fun and binge drinking that came with it. And that is why I love my book club and roller derby team and girls night out. The last 10 years have been my first real experience with having a social life that revolves around girlfriends. Not dating, not going out hoping to meet someone I could date, not going out with the girls to rehash a terrible breakup - spending time with other women on a regular basis with no plan other than to just hang out with the girls.

I didn't have any reference, no deep connection to other women, until about 5 years ago. I made my first really close girlfriends at the age of thirty. Not the girlfriends that you meet for a casual lunch or dinner - the girlfriends who show up at your house without calling and make themselves a cup of tea, the girlfriends who assume that you will celebrate the major holidays together, the girlfriends who will drive to your house when you call them crying hysterically at midnight.

And all of the things I missed out on - from staggering drunk through the streets of a sleeping town, to having fierce monkeybread bake-offs on Christmas morning, to peeing against a dumpster outside Jack in the Box at 2am, to sharing a bed with 3 other girls in a 2 bedroom condo you just crashed with 20 other people, to emptying the weed someone gave you out of your carry-on before going through airport security, to realizing that hiding camoflauge easter eggs in the grass is a stupid idea, to texting photos of people in various stages of undress to other people in various stages of undress in a neighboring hotel room - these things (albeit belatedly) came to pass.

I can proudly say that I have now experienced (and barely survived) all of the stupid shit I should have done my freshman year of college - at the age of 35.

And that was good, and fun, and probably needed to happen. And along the way, through all of the fierce competition and long hours of work, and hundreds of hours on the phone, and thousands of miles traveled, I learned that being sisters - because we are more than friends, we are family, we are sisters of the very best kind who share beds and food and holidays and socks that are "pretty clean" - being sisters with these women is empowering. And liberating. And while it brought a lot of confusion and chaos at times, it also helped to keep things in perspective. It taught me about forgiveness and respect and the support that only women can provide each other, really.

So here's to the girls - the ones I speak to every day, and the ones who are currently not speaking to me because they think I'm an asshole. I love you guys, and you have made me who I am today - just as much as becoming a mother, or sustaining a long and happy relationship with my husband has shaped me.

I wouldn't be me without you.

I have learned in the past few years to believe in myself, and stand up for myself, and to stand up for others. To do what is right. To not be afraid to rock the boat a little. To say what I want - and then make it happen.

I forgot how to do that. Or maybe I never knew.
Either way, I know now. And I am thankful for that.

Memories of an adoption

2011-11-04T00:13:00.002-10:00

"Hi Lucy." He bent over, looked at her small upturned face, and placed his hand gently on the top of her head. "My goodness, you have gotten big. I knew you when you were still in your mommy's belly!"

I froze. She stared up at him for a moment, just that extra beat that only a parent would notice, and then dropped her chin and stared at the plate of food in her lap, chewing slowly. She stole a glance at me from under her eyelashes. Questioning. I couldn't tell if the question was "Who is this moron and what is he talking about?" or if the question was "Is it true? Did it happen like that?"

Because I know she wants it to have happened like that. She wants to have grown in my belly. She spends more and more time exhaustively scanning her baby album, and Max's album, looking for photos of my pregnancy. As if all she needs to do is just find some evidence, and everything will be right in the world.

But just as everything will never be right in this crazy mixed up world, she will never find a photo of me, pregnant with her.

It never happened.

You wouldn't know it from looking at us. "Nature versus nurture!" her teachers grin. She is a little tiny version of me. Fiery and sweet, strong-willed and eager to please. She has started to roll her eyes at her older brother's antics, and scold him for even the minor transgressions. It is clear to everyone - even people who know the story, even people who mean well - that she is my daughter. It is so clear, in fact, so obvious, so apparent that I am her mother, that everyone forgets the details.

The details don't matter, of course - but her adoption was such a startling event for all of us, I find it hard to believe anyone could have forgotten. There was no real lead up to her arrival - we had no baby, no sign of a baby, no baby stuff, no baby shower. And then suddenly one day, there she was strapped to my chest or sleeping in my arms or sitting in the carseat. We had a baby!? How did that happen!? And everyone from the cashier at the grocery to the mailman wanted to know where that baby came from. It was a subject of much conversation and endless celebration and frequent congratulations and a lot of tears and laughter and wonder at the incredible good fortune of everyone involved. Which is why it still surprises me when people forget.

Our friends, our family....hell, even Sam forgets sometimes. But not Lucy. She doesn't forget. And I don't either. If I were to forget, I would miss the opportunity I take every day to be grateful. I would miss the opportunity to appreciate the gift that is my daughter, and the gift I was given to be her mother.

So to the people who forget. To the people who remember only that she is mine and I am hers? That is my gift to you. You forget because it is no longer important. It is only a very small piece of the puzzle - the first sentence in a long story. Nature, nurture, and otherwise, we will always be mother and daughter.

And for the brief time in the early morning hours following her birth, while they were waiting for the sun to rise before calling with the news?

That was all the time we needed, she and I, to find each other in this great big universe.
And that, more than anything, is a testament to our bond. I am hers. She is mine.
Which is, in the end, all you need to remember.

The Robin Hood of Halloween candy

2011-11-02T19:24:00.001-10:00

We were totally prepared. On the counter sat an enormous felt pumpkin, filled with candy. Candy candy. Skittles, Starburst, Twizzler, Tootsie Pops, Bit o'Honey. All the chewy gooey candy a kid could ever want. We had just returned from our own trick or treating adventure and had carefully gathered the candy that Max's new braces wouldn't allow - it was all there, isolated in the pumpkin, ready to be re-distributed to the late arrivals on this rainy Halloween night.

He must have reached past that, over into my mixer that sat tucked away in a corner. Hidden inside it's massive stainless steel bowl, covered by the plastic splatter shield, was my stash. A bag of KitKats, and a bag of Nestle chocolate bars - the miniature size - with the ingredients listed in spanish. The good stuff.

I heard the roving band of neighborhood children approaching, and as their voices and laughter swelled and the automatic light snapped on next to the steps, I heard the crinkle of cellophane.

I was already in bed, and it took me a moment to put it together. To realize that he was giving away my stash, my precious chocolate stash, to the assortment of children (most too old for trick or treating in my opinion) that were standing on my back porch in the rain at 9:30 at night, hooting and hollering.

A travesty.

It was wasted on them. If you had given them a choice between a few miniature chocolate bars or great fistfulls of Starburst, I imagine they would have preferred the fruity goodness over my tiny wedges of chocolate. It didn't mean anything to them, it was just a drop in their pillowcases full of candy.

But it meant something to me. With a noise that bordered on a roar, I clamored out of bed and pulled on my robe. I rounded the corner to the kitchen pulling my robe closed as the door swung shut behind him. "Get back here!" I hissed.

But he couldn't hear me over the revelry on our back porch. He didn't realize his error until he opened the door and stepped back inside. And came face to face with a woman, rousted from her warm bed on a rainy night, to find her chocolate being given away to some obnoxious kids who probably didn't even like chocolate.

As you might imagine, I was devastated.

Distraught.

I did the only thing I could do.

I went to the pantry, opened up one of the 2 grocery bags filled with halloween candy that we had just stuck in there, and pulled out a half-dozen pieces of chocolate. I fucking hate this holiday.

Stop trying to guess what my costume is and buy me a beer. I mean a soda.

2011-10-30T22:11:00.001-10:00

We went out last night.

I am back on the wagon after last weekend. Last weekend looked like this:

This weekend I was stone-cold sober, and it looked a little more like this:

I was exhausted and emotionally drained, and with each email and phone call I got, I realized that everyone around me was on edge. It was a big weekend for roller derby, but it has also been nuts around here in general - as though I was navigating a web of personal, emotional and financial strings being pulled in about a thousand different directions. It was like the economy was kicking people's asses while they had the runs from food poisoning and then their dog died. You know what I'm saying?

Basically, October 2011 sucks big huge hairy donkey balls.
Yeah.

But as it turns out, even when you are exhausted and emotionally drained and absolutely positively NOT taking any pain medication because you need to be able to think clearly, if it also happens to be Halloween weekend, you have to put on a fucking costume and go tear some shit up.

I tore shit up from the couch.

Don't worry - the couch was located in a bar. The bar was filled with half-naked and'/or costumed deviants.
It was lovely people-watching.

I had a costume on, of course. Six inch red patent stilettos and a skin tight black tube dress that showed more than it covered and made wearing underpants a total impossibility. I rocked a massive, spiky head of hair and bright red lipstick.

No, I'm not Ziggy Stardust.
No, I'm not Joan Jett
I don't want to talk about this anymore. I hate it when I wear a costume and no one knows who I am supposed to be. I hate walking through a parking lot and having people point at me and shout out their guesses like I am a goddamned prize on The Price is Right.

I hate Halloween, actually.
There. I said it. I used to think I hated dressing up - but I don't. I hate Halloween. And by midnight I was completely over it. Which was right about when my girlfriend stepped on a broken glass and cut her foot, and I was so happy to be sober and able to take her back to the hotel we were staying at and climb into bed with my heating pad after making sure she had all the neosporin and hydrogen peroxide she needed.

I was dehydrated from the events of the day, and despite sipping on juice and water and coconut water, I was not feeling that great. I passed out almost immediately.But in the morning, I felt worse.

I wasn't expecting that - I figured if I didn't drink, I would feel fine. So I wandered out to the pool and found a shady spot and settled in for the day - I napped while the kids played on the water slide. Before heading out to the pool, I had carefully applied lotion to every square inch of my face.

Would have helped if that lotion had contained sunscreeen.

My newly colored hair and my entire upper body are monotone. And that tone is a horrific tomato red. My forehead wrinkles have tan lines again. My scalp is itching. And now I am dehydrated times, like a thousand. Sam took one look at the sunburn on my chest and made the executive decision to pack up. I followed him to the car without a peep. I needed to take a shower and go to bed. Inside, this time - sleeping outside had been a poor choice, it turned out.

When we got home, I made a beeline for the bathroom. While the kids were still arguing over who was going to take the first shower, I beat them to it. I only realized I still had sunglasses on my head when I started to shampoo my hair.

I kept shampooing.

I am going to wash this god-forsaken (literally, I do believe) holiday right out of my hair. But first, I have to take the kids trick or treating. Please give me chocolate.

Dude, that's nothing to sing about

2011-10-27T20:00:00.030-10:00

Let's just start off by stating the obvious:
Boys are gross.

There are many, many ways that they are gross - the smell alone is enough to remind you to keep your distance. They haven't quite worked deodorant into their daily routine yet, and handwashing is still optional.

But the place where they can really show their true colors, really let that freak flag fly, is in the bathroom. And it's not all about the fact that they cannot hit their mark when standing to pee. It's not that instead of magazines, like their fathers, they now bring their phones into the can with them to help things along. It goes beyond even that. I once watched a 12 year old boy saunter nonchalently into the bathroom at school holding a sandwich. His mother tried to stop him - but it was no use. It just never occured to him that there was anything wrong with going in there while eating. That maybe food+toilet=gross.

For years now, we have been trying to drive home the point that flushing and washing your hands after using the bathroom are a hard and fast rule. No exceptions. When the kids were first toilet trained, flushing was a novelty, and they flushed with enthusiasm. With abandon. Sometimes more than once. But somewhere along the line, once the magic was gone, they left that habit behind.

Max tries to tell us that he is saving water. I told him that drought or no drought, he has to flush the toilet when he takes a dump. Lucy just smiles blythely when asked, and says "Oh okay, I'll go flush right now." But this means that every time my kids use the toilet, I have to ask "Did you flush and wash your hands?" So if we are in public, say a restaurant, and the kids come back to the table and reach for the bread basket and I say "Hey, did you remember to flush and wash your hands?" and then there is even a moment of hesitation? I die a little inside.

But lately, the problem has grown.
Evolved.
Now, the neighbors are involved.

Max got braces and a mohawk last week. These two life-altering events have tripled the amount of time he spends in the bathroom. Between the Waterpic and the spray gel, he can keep busy in there for, like, an hour. He is the most enthusiastic waterpic-er I know, so much so that there is now a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels stashed in the bathroom.

Might as well get him to clean up while he's in there.

This morning, about 30 minutes before we were leaving for school, he announced he was going to the bathroom. I got nervous. He was kind of cutting it close.

So he wanders down the hall and closes the door.

A few minuts later, I was in the kitchen making lunches and I heard something. I heard singing.

Singing that was coming through the kitchen window, from outside somewhere.
How strange. I opened the back door and slowly it dawned on me......I realized what was going on. That singing was coming from an open window. The window was located in the bathroom down the hall.

Max was in the bathroom singing. Loudly. He does everything loudly, but the acoustics in this bathroom - apparently - are epic. I could hear every word.

He wasn't just singing - between the lines, he was talking to himself, cheering himself on, providing a running commentary of his performance. There was some drumming. I assume there was air guitar as well - but I can't be sure. Because I realized that if I could hear him, that meant the entire neighborhood could hear him.

I didn't want to make a big deal about it. I have suffered from bathroom shyness in the past - most notably when I was unable to poop for the entire first semester of college in the public bathroom because my mother remarked on how hard that was for some people. Another challenge arose when my boyfriend welcomed me back to bed one morning after I had used the en-suite bathroom that was floor to ceiling marble, by telling me the story of Marilyn Monroe meeting Arthur Miller's mother. The story goes that Arthur introduced the two women and after a time, Marilyn excused herself to go to the powder room.

"So, mother" Arthur asked while she was gone "what do you think? Isn't she wonderful?"
"She seems like a lovely young lady," his mother replied. "but she pees like a horse."

Thanks to that little anecdote, I spent 4 years unable to pee without having water running to drown out the noise.

So I didn't want to make him self-conscious, but on the other hand, I didn't want him to be oblivious. It was a delicate line, I didn't want to do the wrong thing. So I tried to play it cool. I am not cool. Which means I was a total dick about it.

"Max!" I shouted. "SHUSH!"
The singing stopped abruptly.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" he shouted from the end of the hallway/my back yard.

"SHHHHHHHH!" I hissed.

I didn't hear another sound. A moment later he appeared in the kitchen, looking sheepish. "Sorry I didn't realize how loud I was." He reached for the bread to start making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch.

"Dude, you are, like, the loudest person I know. And you forget - that is not a soundproof room! There are OPEN WINDOWS in there. We have neighbors. They can hear everything!"

I paused, and realized something. It had been very quiet down there. I hadn't heard a single sound since I had "shushed" him. In fact, he had gotten back here awful quic- dammit.

DAMMIT.

"Max. Did you remember to flush and wash you hands?"

He sighed, put down the knife, and walked back down the hallway.

Mayonnaise is trying to kill me

2011-10-24T20:44:00.000-10:00

"Mayo Culpa" was my status update. I have a lot of regrets in life, but the biggest regret was eating that tuna salad on Friday. I am an idiot.

It will be 4 weeks this coming Friday since I had my gallbladder out. I am still coming to terms with the fact that I can't eat certain things. That may be because I am still struggling to absorb the news that once they removed my gallbladder they discovered that my complete hysterectomy six years ago was, um, actually kind of incomplete, and that my insides were riddled with scar tissue and fallopian tube and ovarian tissue.

I also have been distracted by the fond memories of my anesthesiologist. He looked like Anthony Bourdain and I totally wanted to suggest blowing off this whole "surgery thing" and getting a beer instead.

But the hardest thing to cope with, the thing that is haunting me the most, is the diet limitations. So far I have discovered that butter, mayo, cheese and eggs are almost impossible for my system to handle.

As you might imagine, I am devastated. Please remember that I am the woman who almost got into a fist fight with a friend who helped herself to some of my brie at a restaurant. I am the woman who starts every recipe by throwing a stick of butter in a pan and saying "we're gonna need to make a roux". I am the woman who believes that eggs scrambled in melted butter with melted cheese mixed in is, like, a food group. I am the woman who smears mayo on everything from spoonfuls of avocado to the outside of grilled cheese (cheese! WHY MUST YOU TORMENT ME?) I even started dipping my fries in mayo after I dated that guy from Belgium (the one who dumped me when I told him I loved him. I ate a lot of "frites" after that. Bastard.)

So basically, life as I know it is over.
There is life before mayo, and life after mayo. Which is no life at all.
Someone suggested I try Vegenaise. I kicked that person in the shin.

I have been assured that it will get easier. That in time, I might be able to eat these things again. That I will be able to enjoy a ham and cheese croissant and an espresso without feeling like my soul is being pulled out of my body through my bellybutton. And that is all well and good, but I am starting to lose the faith. I just don't think I can handle the process of trial and error anymore. I had to leave groceries on the conveyer belt in the grocery today and run in a cold sweat through the store to the bathroom, after enjoying french onion soup for lunch. And then there was that time I accidentally got kicked in the stomach during a fight this weekend - that didn't really help matters any.

But we'll save that story for another time, when I can find some humor in the situation.

And so, my recovery continues. Please order the eggs benedict with swiss and bacon on my behalf, and know that you are taking one for the team.

I like big trucks, how about you? Do you like trucks that dig wells too? And a contest where you can win stuff.

2011-10-21T21:53:00.002-10:00

So I am heading off to Camp Mighty, and I am pretty damned excited about it.

The first thing I want to tell you about the camp is that we are all joining forces to raise money to buy one of these things:

I know. Awesome, right? And pretty? I think I'm in love. I want one for myownself. BUT FIRST we are going to send one to Ethiopia. Here's what I like about this: I am not giving someone money - I am buying them a tool. Something they can use, something that will benefit many, something that will change lives. Save lives.

I would be so grateful if you would contribute - the website makes it super easy to donate. And the best part? This rig is going to be equipped with a GPS so we can track it online and follow it's progress, watching this truck make a difference for so many people. And you can look at all of the towns, with their new wells, and you can know in your heart that you had a part in that. And that is amazing.

I think this may be the first of many amazing things that come out of this camp. I am really and truly excited to be a part of it - so excited that it is really hard to contain the dorky part of me that is internally making that hideous "squeeeee" noise. Okay, I made that noise one time, right after I got my plane ticket last week. I'm better now. I sent my mom the link to the camp and got an email back. It went something along the lines of "I don't really get it, but it sounds like it might be interesting". And you know what, I didn't really get it either. All I know is that I need to learn how to open a champagne bottle with a sabre, and I cannot believe I have gone this long without doing so. I also can't believe this is going to be my first sleepaway camp experience.

Wait, that's not true. I went to a daycamp once that culminated in a sleepover, where we slept in hammocks we had made and mine came untied in the middle of the night and I woke up face down in the dirt completely tangled up in what was essentially a fishing net.

I KNOW HOW THE DOLPHINS FEEL.

So. This will be better. I am going to sleepaway camp in Palm Springs, with cocktails and an anti-gravity chamber. There will be hammocks, but someone else will have attached them in a more permanent fashion and they should stay up this time. And there is a knot tying class, so I can always reinforce the knot if I have concerns about the security of my hammock.

And mom, don't worry. There are no ponds in Palm Springs that I will be forced to swim in (even though the water is murky and the bottom is slimy and gross), and I won't write you any sad letters begging you to come get me. I swear.

Please, don't come get me.

But if you could send money, that would be great. Send it here:
http://mycharitywater.org/campmightyteamfour
And please, in the comments tell them Daffodil sent you.
Which leads me to the contest: I will draw the name of one person who makes a donation of any amount and tags it with my name in the comments. That person is going to get a very special just-for-you gift box from Maui. You know you want it. You must put my name in the comments to win.
Donating is easy. Walking miles for water is hard.
Thanks for your support. Contest ends 11/6/2011
xoxo

The list of things I should have done already (updated)

2011-10-19T19:00:00.005-10:00

In life, there have been two things that have prevented me from doing things I want to do:

Commitments to others.

Lack of finances

And then, of course, there's the fear factor.

Or it could just be my penchant for procrastination.

So I am compiling a list of things I really want to do. And these are not things I want to do before I die - these are things I want to do as soon as possible. It would have been cheaper and easier and far more convenient to do them without two children in tow, but everything is better when it's shared with someone you love. Right? (Just do me a solid and agree with me here, the alternative is too depressing.) (Use the phrase "do me a solid" correctly was totally on my life list. Done.)

So, the list. As inspired by the Divine Ms M(aggie Mason) in preparation for Camp Mighty.

1. Take my kids to Lebanon to get to know their relatives and learn Arabic
2. Master a killer karaoke performance that will bring the crowd to it's feet.
3. Write a book (so people will stop asking me when I'm going to write a book).
4. Make really good fried chicken.
5. Yoga retreat in India
6. Learn to can/jar things
7. Open a roller rink
8. Buy a small house right on the beach. On the sand.
9. Set up a sewing nook and sew some stuff.
10. Laser hair removal. It's time.
11. Have an apple tree in my backyard for climbing and snacking.
12. Become a competent surfer who can paddle out without making an ass of myself or getting tired halfway out.
13. Touch my toes.
14. Master liquid eyeliner
15. Change the oil in my car.
16. Also learn how to use the jack. Why the hell not.
17. Live in a city and rely solely on public transportation
18. Be the primary breadwinner for a while.
19. Find the perfect pair of Red Cowboy Boots
20. Teach English in a foreign country
21. Write a wedding ceremony. Then marry people.
22. Renact the entire movie Mamma Mia on a Greek island, playing all the parts.
23. Drive a bitchin' Camaro
24. Do a girls roadtrip through the desert a la Thelma and Louise (bonus points if I do it in a Camaro)
25. Learn to sail a boat
26. Take a calligraphy class
27. Raise chickens
28. Run for public office
29. Learn to like my big nose
30. Run a 5k just so I know that I can do it without collapsing
31. Bake a souffle just so I know I can do it without it collapsing
32. Knit something that doesn't have holes and look dirty when I am done.
33. Dive off the deck of an overwater bungalow. Over and Over again.
34. Fly a plane
35. Have a regular column in a magazine
36. Have an office to go to each day.
37. Springtime in Paris
38. Rent an RV and tour New Zealand
39. Live in a hacienda with Bakey when we're old and gray with a hot pool boy/gardener and a masseuse(Can be the same person)
40. Pose for one of those costumed old-timey sepia photographs with Sassin
41. Play tambourine for Pearl Jam
42. Make croissants from scratch.
43. Take a group of friends to my grandmother's house on Inishbofin
44. Become debt-free
45. Raise my children to be amazing, kind, generous, loving people who can support themselves.
46. Have a bedroom that is big and bright, with a huge antique iron bed and lots of storage
47. Have a house with an AGA stove. A big AGA stove.
48. Go to a show on Broadway at night, all dressed up with a new makeover like Cher in Moonstruck.
49. Be able to live half the year in Maui and half the year somewhere else.
50. Forgive 2 people who have hurt me and who I no longer speak to.
51. Make photo albums annually for my kids and give to them each Christmas
52. learn how to play chess
53. learn how to rollerskate backwards
54. spend some time living in a farmhouse in France. Bonus points if David Sedaris is my neighbor.
55. have a long paved driveway that we can ride bikes and rollerskate on.
56. intern as a merchandiser at several iconic retail stores who's aesthetics I admire. Like Anthropologie.
57. Go back to the Virgin Islands and charter a liveaboard boat to sail around for a few weeks.
58. Buy a large piece of land with friends and family, build homes, and share responsibilities and expenses as a group. Stop calling it a commune, mom.
59. Clear out my closet once and for all, and stop buying random crap. Quality not quantity.
60. Build a small guestroom/playroom so family can visit more often.
70. Sell this house and buy something with more outdoor space and higher ceilings.
71. Buy a fabulous vintage ballgown and attend an event like The Costume Institute Gala at the Met.
72. Take my dog to a trainer who can teach him to stop humping other dogs. It's gross and embarrassing.
73. Bake my grandmother's lemon meringue pie
74. Get paid to travel
75. get rid of those frown lines between my eyes. I frown too much, obviously.
76. Go to a really great event like SXSW with my husband and discover new bands together.
77. find a way for my husband and Slam's boyfriend to jam with Eddie Vedder
78. go to an open mic and perform
79. do a five minute stand up comedy routine at an amateur night
80. get a film role, even just a walk-on
81. win an award that I am proud of
82. rescue an animal - not from the pound.
83. start taking pictures again.
84. Make videos of the kids.
85. Take a river cruise in Europe (France?) where I can hop off and bicycle around.
86. Make a list of amazing things to do when the kids say they are bored.
87. Clip articles I love out of magazines and file them so that I can actually find them again
88. Learn how to work this drilling rig I'm fundraising for, then fly to Ethiopia and work with the drilling crew.
89. Re-establish Sunday night dinner at my house, and have a circle of friends that join us regularly.
90. Visit places that intrigue me like Bali, Cuba, and Maldives
91. Finish my epic tattoo, so that it actually tells a story and isn't a random bunch of small pieces.
92. Start speaking a foreign language at home with Sam and the kids. Maybe just in the car, or at dinner time to start.
93. Create a family tradition for Christmas Day.
94. Only use the computer during working hours.
95. Live somewhere with an incredibly low cost of living, so I can have a $10 massage every day if I want to. Oh, Thailand, I miss you.
96. Make chocolate, Eat it. Repeat.
97. Throw out underwear when it's time to get new ones - am I waiting for them to actually fall apart before I replace them?
98. Teach my kids to be really good drivers.
99. Stop letting money stress me out and make me feel bad. I give it too much of my time.
100. decide what I want to be when I grow up

Things that have been crossed off:
Own a Mini Cooper (leased, I'm okay with that)
Eliminate fast foods and soda from my diet (with exceptions for emergency McDonalds french fry cravings.)
Join a Roller Derby team
Bring a market basket with me to do my shopping, and stop using plastic carrier bags
Dye my hair red
Have a well-stocked pantry ready for whipping up a quick meal or special something
Take a spur of the moment international vacation when I see a cheap ticket online
Get Married in Vegas
Pierce my nose
Attend a cooking school in another country.
Try kombucha (actually yummy!)
Switch to more natural cleaning products
Cut down on using disposable stuff like baggies and paper towels
Find the perfect school for my kids
Skate at Rockefeller Center at Christmas time
Ring in the New Year in Times Square
Sell everything and move to Maui
Quit a job I need, because I hate it

And THAT is how you deal with an inconsiderate neighbor. Poop on their Porch.

2011-10-17T11:59:00.002-10:00

The sun was shining when the barking started. We have a neighbor who sees nothing wrong with letting his dog (who we will refer to as the "f*cking white dog" or FWD for short) out at 6am to run through the neighborhood, raising the ire of every dog in every yard he passes. You can track FWD's progress by the cacophony of barking that rises up and sweeps through - from the dead end where he begins by raising the hackles of the three dogs that live on all sides of that cul de sac, all the way up to the main road 4 blocks away. As the howling and barking and growling rise up from every corner of the circle of homes, one by one each house along his route is awakened as he trots down the street - walking boldly into unfenced yards, and pressing his nose against fences that block his path. Usually he will stop to pee on a shrub just outside the fenced in yards, effectively marking the territory as his own - which drives the dog who actually lives there absolutely bananas.

If you are lucky, FWD will choose your yard as the perfect spot to take a huge steaming dump before wandering off to wreak more havoc. If you are really lucky, you will step in it on your way to get in the car for work or school, or maybe while mowing the yard or getting the mail. During all of this, the owner of FWD stays home, reading the paper or taking a shower or perhaps even climbing back into bed now that he has let the dog out to do his business.

There have been a series of confrontations between the FWD owner and the neighbors - with and without dogs of their own - who are sick and tired of these shenanigans. No one wants to be woken up at 6am every single Sunday morning forever and ever until the end of time. And no one wants that dog running free through the neighborhood, shitting and pissing everywhere, for them to clean up.

A few weeks ago, when the barking began before dawn, Sam lost his mind.

"THAT'S IT" he leaped from the bed with his hair flying and his eyes wild.
"Oh for god's sake." I muttered, rolling over and burying my head under the pillow.
"I'm going down there." he announced as he pulled on a pair of shorts.
"I really don't think that's a good idea."
"I really don't think it's a good idea for that asshole to let his dog out loose."
"But Sam, you can't just go down ther-"
"Yes I can. YES I CAN."

He turned on his heel and stomped away.
"Zip your fly" I shouted after him.

10 minutes later he was back.
"Please tell me you didn't hit anyone."
"Of course not."
"Did you talk with the guy?"
"No. I stood in his yard and yelled 'HEY!' until he opened his door. And then I told him to keep his fucking dog in his yard."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Huh."

That was two weeks ago. Yesterday, it was almost 7am when the barking started - but Sam was still not having it. The dogs were all going nuts. Our dog Boston was alternating between leaping 4 feet in the air trying to launch himself over the fence, and racing in circles around the yard barking and snarling as the FWD sniffed along the property line. Sam went outside to see if he could corner the FWD and call animal control. When he got out there the FWD was taking a massive shit.

Which hit the fan.

Sam was enraged. He went and got Boston's leash. "Why do you need his leash?" I asked as I shuffled to the refrigerator for coffee.

"Because, that dog hasn't done anything useful in his entire life, and I have continued to feed him and make sure he doesn't get fleas or heartworm, and now I need him to do something for ME."

"Um. Like what, exactly?"

"I NEED HIM TO TAKE A SHIT ON THAT GUY'S LAWN."

"Okay, listen. Boston doesn't even sit when you tell him to. Plus, he's always constipated. He never poops. Ever. That's why we love him so much. There is NO WAY he is going to go along with this."

"Well, he better." Sam said darkly.

"Good luck with that." I turned back to my iced coffee preparations. Sam stormed out the door, leash in hand. He stood on the porch and whistled and clapped. Boston eyed him warily from under the deck where he had retreated at the sound of Sam's raised voice. Boston wanted nothing to do with any of this. He lay down and looked guilty, but he wasn't budging. If Sam wanted backup, he was going to have to carry him down there like a lap dog. Since Boston weighs about 40 pounds, that wasn't going to happen.

"Really, Boston? REALLY? I need your help. When are you going to grow a pair?"

"He had a pair" I hollered from the kitchen. "We cut them off."

"Jesus." Sami shook his head and threw the leash down. He grabbed a shovel from next to the garden, and headed down the stairs.

"What are you doing now?" I asked from the window.
"I am bringing that asshole his dogshit."

I watched through the window as Sam walked over, scooped up the mess that had been deposited in our side yard, and marched down the street, shovel held aloft in front of him. He walked right onto our neighbor's yard, and dumped the contents of the shovel right in the middle of the porch, just as the church bells began to chime.

He came back to the house, stuck the shovel blade into the garden soil and came inside to wash his hands.
"Who wants to go to church?" he shouted over his shoulder. The kids (who have never been to Sunday mass in their life) sat and stared at him. I snickered into my coffee. Boston, however, crawled out from under the porch, and stood at the gate wagging his tail.

One man's trash is another man's crap. Don't argue with me.

2011-10-12T20:07:00.000-10:00

We have an interesting neighborhood. It is mostly families, many who have lived on Maui for generations. People don't sell their houses often here - the location is convenient and for the most part it is very peaceful. Everyone takes care of their yard and brings their trash cans in after pickup, there aren't any loud parties and no one is doing drugs or causing any trouble. But there are, as with any neighborhood, issues that have arisen. Thankfully, most of the issues have to do with overzealous reporting to the Humane Society if someone's dog is barking at night, or parking issues. On the 4th of July and New Years (aka "the fireworks holidays") things get a little rowdy with firecrackers attached to lightposts, and there was that one time that this guy was running with a paper bag filled with cetalyne gas and the friction caused the bag to explode in his face. But that was just that one time. Usually the cetalyne doen't explode until he sets the bag on fire.

Yes, for the most part, it's pretty mellow. However. There is one house in particular who's residents seem to feel that the neighborhood - the entire neighborhood - is theirs for the taking. They are the Christopher Columbuses of street parking - they simply park their car in front of your house - right on the grass - and leave it there. Once we had a car parked in front of our house for a month. But even with all of their obnoxious, thoughtless behavior, we had managed to co-exist - mostly because we had our own driveway and didn't need the street parking.

And then they somehow took over the house across the street from us.

I was not kidding with that Christopher Columbus comparison.

Over the summer, they moved in 3 adults and 6 or 7 kids. And their dogs. Everyone has a dog. And every dog has a doghouse in the yard, to which they remain chained. The family shares a profound love of the F word and they don't seem to own any shirts whatsoever, and they appear oblivious to the fact that they have neighbors in close proximity who may not be thrilled to have complete bedlam erupt every time someone walks down the street. During the day, the neighborhood is the usual oasis of peace and calm - the dogs sleep on the roofs of their houses, the kids are in school, and the adults are home........well, I don't know what they are doing. All I know is that they stay inside, and it's quiet and lovely. I am sitting here now listening to the birds chirping outside my window. But then school lets out and the mid-day heat breaks, and the air begins to cool, and people come home from work. Suddenly, the neighborhood is bustling. Every evening, the family spends a lot of time walking back and forth between the two house, or hanging out in the cul de sac cursing, throwing balls at each other's heads, and making the smaller children cry.

Last night, these folks from across the street were standing in the cul de sac PER USUAL. Only they were standing next to their pickup truck, and the back of that truck was piled high with.......well, with crap. I can't even tell you what it was, except to say that it wasn't furniture, or appliances, or anything actually recognizable. Some of it seemed rusty, it was all dirty, and I was struck with the sudden fervent hope that they were moving out.

"Oh my GOD!" I thought to myself. "Maybe this is really happening. Maybe people will stop standing in the street screaming, and posting threatening signs at the end of their driveway!"

I had reason to be hopeful - earlier in the day, I had watched two of the kids drag a dog house across the street towards the truck. And another truck in one of the driveways had furniture in it! This was looking really good. Really really good. Well, not the furniture. The furniture loooked like a combination of pleather and particle board. But the fact that a significant amount of stuff was in the backs of their trucks? Very encouraging.

Until they started unloading.

That crap wasn't being taken away. It was coming home, baby.

And the doghouse was simply being moved to a different location, overlooking the gulch. The gulch is like oceanfront property for dogs - it contains a thriving population of feral cats and chickens, which means almost zero rodents or bugs in our neighborhood. I am sure the dogs will be very, very happy there.

You know who is not happy? The neighbors who live on the other side of the gulch - and have a full and unobstructed view of the shantytown cropping up across the way. They are not happy. As a result, I am carefully avoid any paperbags that I see casually lying around. They will undoubtably be set on fire, and one can only guess if they are filled with highly explosive gasses, or dog doo. I have no interest in finding out.

You won! YOU WON! Now, pay up.

2011-10-11T09:34:00.000-10:00

Lucy came up to me a few days ago, waving a piece of paper in the air excitedly.

"I WON!!!" She was overjoyed. I was perplexed. She's six. Was she entering lotteries without my knowledge? Maybe she snagged pre-early admission with a free ride to Harvard?

She thrust the paper into my hands and pointed. "I scratched the circles and I won!"

Oh. Crap.

She and her brother each get a few subscriptions in the mail each month. Ladybug, Highlights, National Geographic Kids.....you know - kids mags with crafts and stories and poems. It keeps them busy in the backseat when we are in the car, and I am usually totally thrilled with them. But sometimes, they have an outer cover, which is actually just a big ad for some sort of "club" and it totally gives kids the impression that they really have "won" something. The fine print is *very* fine, and it took me about a minute to even find what I was looking for so I could show her. "Sweetie, what it is, is that they send you these things free, and then you have to pay $13.97 every 5 weeks, forever. So, it's not really that great a deal."

Her face fell. She was devastated. I mean really, who doesn't like free stuff? No one, that's who.

Today I was in bed checking my email and the first message was from a familiar name.....someone I had read about. "Congratulations" it began, "You are a winner."

The email offered me a slot in a sold out conference, said my name was next on the list to be offered this space. Gave me instructions for registering. I didn't recall putting my name on the list - in fact, I remember looking at it and thinking: "(sigh) I can't spend the money." But I did recall leaving my email on their site a year ago, asking for information about another such event, and maybe this was because of that? I was perplexed...but intrigued.

I rushed the kids off to school, came home and sat down to read the email again. And again. And again. I don't really know what it is. The objective is to improve your life. Well, plenty of room for that around here. But is there a sweat lodge involved? It says that it is for people who like to make cool stuff. Does that mean crafts? The last time I used a glue gun I glued my fingers together, burnt my ear, and swallowed a button. While I enjoy "the crafts" I am not crafty.

And then I checked plane fares.
Because, here's the thing. Living in paradise is amazing, but it is has a moat around it like no one's business.

I did the math. It's going to cost me, realistically, about $1500 all together, between registration, airfare and food.

I do not have $1500. I do not, in fact, have a job.

And while this conference may be just the ticket, may be just what I need in order to choose a direction - one that is not governed by marriage and children - I don't know if it is, indeed, the golden ticket.There is a risk involved, and it could go one of several ways:

A. I can not go, and then have a convenient excuse for why I still have no idea what i am doing with my life. So far, I have been presented with several similar opportunities - writers retreats and such - and each time I have shied away. While the financial risk was one reason, the emotional risk was another. Because if I go, I have to have something to show for it afterwards. Scary.
B. I can go, and then come home and resume life as usual and feel like a huge jackass for spending the money on a weekend of drinks and crafts and conversation. I don't want to do this. At all.
C. I can go, and come home and struggle to make it worthwhile, following the talking points, trying to manifest all of the great ideas I was surrounded with, and maybe absorb some of the entrepreneurial spirit, and then in the end just resume life as usual, secure in the knowledge that as a wife and mother I have attained my penultimate goal - as stated since my childhood - while secretly feeling like a huge failure for not having a career.
D. I can go, and make some amazing friends, return energized and inspired, with a clear plan and a set of goals to achieve - and the motivation to make all my dreams come true.

I don't know if I can afford to go.
I don't know if I can afford NOT to go.

But the bottom line is, while I have been offered the spot (and I guess that is techinically winning) it doesn't feel like winning - it feels like a challenge. An ultimatum. The idea of going is just as nervewracking as the idea of letting yet another opportunity slip by, waiting for "the right one" to come along. Sometimes you just have jump on, hang on, and enjoy the ride.....across the moat.

And then I shaved his head.

2011-10-10T00:38:00.000-10:00

When Max was a baby, we called him Goldilocks. He had a head full of shining blonde ringlets, and we had no intention of cutting them. He never mentioned it either, until one day when he was about 3 years old, and he came up to me and said "Mama, I want to cut my haiw."

"You do?" I said with surprise. "Your beautiful hair? Why?"

He looked at me, his impossibly blue eyes fringed with thick black lashes. "Because, mama. People think I'm a giwl."

I wanted to punch that damn supermarket cashier in the throat. The day before, she had laughingly said that it was time to cut his hair, because he didn't want to look like a girl. He had looked at her, agast. "I am NOT a GIWL." He was indignant. "I AM A MAX."

I had grinned at him, and turned to her triumphantly. "I am pretty sure Max can set them straight." I smiled at her sympathetically, for being so conservative and narrow-minded as to believe that anyone would think my son was a girl just because he didn't have a crew cut.

But now, the tables were turned, and I was left holding the tablecloth. "You really want to cut your hair?" I was devastated - mostly because I suffer from some serious hair envy. Everyone in this house has gorgeous hair, except me. Max and Lucy are both blessed with an abundance of soft blonde curls. Sam has beautiful black hair which had been long glossy ringlets until Max was a baby. And then his curls had formed some sort of horrible dreadlock borne of a few forgotten Cheerios and some rice cereal (which is, by the way, like cement when it dries) and he had shaved all of his hair off, vowing to grow it back when Max stopped eating with his hands.

Anyway, when Max wandered in rocking his pullups and a muddy t-shirt, telling me he needed a haircut, I was faced with a vexing problem. I loved Max's hair. And I didn't want to cut it. But if he wanted it cut, was it really such a big deal? What was I going to do - forbid him from cutting it?

No. No I was not.

So Sam took him along the next time he went to the barber, and they both got their hair cut. No pictures, no video, but the barber did remember to send me home a few ringlets. As Max rounded the corner into my room that day, holding the baggie of curls aloft, the wind was knocked out of me. My baby boy looked like a man. A very little, stubby-legged man. It was eerie.

I hated it.

I got over it eventually, of course. Got used to the short hair. I didn't like it, but I had fun with it. Mohawks, fauxhawks, skater bangs, flock of seagulls - whatever I could manage with clippers and a pair of nail scissors, basically.

When Lucy was born, Sam grew his beautiful hair long again. "Your hair is beautiful!" people would exclaim. Once I watched him get fully accosted by a woman at Home Depot ("You can do it. We can help" indeed. She was going to just help her damn self until I walked up carrying a squirming toddler and a chainsaw) who ran her fingers through his hair while "helping" him at the customer service desk. Eventually Max got tired of hearing about how gorgeous his father's hair was, and what a shame it was that Max didn't grow his hair long too. Last year, he decided that maybe he would give long hair a try. Oh happy day! He didn't remember having long hair, so for him it was a big surprise when a thick head full of shining blonde ringlets grew in. Lots of em. It was like wearing a helmet. A sweaty, blonde helmet. Huh. Hadn't really factored in the pre-teen sweaty factor. Not as enchanting as I had remembered from his toddler days, that's for sure.

For months now, he has been marching around dripping with sweat, his curls flopping in his eyes, his hair just a few inches shy of a ponytail. He is always tossing his head around as though he's mid-seizure, and you couldn't see those beautiful blue eyes with all of that hair in his face. I hate to say it, but he looked like a slob, and always seemed hot and annoyed by all of those curls he had on his head. I bought massive amounts of conditioner, and he amassed a collection of hats. I lived in fear of The Uku, which is just no way to live at all. Finally, I gave him an ultimatum: Put your hair up, or cut your hair off. I was sick of looking at it, sick of inspecting it, and sick of buying Fabio over there, all of the necessary hair products. And then one terrible, dark day, I realized that I sounded like someone's mom. From 1962.

What the hell was wrong with me? I had to stop, I had to get over this June Cleaver bullshit.

Easier said than done. They had a point. I am here to tell you, mothers in the mid-1960s must have been drinking heavily. Because I had to chant a mantra to myself some days, just to keep from losing my mind. It's just hair. It's fine. I'm fine. He looks fine. And then I developed a twitch: he would toss his hair, and I would wince. But dammit, I was not going to say anything. Okay, maybe I said something.

Little did I know, we were both getting sick of the hair hanging in his face.

"Shave it off, mom." he announced today. Was he calling my bluff?

Damn. Was he saying this because he thought that was what I wanted? I didn't want to shave it off. But I really wanted to shave it off. I was a woman on the brink of madness.

"Think about it for a while." Sam advised him after catching a quick glimpse at the look on my face. "We can talk about it at lunchtime." Max rolled his eyes. I went and dug out the clippers. Just in case.
After a few hours that were spent in the mid-day sun gardening, they trooped back inside for lunch. "So dude, what' it gonna be?" Sam asked as he made them sandwiches.

"I'm ready to get rid of it." Max replied.

Mommies are not allowed to die

2011-10-09T22:22:00.000-10:00

Mommies should not die.
They should not be allowed to die. Their role is to create and nurture life, and dammit they should be left to do that. They can also run the country or fly off into outer space or drive a big rig or sail the seven seas - but they have to come back home, wherever home may be. Which is to say, where their children are.

Children should not be left motherless.

This past week, I got the news that pathology results from biopsies taken during my surgery last week had come back clear.

I did not have cancer.

Which is good, because I don't have time for that bullshit. I am going to recover, and heal, and continue to be here for my children, for as long as they will have me.

Since becoming a mother, mortality has taken on a whole new meaning. There is a bubble that you live in when you have a newborn - this sort of parallel reality where everything revolves around a completely dependent brand new human being. You sleep at odd hours and you spend a lot of time cleaning up some pretty disgusting stuff, and sometimes someone pees IN YOUR MOUTH and all you can do is laugh, because it is just how things are. They need you to live. You live for them. Nothing is the same as it ever was. And the first time I realized as a mother that parents can die - that I could die - the bubble just......burst. Sometimes parents die. Sometimes, children die. Sometimes parents and children die. I will hear that a young mother or a young father passed away, and I will be sad, and I will feel grateful, and I will be reminded to appreciate my life, and I will be able to move on. For the most part, I am able to process it in a healthy way, and not go off the rails.

And then sometimes, that does not happen at all. Sometimes, something happens that is so terribly awful that I do not even know where to begin to deal with it. And I go to a very sad, very scared, very dark place. A place I am carefully avoiding right now, because I know that she would never, ever want anyone to remember her like that. And because it does no one any good. And because it is not about me.

This weekend, someone's mother died. Three someones, actually. Three children woke up on this crystal clear Saturday morning and were told that their beautiful, vibrant young mother who loved them more than the earth and sky was never going to hold them in her lap again. They would never smell her hair or hear her voice or feel her arms around them.

Inconceivable.

I saw the breaking news report posted on my twitter feed, and again on my facebook, coming from various news outlets. It was strange - to have it showing up over and over again like that for a local accident. Very unusual. One, two, three times it popped up - finally I clicked on the link the third time, mostly because the headline mentioned a road that was a block away from my house.

It was early. We had just left the farmer's market, and we were driving up to Lucy's ballet class. While Sam steered the car up the mountain road, I had turned on my phone and scrolled through my newsfeed. When I clicked over to the story I saw the name and I froze. I thought "No, it must be a different woman with the same first name, I must be remembering her last name wrong. Because it can't be her. It cannot be her."

We had just reconnected last week at a friend's brunch, and talked about our kids and school and her plans for becoming a teacher. This was not just a name and some clinical details about a one-car accident on a country road. I did not know her well, but I did know her - more as a mother than anything else, for she was a mother through and through. She loved being a mother. She embraced it. She was the epitome of the word. Gentle and strong, loving and firm. She had a kind face and a nurturing, comforting spirit.

If you met her, you would wish she had been your mother. She was so young, and so sweet, and so beautiful. My clearest memory is of her sitting on the floor at a playgroup, with all of her children climbing over her like puppies as she sat in the midst of them, beaming.

And on Friday night, she was in a terrible accident on a winding road.
And now she is gone.

The children are surrounded by love and light. They have a father, and aunts and uncles and grandparents who all adore them. But they do not have their mother.

Something has gone terribly wrong somehow, because mommies are not allowed to die.

Steve Jobs died and I'm taking it personal

2011-10-05T15:45:00.001-10:00

The first computer we ever had was a Mac. Dad brought it home when I was in the 4th grade - which was in 1984. I had no idea - until today - that the Mac was invented that year. My father was cutting edge in several ways - namely in getting Saab in 1972 before anyone even really knew what that was, and his life-altering switch from Budweiser to Coors. And then, with this. He got an Apple credit card, and bought himself a computer. My father was, unbeknownst to me, one of the pioneers of desktop publishing. Apparently.

One day, with very lttle fanfare, dad brought home a square, tan case with a shoulder strap, unzipped the top and pulled out a square, tan box. He set it down on a table in my parent's bedroom, and the rest is history. Within a few months he was publishing a newspaper on that thing, and I was spending hours drawing strange patterns on MacPaint and playing carefully approved video games heavy on word play, all the while desperately pretending I didn't want an Atari like Dina across the street.

I was too young then to appreciate the gift I was given: I was 9 years old, and I knew my way around a Mac. I wasn't just learning how to type - which is a skill that I developed quickly at that young age - I was also able to cut and paste, to move boxes of text, to caption photos, to spellcheck, and change fonts. And with desktop publishing, it was easier for my father to work from home - a mixed blessing to be sure, but I did learn an awful lot about desktop publishing. I also learned that the closer you got to deadline, the more you had to shout "FUCK" and the less time you had to go get another vodka tonic from the kitchen.

Important life lessons I carry with me to this day.

It might surprise you to know that even after being raised in a completely Mac-centric household, I have never owned my own Apple computer. In fact, even though I was at the forefront of the mac culture right out of the gate, I basically stalled out in 1990. I have an ancient laptop. I bought a Droid phone. I did break down and get an iPod a few years ago, but we don't actually use it that often and I only have a few albums on there - I hate hooking the damn thing up to my dinosaur computer and as a result I have been slow to download music off of my cd collection - never mind trying to upload anything from the internet. But I understand the convenience of the technology, and the way Steve Jobs has changed daily life for everyone. His contributions are immeasurable, and I know that there are still ideas in development that we don't know anything about yet. And I know that some day I will get up to speed - only about 15 years behind everyone else - but I wouldn't even be there if it wasn't for Steve Jobs.

My fear is that, without his ideas and foresight, who's going to come up with this stuff? He is the golden child of technology, and I haven't even fully integrated all of his amazing developments into my life yet - what if I have questions? What if I want something different? I just can't believe we are out of time. Now I feel like I have to go buy a Mac. Before someone at Apple starts really screwing it all up over there.

Fuck.

Steve Jobs encouraged artistic expression through technology, and provided the tools to accomplish that. He was able to combine high-tech with fine art, color with light, sound with picture - and he made it accessible to everyone. Even if we didn't know we wanted it yet.

Bitching about folks and stuff, continued. PART TWO. (The one where Sam forgets the clothes)

2011-10-04T19:50:00.000-10:00

We drove directly from the valet at the hospital (yes, we have Valet parking at the hospital) to the valet at the resort, and I somehow staggered up to the front desk. The nurse had thought to cut off my hospital bracelets when I was discharged, so you would never know I was ill, except for the fact that I was walking doubled over with a limp, and my hand was bleeding from the bruise I got from the IV, my hair was standing on end, and I still had a lede from the heart monitor stuck to my shoulder.

I looked totally normal if normal people look like they just escaped from a hospital/war zone.

I rested both arms and my chin on the front desk and waited for someone to give me a room key.
I might have burped.

We went up to the room and after some confusion with housekeeping I was finally propped up in a lovely bed piled high with white linens, and an amazing view. All ready to recuperate. "You need anything?" Sam asked as the kids ran in circles around the room swatting each other with towels and rash guards. He leaned over and patted my leg sympathetically.

I sensed that this might become a theme of the weekend - Sam hovering in concern while the kids annoyed the shit out of me.

"I need you to leave me alone. I brought you all with me so you would have something fun to do - not so that you would spend the day with me in this room."

"Um, okay. Geez, how do you really feel?"

"I feel like shit, man. I had my stomach cut open six times last night, and a bunch of stuff scraped out and now I just want to be left alone to clot."

"Right. Nice."

So they left, and I dozed off in front of the tv, waking up occasionally to hit refresh on facebook and check texts. The problem was that I was pretty drugged, and having trouble seeing straight. Eventually I gave up. That night we went downstairs for dinner, and I was nervous about eating. The nurse had assured me I could eat anything within reason, and just suggested I avoid fried or greasy foods.

So naturally I had the BLT Butterfish and the lamb. It was completely reasonable.

The next day I felt like hell, almost as though I had been stabbed repeatedly in the stomach. Go figure. The anesthesia was worn off completely, and I hadn't slept for more than an hour or two at a time since surgery, and that dinner was totally kicking my ass. I was restless and uncomfortable, alternating between pacing the pool area, and pacing our hotel room. Checkout was noon, and Sami wandered upstairs with the kids at 11:45am. As soon as Lucy was dressed, I took her with me and went down to the lobby to deal with the paperwork, leaving Sam in the room to pack up and get Max ready, and then take the bags down to valet and load the car.

We drove the hour home in silence. I was completely exhausted, and high on Vicodan.

Sam brought the bags inside, and asked if he should put the towels and bathing suits in the washing machine.

"Great, yeah, that would be a good idea." I nodded. "Wash them on cold, okay? And maybe put my dress from yesterday in there. Did you stick that in your suitcase or mine?"

"It's in the laundry bag."

"Okay, where's that?"

He stood there.
Deer in the headlights.

"Sam" I said slowly "where is the laundry? Where are our clothes, Sam?"

God bless him, he looked so confused. "Didn't you get them?" he asked.

For a split second I thought maybe I had. And then I remembered that NO I hadn't packed up his dirty laundry. I hadn't packed anything besides my own clothes as I changed out of them, because I had just had my stomach cut open. I had packed all of the clothes to go on the trip And made food. And done laundry. And changed sheets. And cleaned the fucking bathroom. And not for nothing, but I had just provided a completely free weekend in a six star oceanfront resort. But no. No, I hadn't packed up his dirty socks and underwear. My bad.

MY clothes were in my suitcase. Except for this dress that he had so helpfully put in some mythical laundry bag that he was now unable to locate. My eyes narrowed.
That dress was my favorite.
That dress was from Anthropologie.

Someone was going to die.

"Shit." he said.

Indeed.

He called the hotel, and they were able to locate the bag of dirty clothes that he had left on the floor of the hotel room. As I announced later on facebook, the man had zipped an empty suitcase shut and rolled it out of the hotel room. He had taken it downstairs, and put it in the car, and taken it out of the car, and carried it into the house, and it had never even ONCE crossed his mind that perhaps it felt......light. I mean, even taking his obvious brute strength into account, he didn't notice that the bag was empty?

He didn't notice that the bag was empty.

If I thought the drive home was quiet, well....the drive BACK TO THE RESORT was deafening.

"So tell me, at what point did you think that I was responsible for packing anything at the hotel? Was it when I was able to pee without assistance? Maybe when I was finally able to operate my cellphone without you typing the numbers for me because I couldn't see the screen?"

"No, I know, I was supposed to pack. I just forgot about that bag."

"You forgot about "that bag"? That bag had ALL THE CLOTHES. You forgot ALL THE CLOTHES. You did not, in fact, pack ANYTHING. You didn't forget anything. Except everything."

"That is not true."

"It is true!"

"No, I remembered to pack something."

"Really? What? WHAT DID YOU REMEMBER TO PACK?"

"I remembered to pack the toothbrushes."

"The toothbrushes? Really? Do you want to go there, Sam? Are we talking about the same toothbrushes you had to go out and BUY YESTERDAY because you LEFT OUR TOOTHBRUSHES AT HOME?"

"Well, yeah."

"Well then I guess I owe you an apology Sam."

He graciously decided to let it slide.

Screw the photo essay, I'm going back to bitching about stuff and folks. PART ONE

2011-10-04T08:17:00.001-10:00

Judging by the precipitous decline in readership following my attempt at photojournalism, I can only conclude that you do not come here for my mad photography skills and clever captioning. You don't have to tell me twice - I read you LOUD AND CLEAR. Which is why today and tomorrow I will not be posting a single photo. No, instead, I am going to be unloading some seriously repressed emotions regarding the division of responsibility in my household, and how this weekend, I felt as though perhaps it was just COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY OUT OF BALANCE. Now, to be fair, I am emotional, and my nerves are frayed, and I am experiencing a serious hangover from the general anesthesia that was administered Friday afternoon, so perhaps my judgement is skewed.

Turns out that having extensive -albeit laparascopic - abdominal surgery leaves me feeling a bit out of sorts. Go figure.

Let me back up and start from the beginning.

On Wednesday, we decided that my gallbladder needed to come out. Sooner rather than later, actually. Sooner was Friday. The general surgeon was on board as soon as I told him I was feeling worse by the hour. And then another surgeon (who had already been planning on taking a look in there in a few weeks) cleared her schedule to get in on the action. And then a third surgeon wanted to put his own stamp on things. So one two three - THREE surgeons scrubbed in for the Daffodil Campbell version of an afternoon delight. I should have brought party favors and cupcakes, or at the very least, my flask - but I was sort of distracted and to be honest I had trouble choosing a theme. Then Sam flat-out refused to stop and pick up a pinata on our way to the hospital. He is no fun at all.

Surgery wasn't scheduled until 2:15pm Friday. I received my instructions Thursday night: nothing at all to eat or drink after midnight.

Nothing. For 13 hours.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I do not go for 13 hours without food. Ever. Even at my sickest, I have always managed to choke down some yogurt or something in the morning, because my blood sugar gets all wonky. But Friday morning it was strictly NPO all day long. So I did what any normal mother would do before going to the hospital.
I did the laundry.
I changed the sheets on all the beds.
I made meat sauce from scratch.
I vacuumed our bedroom and cleaned the bathroom.
And then - with 30 minutes until check in time at the hospital - I took a shower, hopped in the car, and zipped down to town. Sam dropped me off right in front of admitting, and I kissed him goodbye and told him I would have them call afterwards. He went to get the kids from school, I went to get my stomach cut open.

My anesthesiologist looked like Anthony Bourdain, which I found strangely comforting. Two of my surgeons were there before I went under to talk to me and reassure me that they were present and accounted for, and lucid, which I also found comforting. There was rock music playing in the OR and they put a warm blanket on me and started the drugs. And then they went ahead and got to work. While Sami drove the kids home and gave them snacks and walked the dog, the team removed my gallbladder. And detached my intestine from my liver. And found some fallopian tube that was left behind during my hysterectomy, and missed again during follow up surgery. I had a total of 6 incisions - but since they were able to do everything laparoscopically, it means much faster recovery, and much smaller (almost non-existant) scars.

I was scheduled to go home that night - laparoscopic surgery doesn't require a hospital overnight - but they couldn't get me to wake up. I can't say I did it on purpose, but I haven't had a good night sleep in three months, so you can't really blame me for riding that anesthesia as far as I could.

The problem was, I had somewhere to be that night.

I had a pre-existing work commitment, and it was something I was really looking forward to. This whole surgery thing was planned sort of last-minute, and coincidentally right around the time I was supposed to be released from the hospital, I was also supposed to be checking in for a staff retreat at a hotel on the other side of the island. And dammit, having my gallbladder removed was not going to keep me from a free weekend at a hotel. Sam knew that was my plan, and as the hour got later and later Friday evening, he started to panic a little bit. He certainly didn't want to be the one to tell me that instead of going to a hotel I was staying in the hospital on a plastic mattress with an IV that didn't even have a morphine pump. He kept calling to be absolutely sure they weren't gong to let me go home. He had the car packed, and the dog was already at the kennel for the night. Finally, at about 8:30pm, the nurse told him it couldn't be avoided. I was spending the night in the hospital. He suggested giving me some more medicine to insure that I actually didn't wake up at all until morning, for everyone's health and well-being.

She thought he was kidding.

When I finally woke up at 9pm and realized I wasn't going to the hotel that night to sleep in a luxury bed and have room service, I was pissed. The nurse brought me some broth and tea to make up for it. I was not amused. They added some jello, and it took everything I had to not wind up and throw it into the hallway. Then they told me I couldn't leave the hospital until I peed in the potty.

Fuck. That. Shit.

You need me to pee in the potty? Oh, I'LL PEE IN THAT POTTY.

I sat on that toilet off and on for almost 5 hours. Turns out, my brain would not let my body pee. It's a trick that general anesthesia plays on me - I am completely unable to pee for hours afterwards. But I persevered. Mind over matter. I sang, I watched youtube on my phone, I played solitaire, I drank endless cups of tea, and I walked in circles around the bathroom. At 2am I triumphantly staggered out into the hallway, clutching my IV rack, with my johnny untied and hanging open, and a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my foot. "I peed." I announced. "I want to go home now."

The nurse coaxed me back into my room with a syringe of morphine, and I followed her like the pied piper. She got me settled in bed, dosed me liberally, and turned on the Food Network. I was just about to doze off, sort of woozy and cotton-mouthed, staring catatonic at Guy Fieri. And then my roommate woke up.

I think we can all agree that, even under the best of circumstances, it can be tough to have a roommate.

The hospital is not the best of circumstances.

I realized within 30 seconds that she was in the bathroom, and had not bothered to close the door. She was in there, peeing and farting and flushing - all with the door wide open. When she shuffled past again shortly thereafter, I was also aware that she had not bothered to wash her hands.

I immediately decided that I had to get the hell out of that room. But the morphine was kicking in, and I couldn't remember how to call the nurse, and they were making brisket on Food Network, so I decided to wait until I saw my nurse again to raise the red flag of bio-contamination.

And then I forgot.

I woke up at 7am WHEN SHE DID IT AGAIN. "That's it." I said to myself, struggling up out of the bed. "I am outta here." I texted Sam, and went and found a nurse and informed everyone that I was going home. I offered to take out my own IV, but they insisted on handling it themselves. Sami and the kids arrived as I was digging my clothes out of the plastic bag I had stuck them in the day before during pre-op.

"Hey." I greeted them with a smile. "Did you bring up my toothbrush?" Sami looked panicked. "Uh....did you pack a toothbrush?"
"I threw my whole kit in the overnight bag in case I got admitted yesterday. Remember?" He looked relieved and unzipped the bag he had dropped on the floor as he walked in the room. "I just told you to pack for the kids." The panicked look returned.
"The kids?"
"Yep, remember, I said 'I'm putting their clothes in here, but nothing else.'"
"Oh. Yeah."
"Do you need to go to the drugstore to buy toothbrushes now?"
"Yeah."
"Did you remember everything else?"
"Um, I think so, yeah."
Turns out, notsomuch.

Over the river and through the woods - driving to the jungle school on Maui

2011-09-29T19:26:00.002-10:00

I was looking at my blogroll the other day and it occurred to me that there was a common thread in all of the blogs I enjoy reading. They are personal, and they share photos. At least occasionally.

I really love seeing photos on people's blogs. I don't care about the photo quality, I just like to get a little peek at their life. Because I am nosy.

I rarely put photos on my blog these days. So today I set a new goal for myself: I am going to make a concerted effort to post more photos. These things always start out so well. I have the best of intentions, I get all pumped up about it and give you 110% right out of the gate, and then maybe post a couple of photos next week, and then.....you know.....I'll forget, or get lazy. God knows consistency isn't my strong suit, so enjoy it while you can, folks.

But today! Today I have got photos for you!

This morning, I documented the ride to school. Sort of. A few miles from our house I stopped to take the first photos, which were of a cow that we pass each morning.

she is totally not ready for her close-up

The cow was really annoyed that I got out of my car and came up to the fence. She refused to look at me. She was buried in a huge shrub of grass, steadily eating her way along the fenceline, and she had no time for my nonsense. I was yoohoo-ing and trying to get her to, I don't know, lift her head up or something.....and suddenly a truck full of guys drove by, leaned out the window and screamed "SAY CHEESE".

She looked up just long enough to snort derisively, but did not say "cheese".

Clearly, this cow was not interested in my photojournalism. So I got back in the car and kept on driving. The rest of the photos are taken from the road.

We have a 20 minute drive each morning, most of it along narrow winding country roads in Upcountry Maui. The last 10 minutes are along the North Shore, on the "road to Hana" which is the number one cause of carsickness in the USA. (I totally made that up. But bring a barf bag.)

This is called a switchback. Also known as "that place I threw up out the window without stopping the car."

There are some really nice views on our drive - mountain on one side (mauka) and ocean on the other (makai).

And there are some farm stands - some are just simple wooden structures with buckets of freshly-picked fruits and an honor system cashbox:

And some are listed in guidebooks and serve smoothies, fresh fruit, coconut candy, and other goodies:

People have interesting ideas about decorating their fences.

All in all, it's a pretty cool drive, and we enjoy it. Many times, I will stop for fruit from one of the stands, or fresh eggs from one of the farms, and I have to remind myself to take my time and enjoy the fresh air and the ocean view in the distance. Even something as boring as the drive to school isn't so boring when you stop and look around - really look - and take the time to appreciate your surroundings.

If you are really lucky, tomorrow I might document the drive to the hospital - just in case you make that trip in the back of an ambulance and miss out.
YOU'RE WELCOME.

Yesterday, the route to the hospital was explained to me thus: "You know when you get arrrested? Just take the same road the cops do when they are bringing you to the station." I don't know what route he was talking about, but apparently when speaking with me people just assume I have been arrested in the recent past (perhaps on a regular basis) and taken to central booking in a squad car.

I must be doing something right.

Clearly, my children need to broaden their horizons

2011-09-25T22:54:00.001-10:00

We were driving through town when my son put both hands on the car window and pressed his nose to the glass.

"OH MY GOD MOM I CAN'T BELIEVE IT" He was shrieking like a toddler, which is absolutely not allowed when I am driving - even if you are a toddler. One does not shriek. One must never shriek. It is bad for Mommy's nerves, and leads to mid-afternoon cocktails (for medicinal purposes thankyouverymuch) which then leads to mommy taking a nap at 4pm, which means no dinner is prepared, which means chicken fingers and PBJ for dinner, which is no fun for ANYONE now, is it? So don't shriek. No shrieking.

To my credit, when he screamed like that I did not rear-end the car in front of me, or swerve off the road, or jam on my brakes to crane my neck around and try to figure out what the hell was so amazing it required a 100 decibel reaction from my 11 year old.

Instead, I kept both hands on the wheel (okay, I had one hand on the wheel and one hand tuning my phone to Pandora and one hand holding a cup of tea. Wait...... maybe I didn't have any hands on the wheel. Was I even driving? I can't be sure - the whole "not eating so my gallbladder doesn't explode" thing has left me a little groggy. AND YET I WAS IN COMPLETE CONTROL.) and I utilized my Standard Mom Response which I use for, well, for just about everything he gets really worked up about:
"Mm Hm?"

"Mom" he announced breathlessly, nose still pressed to the glass. "Things changed so much while we were gone this summer. I just can't believe how ADVANCED everything got."

"In what way, sweetheart?" I asked as I turned on my signal and carefully changed lanes with both hands on the wheel or no hands or maybe I was reading a magazine while Sam drove IT DOESN'T MATTER IT'S NOT IMPORTANT.

"That McDonalds over there? It has a DOUBLE DRIVE THRU. There are TWO LANES for ordering. AND NOW IT HAS A HEIGHT LIMIT."

And you thought Maui would be all grass huts and coconuts. Silly you. We are way ahead of the curve, as you can plainly see.

If I had known that was gonna happen, I wouldn't have gotten on the plane

2011-09-23T08:05:00.000-10:00

Yesterday I flew to Oahu for tests.

On the plus side, my health insurance paid for the flight, and Target had some Missoni left.

On the minus side, the testing really sucked.

On the plus side, one of the radiology techs was a hot black guy - ex-military - who smiled as he was getting me out of the machine and said "I think I've seen you here before." which was a little twist on the "SO, you come here often?" line that I love so much.

(Will, you are my special favorite for making me smile during a difficult day.)

On the minus side, I have one of the "largest gallbladders I have ever seen - that thing is HUGE!" To which I say: Go big or go home, baby!

(Kelly you are also my special favorite - you put me at ease and answered all of my questions and explained what the test was showing - I appreciated not having the screen turned away from me and "You'll have to ask your doctor." as the response to all of my questions. She pointed the screen down to me where I was lying inside the machine, so I could watch the process. It was fascinating!)

On the plus side, they were able to run all the necessary tests at once.

On the minus side, one of those tests was the worst thing I have ever experienced.

Now, the tests didn't sound like any fun to begin with - lying flat on your back, motionless, for an hour and then a half hour. Stuck inside a machine. With an IV. But they waited until I was inside the machine to tell me that they were going to inject me with a medication that would "stimulate my gallbladder".

Translation: We are going to give you a big-assed gallbladder attack while you are stuck inside a machine flat on your back with no way to move or make yourself more comfortable.

It's a good thing I couldn't move, because if I had, the first thing I would have done would be to kick that nurse in the head (involuntarily, of course). That was horrible. Terrible. I was lying there minding my own business and suddenly it felt like I was punched directly in the stomach - from INSIDE MY STOMACH. Then I started gasping because I couldn't breath, and then I thought I was going to puke. And then I was afraid I was going to choke on my puke and die which is a very rock and roll way to go - as long as you aren't stuck inside a machine that is taking pictures of your gallbladder, in front of a hot black guy in a white lab coat who you happen to know owns a motorcycle and could make your junior high Top Gun fantasies come true. Not cool, man. Not cool at all.

On the plus side, we have a difinitive cause of my illness (the reason I've been sick since, oh....since July).

On the minus side, I think I have to have my gallbladder taken out.

On the plus side, I will be able to eat bacon again. And really, that is all I care about. That, and that I don't have cancer and my major organs aren't failing and I'm not gonna die. But you know, mostly the bacon eating thing.

Strippers are feminists. Beautiful, naked feminists.

2011-09-21T22:20:00.003-10:00

Tonight I was asked why I like strippers so damn much.

An honest question deserves an honest answer. And honestly - I don't enjoy all strip clubs, and I don't think every stripper is great just because she is a stripper. I'm not a stripper groupie. I have standards, darn it. I've been in a lot of strip clubs, as an employee and as a patron - most of them are mediocre at best. And at worst, the dancers are middle-aged women flaunting stretch marks and a cesarean scar, with husbands sitting at the end of the bar so that you can't even be (justifiably) horrified without getting punched in the head. I can see how people who have never seen a really talented stripper might not understand the appeal - so you have to trust me on this:

When they are good, they are very very good. When they are bad they are pregnant. Or minors. Or both. I'M KIDDING. But truly - strippers who are not good at what they do are just depressing. You feel bad for them, and that will ruin anyone's good time. If there is no talent and no pride in their performance, there is no point in any of it.

You gotta be good to make it rain.

So what constitutes good?
First and most importantly, just like going to see any show - ENTERTAIN ME. Going to a great strip club is like going to a circus for grownups. Standing in front of me and bending over to show me your business end is not entertaining. I am not your gynecologist. And furthermore, I have my own, thank you very much. I can look at that any time I want. What I WANT is a show. If there is music, it better be good. If there is a table, you should be on it. If there is a pole, you best be climbing it up to the ceiling and then clamping it between your knees (kegals!) while you flip over and suspend yourself headfirst over the dance floor. I don't care if you're naked, and i don't care how big your tits are. It's all about the show. Personally, I like a bit of excitement, but more than that - I have a huge amount of respect for people who are good at what they do. A good stripper is more than just a good dancer who can take her underpants off without having to sit down. A good stripper is incredibly strong, and fun. She interacts with her audience - the consummate showgirl. It's a performance. If you find yourself sitting in front of a dancer who is bored or just not very creative, you have my permission to pick up your drink and find someone who knows what the hell they are doing, and is enjoying themselves while they are doing it.

Which leads me to my second point: I am selective. I do not like all strippers. I do not like all strip clubs. I had one of the creepiest experiences of my life in Los Angeles at what was supposed to be a "legendary" club. It wasn't legendary, it was nasty. And the girls looked unhealthy and miserable. But the worst part was - they weren't even dancing. They were crawling around on the dance floor, going from one person to another and it felt like they were begging. It was weird and sad and desperate and then one of them bent over and kissed my wife and I spent the rest of the night in the parking lot getting stoned with two guys from Indiana and trying to reassure her that a little Windex and a strong course of antibiotics would take care of whatever she had just been exposed to.

Which leads me to my third point. I keep my hands to myself, and I expect everyone else to do the same - unless you are Jenna in which case all bets are off because trust me when I tell you that you WANT that woman to wrap her ankles around your neck. But really, I am there for the show, and the show usually does not involve touching. So if you have hesitated to go in a strip club because you think you will have strippers climbing all over you I have to things to say: 1. Get over yourself. and 2. That's not usually part of the program. When I am in a strip club, I do not expect a full contact experience, and actually would prefer to just watch some acrobatics (naked or otherwise) and have a few drinks.

The bottom line? I have seen better, more entertaining performers in strip clubs than I have seen on Broadway. Stripping is a talent, and an art. And it deserves respect. Just because the people on stage take their clothes off does not make it an automatic win. Ask the cast of Equus. If the show sucks, it sucks, no matter how naked you get - so you have to put in effort, and practice practice practice. Especially practice taking off your pants in 8 inch stilettos without falling over. Because that shit is a lot harder than it looks.

Are You Glad You Chose Me? Talking about adoption.

2011-09-20T21:52:00.001-10:00

"Are you glad you chose me?"

Did you hear that?
That little gasp of air? It was the sound of my heart. Breaking.

Lucy is six. She's in first grade. She knows that she is adopted - we have never hidden the fact. When she started asking questions, we answered them. At first, she was a little confused, and was somehow under the impression that we had gotten her at the mall. But we cleared that up, and we had - I thought - a solid story. The party line we were going to stick with. Everything she needed to know all rolled up into one simple sentence.

"Mommy's belly is broken, so another lady grew you for me - isn't that wonderful?"

Over-simplified? Sure. SHE'S A KID. My belly is broken. Another woman did grow her. And she is mine. Anyone who has ever met her will tell you - she is ALL mine. A clone if every there was one. Her teachers sit back and watch the results of nature v.s. nurture. Mannerisms, sass, enthusiasm, and a serious flare for the dramatic all point to me as her parent.

Case in point: Last week she climbed into bed with me at 7am and said "Mama, I just can't decide. Should I use an accent in the play today, or not. Because I *do* have an accent you know."

Oh honey, I'll just bet you do. You got those from ME.

However, last week Sam veered off the party line in response to some of Lucy's questions. Because let's be honest: the man seriously cannot handle the hot seat when it comes to our kids.

Now, to his credit, he was getting a bunch of ground-breaking questions last week. On Friday he admitted to Max that there was no Santa Claus. This was a significant departure from our standard response to the question "Is there really a Santa Claus?" Our agreed upon answer was supposed to be "Do you like what Santa Claus brings you? Then don't ruin a good thing by asking a bunch of questions. If there is no Santa, Santa can't bring presents. You dig?" But Sam was tired of the lies and half-truths. And frankly, he didn't want to buy the gift Max was going to ask Santa for this year. So he caved.

The next day, when Lucy started to ask some pointed questions about where - exactly - she came from, Sam was already worn down from the Santa Claus fiasco - he was basically a broken man by the time his sweet little pumpkin started digging around for her genealogy. He totally fell apart under pressure.

Under the pressure of a six year old asking a simple question.

He is not witness-stand material, and would never tolerate cross-examination, as evidenced by the following conversation:

"Daddy, where did you get me?"

"We got you at the hospital."

"Who gave me to you?"

"The nurse."

"But where did I come from?"

"Well, this nice lady grew you in her belly, but she couldn't take care of you so she asked us to be your parents and-"

"LUCY I NEED YOU IN HERE RIGHT NOW SO I CAN BRAID YOUR HAIR." I had to interrupt. Sorry, but I had to. I am not her mother because someone couldn't take care of her, or wasn't ready to be a parent right now. I am her mother because I am her MOTHER. But she is a smart cookie, and she was not so easily distracted. I really couldn't blame her when she tried to continue to the conversation in my room while I braided her hair.

"Mommy, are you glad you chose me?"

"I didn't choose you, sweetheart. No one chooses their children. Children are a gift. You are my daughter. Can you imagine it any other way?"

She was quiet for a minute. Then she broke into a gap-toothed grin. Because she also has my teeth. (Sorry about that, sweetheart.) "That would be ridiculous. OF COURSE you're my mama."

"Yup, I'm your mama and you're my girl. My amazing beautiful girl. And you are just like me in every way."

"Well......" she paused. I raised an eyebrow. "Well, mama, I am almost like you in every way."

"How are you not like me?"

"DUH. I don't have gray hair."

Such a smart ass. That's my girl.

Daffodil Campbell and the Bladder of Gaul

2011-09-17T20:08:00.003-10:00

You googled, didn't you. Against your better judgement, you googled your symptoms. You googled the test the doctor ordered. You googled, and followed links, and googled the information you found there, and now you know for sure exactly what is wrong with you, what tests you still need, what diet you should be eating, and also that you might have cancer. Because no matter what you type in, cancer always comes up in the results.

I would hate to be a doctor in the age of google.

For the past 24 hours I have been doing my research. I had an endoscopy yesterday, which did not go as planned, and now I am flying to another island for more tests - which is unsettling to say the least. My trusty google research has left me with a notebook full of acronyms and names of expensive tests and numbers that indicate "safe" levels and a slew of saved weblinks. What I didn't find was a clear answer. I won't know until they operate and have some pathology. Some sort of proof. And that isn't until October. In the meantime, my stomach - according to the doctor's notes in my record - contains a significant amount of bile. My stomach is backed up. So I am full, but my body is hungry. I can't believe I have only lost 5 pounds so far. The elimination of bacon from my diet ALONE should have taken 10 pounds off my frame. I have had bloodtests, ultrasounds, cat scans and x-rays. All normal. No gallstones, either. All we have to go on is the results from the endoscopy. Bile. That's it. That's all I get.

While I wait for definitive answers from the tests and surgery I have in my future, I thought I would add my experience to the google results. I have a pretty good idea of what is going on in there intuitively - mostly because I can FEEL my gallbladder, which is a strange and creepy sensation that I am looking forward to eliminating ASAP. But I know my body, and years of illness have left me hyper-aware of how my body is functioning. If something is wrong, I'll know before the test will. I can feel scar tissue, and sense infection. I don't think anything is infected, though. My theory is that I have scar tissue and/or endometriosis wrapped around my digestive tract - and that my gallbladder may have adhesions on it that have caused it to twist and become attached to my colon or my stomach or some other part of my abdomen. All is not well. My gallbladder my not be processing anything at this point. I am backed up and miserable and whatever I eat is trapped in my stomach slowly breaking down and working it way out through the now-twisted pathways.

If you have endo, this may sound familiar. If you searched for endometriosis and gallbladder, I hope this post has found you.

I have had a lot of surgery - 13 is my best guess - and all were related to endometriosis. I've had 8 or 9 laparoscopies, 2 laparotomies, and a cesarean. I have had a hysterectomy (uterus and ovaries). I have had my bowel reconstructed because it was twisted and choked by scar tissue. I have had endo peeled off my diaphragm, and it has spread down into my left leg almost to the knee. And now, I fear, it has gotten to my gallbladder. My gastroenterologist ordered a HIDA scan which requires that I fly to another island.

Thank god that island has strippers.

My derby wife has kindly offered to take me to the strip club in my wheel chair after the procedure, and I think that will be something nice to look forward to. Don't you? I will be high on morphine and wearing a hospital johnny and stilettos - because I always wear stilettos. It won't be weird at all.

But first, let's talk about my gallbladder, and my colon, and my digestive system in general. I'm miserable, and I know that there are other women out there who are miserable, and I just want them to know they are not alone, and they are not crazy. I had heard tales of gallstones and kidney stones and the horrible pain and discomfort they cause. And I had sympathy, of course - I would nod my head sagely and make tsk-tsking noises, and bring over a covered dish and offer to watch the kids. But I had no idea that these people felt like they were going to die - for days. Weeks. This is torture.

Here's what it felt like when I started having gallbladder trouble:

First, I thought that I might be having a heart attack. I wasn't, of course. Turns out a gallbladder attack is just like those pesky panic attacks I have from time to time - they aren't signaling your imminent demise. Which is almost too bad, because after a few hours, you start to wish you would just die and get it over with.

It's that bad. It's a combination of drowning and choking and being crushed by a terrible weight.
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can barely swallow. There is this unbearable pressure verging on pain just under my ribs on the right side. And in the middle of my back. Add a sharp twinge now and then, that leaves me breathless and doubled over. It's not a heart attack....maybe it's my appendix? Clearly, something is about to explode. It's just a matter of time.

You feel like a stuffed goose. All skinny throat and jam packed belly, full all the way up to your gullet, which is searing and straining. You are starving, and your stomach is growling and gurgling to tell you so. But you cannot imagine taking one more bite unless you burp, or fart, or take a shit - or all three.

All three would be amazing.

So you shift around and try to get comfortable. Try to find a way to sit, or lie down, or stand and lean in such a way that you no longer feel like you are going to just explode. You roll around. And you pace. And you burp. And you fart. And you sit on the toilet.

Repeat.

Sometimes, if you are really lucky, you puke. Because after all, that's what you feel like doing. You spend your time regretting every morsel of food, every sip of liquid that has passed through your lips. Ever. You swear you will never eat again, no solid foods, ever ever EVER again, if only your stomach would stop straining and aching and churning.

Oh, the churning. It's unholy. It's like the Exorcist, the pressure and pain beating it's way from the inside out. Your throat burns and your head pounds and your stomach aches.

And it never stops, until suddenly it does. Or at least, it lessens so that you can breath and consider eating something. And then you innocently have a pudding or a bit of bread and butter - and you are thrown headfirst through this wormhole, time traveling. And you find yourself sweaty and writhing in bed again.

I have found comfort with a hot tub, and I spend hours in a rocking chair. The rocking seems to ease the pressure a bit. Not much, but enough. Enough so that you can sip some tea. And you wait.

You wait for relief. You wait for an answer. You wait for some strippers. Strippers make everything better.

All you really need

2011-09-15T17:33:00.000-10:00

I went to Costco today, and I was minding my own damn business I SWEAR TO YOU I WAS and suddenly I heard some man say "You have got to try this." It wasn't an employee, it was just some dude in an aloha shirt with a shopping c art full of food in front of him. He was offering me a little plastic Dixie cup with a pink liquid in it. I said "No, thank you though." and eyed him suspiciously noting his height and general appearance because while I am sure no one is slipping roofies into Costco samples YOU JUST NEVER KNOW and I live my life the way the TSA intended - I do not leave my bags unattended, and I don't drink anything handed to me by a stranger unless it's in a sealed container. And even then....not so much.

But I had an hour to kill, and I wanted to know what was so delicious that it would cause people to flag down random strangers and encourage them to give it a try. I rounded the corner cautiously, because those double-wide Costco carriages can really cause some collateral damage if you hit someone or something.

When I looked up from my careful maneuvering, I found myself face to face with another guy. He was wearing a headset, standing on a platform, and BOY HOWDY was he happy to see me. "HI THERE!" he shouted. He didn't mean to shout, but he was speaking over a PA, so what would have been a normal tone of voice was amplified, plus he had a lot of fucking energy anyway. I started to back up, because people like that make me nervous, but I was trapped in Costco traffic.

"Do you like green drinks? I am going to make one right now - three ingredients, simple as can be. You are going to LOVE it!" he crowed.

Fat chance, dude. I love bacon and chocolate and tequila - not all in the same cup (I am not saying "Never" you understand, it just hasn't happened yet.) but I do not drink green drinks or kombucha, nor do I enjoy hemp milk or soy cheese. I eyed him suspiciously. He turned away and started throwing spinach in a blender. Then some grapes and a slice of pineapple. Three seconds later I had a drink in my hand that tasted like a green apple Jolly Rancher. I fucking *LOVE* green apple Jolly Ranchers. I grinned at him, drained the cup, and parked my carriage.

Sir, you have my attention.

"TORTILLA SOUP" he cried as he rinsed the blender and started throwing veggies in there. A tomato, a carrot, peppers, celery, onion, a cup of hot water and then he paused. "Chicken okay?" he asked me with a note of concern. I nodded silently, my mouth agape. He threw in a scoop of boullion, turned it on, let it run, dialed the speed down to low and added beans and carrots. Intrigued, I moved closer. People behind me were edging forward and I was sensing that there was going to be a little competition for the tortilla soup my boyfriend was whipping up for me. He threw some tortilla strips in there and handed me another Dixie cup.

I drained that one and then he got serious. "This one appliance will replace EIGHT APPLIANCES." he said somberly. "I have it in white and black."

I stared at the price tag, and felt sick. I stood there, while an older woman standing next to me told me all of the things she used hers for. That she had owned one for 20 years, that she used it to make baby food, that she had bought this extra part to make flour for bread, that you could make ice cream in it...... My eyes started to glaze over. I don't know if she was being paid to stand in the crowd pretending to be a shopper while encouraging people to buy the gold-standard of mixers, but she helped me load a Vitamix into my cart while she talked.

I brought it home, plugged it in, threw in some spinach and grapes and pineapple, and that is what we had for an after school snack. Max had seconds. Tonight we are making almond milk. Max wants to make butter. I can make butter in my blender, ya'll. I have never been so happy.

At this point, I feel confident saying that I have every kitchen appliance I need. Here's the key - I stopped buying crap, and invested in a few pieces that are multi-pupose and built to last. If I had carpet, I would still be pining away for a Dyson - but with hardwood and tile throughout, I can't justify it. Yet.

A brief list of things I have and love - they are all black or stainless, and having them all matchy-matchy makes my kitchen seem less cluttered (at least, that's what I keep telling myself):
The Kitchen Aid Mixer was my first major purchase. It comes with all sort of accessories - I have a juicer, a cheese grater, and a meat grinder.
The Griddler from Cuisinart
The Grind and Brew with thermal Carafe (also from Cuisinart)
Le Creuset dutch oven (a big one)
Rival slow cooker (also a big one)
1 cast iron skillet
This pan which we got from Macy's
And this set of pots and pans. disclaimer: I got *almost* the exact same set as this one on MEGA sale at Macy's for (I think) $39 or something ridiculous. Belgique Classique Tools of the Trade. They also sell add-on pots and pans, I have bought a few of those. They work on ALL cooktops and they are oven safe too!

note: I have a food processor - but the Vitamix guy insisted I wouldn't need it anymore.......we'll see about that, buddy. I also have an espresso machine, a two-slice toaster, and a waffle maker which are not necessary but well-loved. I don't have a toaster oven or a pizza stone or a bread maker - got rid of them years ago and I don't miss 'em.

Moonstruck, or cheese-addled? Hard to know.

2011-09-13T10:43:00.002-10:00

lunatic
late 13c., "affected with periodic insanity, dependent on the changes of the moon," from O.Fr. lunatique "insane," from L. lunaticus "moon-struck," from luna "moon" (see luna). Cf. O.E. monseoc "lunatic," lit. "moon-sick;" M.H.G. lune "humor, temper, mood, whim, fancy" (Ger.

EXPANDLaune), from L. luna. Cf. also N.T. Gk. seleniazomai "be epileptic," from selene "moon." The noun meaning "lunatic person" is first recorded late 14c. Lunatic fringe (1913) was apparently coined by U.S. politician Theodore Roosevelt. Lunatic soup (1933) was Australian slang for "alcoholic drink."

That full moon was crazy.

Crazy.

I have been out of sorts lately as it is, but the past few days it's dialed up to about a 12. I have decided to blame it on the moon. I have absolutely no scientific or medical facts to back me up on this, but I feel sure that the moon is the cause.

I posted on facebook that everything this weekend seemed wrong, or off, or just not right somehow. As if events were ever-so-slightly out of control and awkward. Too loud, too fast, too close. Uncomfortable. At times, it felt like I was walking through a really unpleasant dream sequence where I was not only naked in the hallway at school, but also wearing a scarlet letter. On my ass. Because like I said, everything is just a little bit off this weekend. It might be my own damn fault - I was overtired, and then I ate some cheese.

It could have been the cheese. It could totally have been the cheese.

Or maybe it's my neighbors, who spend a lot of time making me feel really uncomfortable every damn time I leave my house. It's enough to make anyone think they are going crazy. ("Is it me? I don't think it's me - I'm pretty sure it's them. But maybe it's me. It might be me. Maybe.") Every time I walk outside in the evening, I feel like I am intruding on a private block party that I wasn't invited to. One that's happening on my front lawn. But like I said, maybe it's me. Maybe I should just set up a lawn chair, crack open a brewski, have a smoke, and let it all hang out. Maybe I don't feel right in my skin because I am so damn uptight.

Or, perhaps it could be that I am just feeling my age, and that the day to day struggles of life/bills/kids are starting to weigh on me in a different way. Much like my tits.

But maybe it's more than the banal, day to day problems of cheese and neighbors and finding the perfect bra. Maybe it has nothing at all to do with the moon.

It could also be the September 11th anniversary.

I didn't know anyone who perished that day. I, like the vast majority of Americans, watched the day unfold in front of the television, and I don't have much to say about it. What I did, what I didn't do, where I was. But it's hard to avoid - anyone who was alive and aware of the events transpiring on Sepember 11 2001 was affected. Watching it happen, live. Not knowing what was gong to happen next.

I rarely talk about that day. For starters, I refuse to refer to it as 9-11 anymore. Because it is not lost on me that all of the emergency responders on that day - the ones who were killed trying to save others - were there because they were answering cries for help that had been called in to 911. 911, what is your emergency. How do you even describe that sort of an emergency? What do you say? Who do you ask for help in that situation, when a plane has just come out of nowhere, dropped out of the clear blue sky, and flown into a building? And then another. And then several states away, another. And then in the middle of rolling farmland, another.I can only imagine how it must have felt for the operators, to be getting those calls, to hear the fear and panic. To know that people needed help, and at the same time been so helpless. So unable to respond. I was in Massachusetts, far from the horror that was unfolding in front of me on NBC, the insanity that sweet Matt Lauer was trying to explain that morning as he watched with me, both of us seeing it for the first time, at the same time, and*I* wanted to call 911. 911, what is your emergency. My emergency was that there was some crazy unimaginable shit going on, and someone needed to get a handle on it - pronto. To his credit, Matt Lauer did not stand up and scream "WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?" which is what I was screaming. There was nothing I could do. As I held my baby boy that day and watched the TV in shock and disbelief and absolute fear, and during all of the days to follow, I realized that in this world, there were many things I was not going to be able to protect my child from. I always wonder when I see 9-11 if the people who made those horrible plans thought of that when they were choosing the date. Did they realize the connection? I hate to give them that much credit.

So maybe, I was just remembering that - maybe my body was having some sort of involuntary reaction, related to the photos and footage and news reports that swirled around the weekend, bringing back all of the memories, the loss of control, the not knowing and the what-ifs.

Or maybe it was just the moon, and I need to stop being so damn dramatic and count my blessings and say a prayer for all of the people who lost someone, or lost themselves.

Thirteen years later, we're RIGHT ON SCHEDULE. That is compatibility, right there.

2011-09-09T09:47:00.003-10:00

This weekend Sam and I will celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary.

I know what you are thinking.

Yes, I was a child bride. A divorced, child bride.

Not what you were thinking? Maybe more along the lines of "I can't believe he has put up with her shit for 13 years?" Yeah, well......that too. I can't really believe it either. He is a saint, I think we can all agree. It is important to note that besides being a total pain in the ass like it's my job, I also completely adore him and spend a lot of time telling everyone how hot he is. So I do have my benefits.

And marriage in itself has it's benefits - legally, financially, and emotionally.
One of the things I like most about being married is that I have someone to help carry the load, so to speak. And by that I mean someone to kill the really gross bugs, pull the plug if I'm in a coma, take out the trash and pick up the dog poop.

That list is in no particular order.

One of the things I like most about my husband (and this is separate from our marriage. These are things that I would like about him even if he hadn't made an honest woman out of me) is his willingness to go along with whatever the hell dumbass ideas I come up with.

For instance, the man has had to renew his wedding vows twice already.
With ministers and everything.
And the second time we renewed our vows, I actually interrupted the ceremony for some clarification. I wasn't sure what the minister meant by "respect". Did he mean respect like "Woman, you best show me some RESPECT." Or did he mean respect like "Honey, I have so much respect for the fact that you are willing to pooper scoop."

Semantics.

This year, I'm not going to make him reaffirm his love and devotion and legal obligations, but I am making him host a party - which quite frankly is a better way to test his commitment to both our marriage and pooper scooping than a vow renewal would be.

Tonight is our semi-annual anniversary party. We used to hold them every year, but for our 10th anniversary I had surgery scheduled, and then the next year I was sick again, and then last year....really we were too busy celebrating the fact that I didn't need anti-nausea suppositories to plan a party. Long story short, we took a break - just from the parties you understand, not from our marriage. And this year? THIS year I delayed what is now referred to as "my autumnal convalesence" until October and we are back on track. Lucky thirteen, baby! And getting right back into the swing of things means having a huge screaming fight in the front yard with lots of swearing and hand gestures like we did last night.

What? That's not how YOU celebrate your love?

Listen. The last time we had an anniversary party, we were in the middle of a home remodel. A home remodel that involved plumbing. And toilets. And a lot of swearing. But we learned our lessons, which is how truly great marriages go the distance. We can look at what doesn't work, and fix it, and then move on. Unless it involves plumbing. We can't fix that. Which is why we have made the decision to not allow plumbing to come between us. We now hire professionals to handle the plumbing, while we just handle each other.
(ba DUM dum!)

This year the bathrooms all appear to be in good working order. (But just in case, pee before you come, okay? And in this land of sun and fun we never flush for number one!) So with major home repairs out of the way, this year was all about the yard. The yard is actually not too bad these days - and I figured that with a little effort it would be great, and then we could have our friends over and everything would be just LOVELY. But the yard seemed a little plain. A little boring. It needed a little je ne sais quoi.

Which in English means water feature.

Which is how I ended up way out on the North Shore, driving down a road that had a sign that said "Water Lily Farm". I brought The Hawler, because she is my sidekick when it comes to driving down random country roads following signs and wandering onto private property without permission.

When we arrived at the farm, we walked through the gate and around back because we didn't really know what else to do.The property was quite extensive - several acres - and there were huge man-made ponds filled with water lilies. Hawler spotted someone and waved, and that person stood up and came over.

That person was tall, and very very handsome. And shirtless. He had no shirt.
And then he spoke, and he had an accent, and it was all just very, very lovely indeed. I don't know what his name is, I think I'll call him Fritz.

BUT THE WATERLILIES. We were there for a waterlily to add to a water feature that I was creating for an event I was having at my home that I share with my husband to commemorate the anniversary of the day I married him, my beloved, and OH MY GOD HE IS TAKING OFF HIS PANTS TO GET THE LILY OUT OF THE POND.

As if he had overheard the silent thoughts that were careening around my brain, the nice young man stopped and turned and said (in what is seriously the cutest accent ever) "I will go put on some board shorts, yes?"

YES?! No. No no no. Do not trouble yourself. No board shorts required. Please, don't change on our account.

But he went and changed, and then came back all....well, just all kinds of lovely. And we all walked together to the pond and we decided on a gorgeous waterlily and then he climbed right in that pond and fetched it for little ol' us, and carried it to my car and I handed him the cash - though I really wanted to stuff it right in his board shorts. We both thanked him rather profusely - we were very very grateful indeed.

And then we drove home, stuck the waterlily in a trashcan filled with water, and sort of forgot about it for a few weeks. Until last night. Which is where the screaming and hand gestures comes in. Don't worry, the party is going to be amazing. The water feature? Well.

The waterlily is now pretty much dead. (But the memories live on, Fritz.)

And the water feature is now a garbage can buried in my front yard with a dead water lily floating in it.

Happy Anniversary Sam. I really, really love you a lot and every single day I am grateful for you. You are hot and super sweet and incredibly funny and generous and you let me write about you, and us, and our family and you are a great husband and father and my best friend and incredibly compassionate and patient and loving. And the dog just took a dump by the gate. Could you take care of that? The guests are going to be here soon.

When they say "You look just like you did in high school" it's not necessarily a compliment.

2011-09-07T14:44:00.002-10:00

This summer, I reconnected with a lot of people I hadn't seen since high school. It was odd, and sort of awkward.
Like high school.

I went to a party one night. A friend's band was playing, I had known the host since he was in diapers but hadn't seen him in about 20 years - I felt a little weird showing up at his house and saying "Hey! Remember me? I am totally crashing your party! Where's the keg?" but of course I did it anyway. We're all adults now, this guy owns his own house, and I heard he had a really sweet wife. Great! Wonderful news!

I dressed for standing around in someone's backyard in the woods: Jeans, tank top, flannel shirt, sandals. Remarkably, it is the same outfit I wear to stand around at night on the beach, or to sit out on my deck, or to go to a friend's house for dinner. Old reliable. Comfortable, full coverage, casual. Tonight, I added copious amounts of bug spray. No one likes bug bites! Don't forget to spray between your toes!

I went to pick up a girlfriend en route. Jenn came down the stairs looking super cute in a blouse and a short denim skirt, and I immediately suspected that I was underdressed. "I need to change."

"No you look great. You look the same as you did in high school! I love it - do not change. It's perfect."
As we were walking to the car to pick up another girlfriend, Jenn casually mentioned that the girl we were picking up "always gets dressed up when we're going out. So, don't be surprised. She'll probably have heels on."

I looked down at my bare feet. My sandals were....somewhere? They were somewhere. Maybe the trunk. I didn't think I would actually need them tonight. "Heels? Jenn, I-"

"You look fine, don't worry about it!"

"I thought we were listening to a band in someone's backyard in the woods!"

"We are!"

"Then why in GOD'S NAME are people wearing skirts and heels?"

"Don't worry!"

Uhm......okay. I won't. Shit. Shit shit shit. I should have on something dressier.

I was silently freaking out. Obviously I was underdressed - but on the other hand, what the hell was one supposed to wear to someone's backyard to listen to a band made up of some buddies from high school?

We arrived at the party and I rounded the corner of the house into the backyard and discovered on first glance what one is supposed to wear, exactly, to a backyard party.

Tailored sundresses. Sweater sets. Cute Shoes.

I was wearing jeans with a few holes in them, and a flannel with a patch on the back.

Like an asshole.

And the wife I was meeting for the first time? I recognized her right away. We went to grade school together. She always looked beautiful and put together - even in 5th grade. She was the girl who carried a purse with mints and a comb and that was why her hair always looked nice and her breath was always fresh. She wore nice tailored clothes, and I wore.....baggy pants and a flannel. I was crashing the party of a girl I didn't know very well, but well enough to know I didn't belong there, dressed like an asshole. She was gracious, and lovely about the whole thing, and we both remarked at what a coincidence it was that she was the hostess, and that she was married to my old neighbor, and we very carefully did not discuss the fact that I was A. Not Invited and B. Not Dressed Appropriately. Because she is ALWAYS gracious and I am NEVER dressed appropriately.

So I went around to the driveway and had a smoke with her brother and a bunch of the husbands.
What the hell.

Calling his bluff, proving me wrong. Parenting is a battlefield.

2011-09-04T12:13:00.000-10:00

On Thursday night, I would not have been surprised if a crowd had gathered on the corner in front of my house. Inside, it sounded like World War 3.

We were studying for Max's spelling test.

There were tears (his and mine) and shouting. This was day 4 of preparation, and the test was in the morning. Tonight was supposed to be the final review - catching all of the last minute stumbling blocks that were hampering his careful memorization of those 22 words. And yet, it didn't feel like a review at all. I would read a word and sometimes he would repeat it back to me in wonder - as though he had never heard the word before in his life. I was bewildered. He had been cruising through these words. The second night, he had been spelling them almost giddily, rejoicing at his newfound spelling skills. Skills that were now resembling "skillz".

So we took a few steps back and approached it from a different angle. We tried a few different things: Breaking down the words into syllables. Sounding it out. Tricks. Rote recitation. Copying the word down 3 times, spelling it aloud each time. And still, every word was coming out wrong - it was as though he had fallen down the rabbit hole of spelling words, and everything was the opposite of what it had been the day before.

Now I was reading the words out loud and spelling them for him to copy down spelled correctly, in a desperate attempt to somehow teach his hands how to form the words automatically. He was repeating the words back, our voices rising with each line, until we were spelling words at the top of our lungs, shouting at each other across the living room.

And this is exactly why we don't homeschool. By the end of the school year I would be in a fetal position on the floor clutching a flask and rocking back and forth, and he would be throwing dining room furniture through windows and setting the dictionary on fire.

It's crazy that we should find ourselves here, now. We had made a lot of headway with his spelling recently and I had been confident that the tools we had honed last year were going to work for us again. Spelling takes a lot of effort on his part. Max is not a natural speller. When he writes essays or poems, it is a struggle to read them.... almost impossible at times - even for Max - to figure out what the words are supposed to be, so badly are they misspelled. This is my Waterloo.

For me, the most challenging thing about being a parent has been learning to parent a child so unlike me in so many ways. And this homework thing - spelling in particular - has been a huge issue for me. This boy of mine thinks homework is "optional'. He does the bare minimum, if that. For the most part, he is completely capable of doing the work, he just prefers not to. The spelling, on the otherhand, is not laziness, I don't think. He just had no natural aptitude for it. It might always be hard for him, and I have finally accepted that. But it's not easy. I was raised by a newspaper editor father and proofreader mother. My father once corrected a handout on Veteran's Day at school with his ever-present red pen, and handed it back to the teacher as he left the classroom. Spelling just comes naturally to me. And teaching? Does not. So each night we have a careful understanding. He does his homework when I ask, to the best of his ability. I do not hover. I do not correct. I certainly do not give him the answers. But at this point, all of our carefully agreed upon guidelines were completely out the window.

Which is why when he spelled 'South Carolina' "Soth Carolinean" I said the first thing that popped into my head:

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

He was not kidding.

And then we got to 'Rhode Island'. I must stop and remind you that the child just spent almost 2 months in Rhode Island. I grew up in the area. My mother still lives there. And yet all of those months of seeing road signs (Not "rhode" signs), reading the address on the mail, saying the word over and over and over again when anyone asks where he was staying, or where he had been this summer, all of the lecturing about the silent letters in this tricky state.....he still spelled my home state Rode Iland.

The mind, it boggles.

By the end, it was a screenshot right out of a movie: the mother sitting on the couch, slumped over a sheaf of photocopies. Defeated. The son, sitting at the table under a single lightbulb, head in hands, his tears falling silently onto the composition book lying open in front of him.

Lucy, meanwhile, was in the TV room chattering away with Sam. They were reviewing her spelling words, and as silence fell over Max and I in the living room, and we sat there completely drained from our ordeal, she chirped along through each word without a moment of hesitation. At the end, she closed her folder with a sigh. "Daddy, I wish I had more homework."

Max looked up and caught my eye, questioning.

"No, she is NOT doing your homework for you."

He sighed, and looked back down at the soggy page, and went back to writing each word. Three times. "Max, you gotta learn these words. You don't know enough of these words to pass. You have *got* to learn these words."

He kept his head down, and kept writing. I was worried. He had been working so hard, and hadn't made any discernable progress. I was sure he was going to fail the test, and I knew it would break his heart.

The next day, he only got four words wrong. 4 out of 22. Thats 82%. And that is amazing.
The tables have turned, and I can freely admit that I stand corrected. Where the hell is my red pen.

Reason number 8,435,651 why I should not be allowed in Walmart

2011-08-31T23:09:00.001-10:00

After that last post, which was admittedly overly long and poorly written (Venting! It does a body good!) I'm offering a respite. The olive branch of blogging. A post that says "Sorry for all of that blah blah blah back there, how about a nice photo post?"

A picture really does say a thousand words. So here you go:

I have a habit of causing trouble in Walmarts across this great nation, and yet they continue to let me in.
Shocking.
Exhibit number 1 - the adult tricycle. I took it for a very thorough test ride. I recommend you do the same.

BE AN EDUCATED CONSUMER FOR CHRISSAKES

(photo credit goes to Lil Bo, who hadn't yet discovered the jeggings on clearance at the time of this photo - otherwise she would have been far too busy to document my adventure, and I would have been wearing jeggings.)

A foodies lament: I stopped eating, and man....I got a lotta free time now.

2011-08-31T19:28:00.039-10:00

Just recently something has been brought to my attention:
A huge part of my day is taken up with food. Glorious food.

Meal planning, food shopping, meal prep, and then my favorite: Eating. I love to eat. I could eat all day, every day. And I'm not just focused on quantity - quality counts too. I will drive clear across the island to get a special kind of corned beef hash. I have been known to plan entire vacations around the places I want to eat - and when. I am a good eater. An adventurous eater. My limitations are few, my enthusiasm is great.
Then about a month ago, my tummy started to bother me, and that all came to a screeching halt.

Confession: I haven't eaten more than one meal a day since July. In fact, I have not eaten a full meal since July. I have ordered food and then pushed it around my plate and stared at it and then stood up and walked away with nary a regret or backwards glance. This is unheard of. I am a founding member of the clean plate club. I have never ever ever EVER counted calories. I just don't have a lot of food allergies or issues.

(This is not me.) (At all.)

I have lots of friends that have to follow special diets, for medical or ethical reasons - so I can understand, respect, and truly empathize when people have trouble finding something that they can eat - but it's never been an issue for me. Even when I was at my very heaviest after having a baby, I didn't limit myself. I will happily eat bacon all day, every day. Dairy is this woman's best friend. In times of stress, you can count on me to disappear for 20 minutes and come back clutching a cheeseburger. I am the one with a granola bar in my purse and snacks in the glovebox, and I buy groceries like some women buy shoes. I am not afraid to eat a little junk food now and then, either. A few weeks ago I ate a fucking SLIM JIM. It almost killed me, but dammit I ate every last bite of that disgusting thing. And a HoHo. I also ate a HoHo. Same day. Same car ride. A Slim Jim and a Hoho. That was my afternoon snack. What can I say........I had the munchies.

What I'm trying to say is: Me and food? We love each other.

Those days are, sadly, over. I feel adrift in a sea of very unappetizing-looking fish. I tried to read "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs" last night to the kids before bed, and had to stop halfway through to take a hit of Maalox. Sami bought me a box of HoHos last weekend, and they are sitting in my pantry untouched. It's a reality check, and I don't like it one bit. At times, I am so hungry I could eat my own arm. But red meat has been making me super nauseous, so guess even that analogy doesn't work.

I've made a lot of changes besides eliminating red meat. No fried foods - 4 potato chips had me sick for 4 hours. No chocolate - one of my beloved Peepsters had me doubled over and begging for mercy. No coffee - because with a totally empty stomach that stuff makes me feel like my chest is going to explode. No wheat, because it makes me feel instantly full and uncomfortable. And god help me, no cheese. Just....let's not even go there. No cheese. And I can only imagine what would happen if I were to drink alcohol. I'm afraid I'll get completely shitfaced almost immediately, and then everything else will happen.

Red meat, fried foods, chocolate, liquor, coffee - all out. Basically, my entire diet is down the toilet.

Literally.
So my solution is, I'm not eating. It's easier that way, and certainly more pleasant. Well.....pleasant is a relative term. Take today, for instance. We were at one of my very favorite restaurants. I wanted steak bites and french fries with the spicy mustard sauce, dammit, and instead I ordered some gelatinous noodle stirfry crap with plain rice. Not even a scoop of mac salad to go with it. A travesty. The whole thing was a fucking travesty. I wanted to cry, honestly. It would be so much better if all of this restraint led to me looking and feeling better. But I haven't lost an ounce, and I feel like crap on a cracker. Not that I would know - I can't eat crackers.

Shaking up the Peppermill - no pants required

2011-08-29T11:45:00.000-10:00

As I mentioned earlier, one of my very favorite parts about the Vegas trip was the fact that I went for 5 full days without wearing pants.

Have I mentioned that I love Las Vegas? In many ways, Vegas is depressing and seedy and sort of scary dirty. But in other ways it is full of awesomeness. Like in the ways of not wearing pants. It's not as though I was lounging about in my suite, or swanning around poolside.....I left the hotel every single day. I was shopping, eating in restaurants, working, and attending meetings. Without pants.

How is this possible, you ask? Well, it's partly the spirit of the event I was attending, and partly because the cocktail waitresses in every casino are rarely wearing pants.

Mostly, it was because The Peppermill Las Vegas is the awesomest place on the face of the planet.

One would be hard pressed to "sum up" the Peppermill. Half of the restaurant is actually a lounge with water features surrounding firepits all snuggled up between banquettes. And the cocktail waitresses are in floor length black gowns, carrying cocktail trays. And yes, they have a Scorpion Bowl.

But then, the other half of the restaurant is this crazy Alice-In-Wonderland-meets-50's-diner mind fuck. The waitresses on this side are dressed in little pastel pinafores and white blouses, almost Mormon-esque in their innocence. These girls don't serve alcohol - if you want booze they send over one of the ladies in black to take your order for the devil's juice. The tables are lit with neon and surrounded by white trees with christmas lights, everything is carpeted and cushioned and upholstered to within an inch of it's life.

It's open 24 hours a day with the full menu served the whole time, and when I marched in on three different occasions without any pants on, no one batted a carefully mascara'd eyelash. Heaven on Earth.

So if you find yourself in Vegas at 3am, and your pants are missing, and you are craving a bowl full of spiked punch and maybe some mashed potatoes (and who hasn't been there....am I right?) you should go directly to the Peppermill where they will treat you like royalty, even if the emperor isn't wearing any pants. I mean, clothes.

And then afterwards, I suggest a nice nap over at the Cosmopolitan. That place is pretty cool too.

In the pink.

2011-08-27T15:04:00.001-10:00

Mom, and all of my aunts: this post is what we would call Too Much Information.

Last night I was trying like hell to explain some of the Portland exploits to my husband.

The problem was two-fold.
A. everything needs to be ever-so-slightly filtered because he has to see these girls again, and be able to maintain eye contact.
B. some of the things we say and do as a group are just not appropriate for sharing. In fact, some things that were photographed on my phone had to be deleted, because after reviewing them in the light of day I am pretty sure the activities being documented were illegal or incriminating, or at the very least certainly appear that way. One photo actually caused me to drop the phone and cover my eyes and scream. And scream.

And scream. Oh my god, there it is again in my memory, why did I even bring it up.

(shudder)

Anyhooo I was trying to tell Sam a story about "the pink". Sugar was talking about it at the strip club, how pretty it was, etc., and I had no idea what she was referring to. She had to explain that she was talking about, uh, you know..... girl parts. Sugar is an aesthetician reknowned for her bikini waxing abilities - and the girl knows her way around girl parts. AKA, apparently, "The Pink"

True confession time: I don't know anything about girl parts, other than their basic layout and mechanics. I would be a terrible bikini waxer because I would be so distracted by the area I was supposed to be waxing. It would be like a very belated anatomy class - I can say with all honesty that until our big night out at the Acropolis, I had never examined a woman's crotch up close - not even my own. I'm not that flexible, and I don't own a hand mirror, and I dropped out of science after "Survey of Physics" so it's never been on my agenda. I figured Sam, who is quite familiar with the female body and our various parts, and has seen them up close on occasion, would know what I was talking about when I said "the pink". He did not. Not a clue. I tried not to be insulted - you gotta love his innocence. Our marriage has been a life-long education for this poor man.

In an effort to enlighten him, because I am ALL ABOUT continuing education - You are never too old to learn, people - I explained about the pink, and he and I had a good laugh about how I didn't know what it was, and he didn't know what it was, and how in the hell we managed to figure out the mechanics of sex without a therapist and a textbook, and that I vaguely remember Sugar kindly offering to show me the pink - an offer that I remarkably did not take her up on in the parking lot of the Acropolis.

I know, shocking.

So while we all sit here and lament the missed opportunities in life, and the photos I'm not gonna share with you, Sam is going to run out and buy me a hand mirror. He is such a gentleman. I, on the other hand, am calling Sugar.

Exploratory surgery! I hope Dora will be there.....

2011-08-25T09:28:00.000-10:00

So with all of these tales of travel and strippers and roller derby, it's been pretty easy to skip over the fact that I have been sick. I wrote a few blogs about it, but haven't posted them because A. That shit is not funny or entertaining and B. Cry me a fucking river, you know what I mean?

But I figure now is a good time to get you caught up with as much humor as I can manage to find in the situation that is pretty devoid of humor. For starters, I had to go to the hospital while I was on the East Coast, because my tummy hurt. Yeah, I know. Grow a pair, Daffodil. You don't go to the ER because your tummy hurts. You take some Immodium and eat a banana. But I'm allergic to bananas, and frankly, after day 3 of feeling like I was maybe going to turn completely inside out, I decided that before I flew to Vegas, I should probably get checked out.

Within about 10 minutes I was on an IV, but they insisted I would be Vegas-ready in a few hours. But in a few hours I was being wheeled off for a cat scan, and then prepped for surgery. As the nurse attached the heart monitor I looked at her and said "Dorothy, I don't think we're going to Vegas anymore." "It's not looking good" she agreed, "but don't give up hope!"

The surgeon arrived and we quickly decided that I didn't want to have emergency surgery, and that it looked like it didn't need to be done right away, and more tests should be done, and dammit I wanted to go to Vegas, not have my stomach cut open.

I won.

So they took out the IV, and I peeled off the ledes in the parking lot, and then we went to CVS and got some medication "just in case" and then I went to Vegas.

Vegas was tough for me. I'm not gonna lie. I mean, there was still a lot of debauchery, but I was a witness more than a participant. There was also a lot of walking, and I wasn't in any shape to be trucking up and down the Strip in 6 inch heels. I managed, of course, but it was probably ill-advised. I came home absolutely exhausted. And then I turned around and headed off to Oregon with the team.

Between Vegas and Oregon, I got some rest in Seattle, and some more rest at home. That is, between the tests. Ultrasounds, blood tests, physical exams....and even with all of that, they haven't decided what is wrong. Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's something, maybe it's one of these:

Which is where the exploratory part comes in.

My abdomen is truly the last frontier. Which is why I am totally wearing a Dora the Explorer backpack to the hospital, with all of my x-rays and lab results inside. And lip balm. My lips always get so dry in the hospital.

If I smelled like unicorns, I'd be dancing around naked too.

2011-08-24T11:08:00.000-10:00

Our last night in Portland was a respite from the cold and stress of 3 days playing some seriously grueling derby matches. The only sensible thing to do was head directly to the nearest steakhouse stripclub, and get real drunk.

And the place to do that in Portland is The Acropolis. For $10 you can order a steak and a beer, and eat it while naked women try to keep their nipples out of your baked potato. That's not a euphamism, by the way. You really have to watch that potato.

Because there are no strip clubs on Maui - and trust me, we've looked - we are pretty easily impressed. If you can actually move around, and be entertaining, we'll be happy. If you're especially limber, all the better. If you are beautiful, covered in tattoos, with cool hair and lots of piercings, and tell us about your daughter who wants to be a derby girl? You have yourself a captivated audience.

We had found a clear favorite in Jenna, and she played to her audience. Not only was she personable and nice to look at, she also smelled amazing. That's not just me being weird - we all noticed it. Maybe some of us were distracted by lack of oxygen, due to her wrapping her legs around our necks in some sort of mind-blowing stripper headlock, or thrown off when she blew on our cleavage, but my god it was really something.

We didn't make it rain - we made it pour, to the best of our broke-ass abilities.
And when we stumbled out of that bar, calling our goodbyes and thanking our servers, and friending Jenna on facebook, I think they were sad to see us go. "She smelled amazing." someone remarked as they lit a cigarette. "Like rainbows." another girl agreed. "She smelled like unicorns." one girl said dreamily as she climbed into a cab. But we weren't headed back to the hotel to rest up for our flight home. Oh no. We had another stop to make before we resumed life as responsible adults. And that stop was Devil's Point.

It was time for some stripperaoke.

Sadly, it wasn't the night for firedancing - so no one was going to light their nipples on fire or anything exciting like that - but we love strippers and we love karaoke, so we knew it was going to be a good time. Especially when two of our teammates got onstage to sing "Total Eclipse of the Heart" with Berlin. By the end of the song, the stripper was not the only person with her top off onstage, and while the dancer kept her business covered, one of the rollergirls had her skirt around her waist. She wasn't wearing any underwear. The entire bar was on it's feet screaming, and money was flying through the air as they finished the number in a blaze of glory, one girl straddling the stripper who was on her back playing a mean air guitar while the other derby girl was behind them grinding and singing her heart out.

It was a sight to see. And I have to say, it must have been a hard act to follow. I have no idea what happened next, because at that point the bar was closing, and I was busy calling cabs. Berlin came outside while we were waiting, and we introduced ourselves, told her how much we had enjoyed her performance, and promised to come back and see her the next time we were in town.

I am already working on my karaoke song.....I just have to figure out how to smell like Jenna. And I promise to wear underwear.

GPS = Got Played, Sucker

2011-08-23T13:51:00.003-10:00

Yesterday was my kids' first day of school. I wasn't home for their triumphant return to the hallowed halls of education, however.

Yesterday morning dawned with me passed out in a bed at the Marriott in Portland, Oregon. A bed I had climbed into around 4am.
Nice bed. Wish I had been in it for more than two hours. But you see, there were $6 steaks and $10 pitchers and naked women that smelled like unicorns, and something called "Stripperaoke".

So I had been up late. What can I say? Priorities.

Because we had an 8:45am flight, we had to be up and at 'em early. So when the buzzer went off at 6am I fumbled around, found a button that silenced the alarm, and hit the shower. There were two girls asleep in the next bed, and another couple on the sleeper sofa. I figured if I got in the shower first, I would have the best shot at getting to a Starbucks before we left for the airport.

I pulled on some sweatpants and a tshirt, completely forgoing a bra (all the better to avoid a delay at security!) and stuffed everything into my bag, then headed downstairs to get the car from where it had been parked down the block. Dawn was breaking, and one by one, rollergirls were emerging from their rooms. Limping, silent and bleary eyed, covered in bruises and still sort of drunk, they assembled in the lobby slowly, standing up gingerly only to get a cup of coffee from one of the thermoses on the counter. I watched them through the plate glass windows as I walked along the sidewalk in front of the hotel, sprawled out across sofas and squatting on suitcases. One girl was talking up the front desk staff.

I parked the car in front of the hotel and tossed the keys to one of my passengers as I headed towards the elevator to get my bags and make sure my roommates were out of bed."Good Morning" I whispered as I pushed open the door, trying to speak softly so as not to alarm or startle anyone in the still-dark suite. People were just starting to rally, so I gave everyone the heads up that one of the other cars was about to leave, and I headed back down to start putting bags in the trunk. When I got back to the loading zone where I had left the car, I found the doors open, the tailgate up, trash blowing out of the backseat, suitcases on their side, and one small, Conversed foot sticking out of the back door:

Clearly this was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. As I approached the open tailgate, the first car full of teammates drove off to the airport. The girls in that car liked to get checked in early, and have some time to eat - so after surveying their bleary-eyed fellow travelers, they made the decision to hit the road and let everyone else work their shit out and get to the airport in their own time - or not.

And to be honest, it wasn't looking good for my car. Our flight left in two hours, the gas gauge was on empty, two of the girls were still in bed, another one was passed out in the backseat, and I had no idea where the airport was. I also had no idea when rush hour was, but I had a feeling we were about to get royally screwed.

Typing "PDX" into the navigation system on my phone, I was relieved to find that we only had about 15 minutes of driving. We were the last car to hit the road, but the GPS wasn't making any sense. It kept "recalculating" and sending us in different directions, and after a few minutes of driving in circles trying to follow the GPS map, I found myself behind another car carrying our teammates, heading over the bridge towards the airport. The GPS warned me that I had a left-hand turn coming up, so I slowed down to a crawl, turned on my blinker, and started to turn left, following the rental car in front of me. Which was when I realized that we were turning onto a one-way, multi-lane street - heading the wrong way. I swerved out of the turn and back onto the road, and headed to the next light, while the car I had been following, the one carrying my teammates, continued into the oncoming traffic.

I watched in horror, but quickly had to turn back to the road in front of me and follow signs through the road construction to the highway. I was suddenly concerned that perhaps no one was going to make it to the airport on time. Between traffic, road construction, and a homicidal navigation system, it was looking pretty bleak. Which was when I got the text from the car that had left first, all organized and put together and early:

"GPS sent us to the wrong airport. 45 minutes away. Stuck in traffic. Hold the plane."

It took us a few minutes to process. The wrong airport. Rush hour traffic. I panicked. "What if we are going to the wrong airport too? Oh my god, someone please make sure we are going to the right airport." everyone was reading the passing signs, and suddenly one of the girls pointed - "That sign says PDX - we're in the right place." I took a deep breath, but I didn't feel any better. I dropped everyone off and went to return the car, asking Jersey to print out my boarding pass for me since I just had a carry on bag anyway, and I needed a minute to myself.

The woman checking in the cars scanned my windshield, then put down her scanner on the hood of the car and put her hands on her hips. "What's your name?"

I froze, and looked up from the backseat, where I had methodically been going through pockets and bins to make sure we had removed all of our belongings. I had just found a ziplock with something that smelled suspiciously like a pot cookie and contemplated eating it, but now I was sure I was about to be arrested for contraband baked goods, and had lost my appetite. I threw the baggie under the seat.

"What? Why? What's wrong?"

"This is the THIRD CAR that has been returned this morning under this name. Am I on Candid Camera or something?"

"Oh, no. Sorry. I reserved 4 cars for our team under my name. There is actually one more on it's way back here.....sometime."

She looked relieved. "So I'm not crazy?"

"Well, I'm no mental health professional, but I can tell you this - you are going to have 4 cars returned with the same renter's name on each car." Now that I knew I wasn't about to get frisked, I was busy digging the ziplock out from under the seat where it was lodged in the track. That cookie was mine.

"Okay." She was tapping away on her scanner. "It won't let me check your car back in."

I yanked the bag free and eyed her warily. "Why not?"

"I don't know." She was cheerful, and smiled as she handed me a slip of paper. "Just bring this downstairs."

I threw away the trash and the cookie, and headed off to the rental desk in a sour mood. They fixed whatever was broken, processed the return, and I walked towards the terminal and the security checkpoint. I was so paranoid that my hands would smell like pot cookie, I could barely meet the TSA agent's eyes. I grabbed a sandwich and some magazines and walked slowly to the gate, where they had begun boarding. As we stood in line, the girls in the misguided car came running through the airport, carrying their shoes, dragging their bags, jackets and scarves trailing behind them, tearful and breathless. We hugged and cheered and everyone got on the plane. Or almost everyone.

When we landed safely 6 hours later, we found out that two of our skaters had fallen asleep at the airport and missed their flight.

Rollercon 2011 Derby Wedding Video is up

2011-08-16T09:01:00.000-10:00

If you were a friend of mine on facebook, you would have already known this.

http://www.facebook.com/daffodilcampbell

Sleeping in the Grand Marquis. The car, not the hotel.

2011-08-08T08:01:00.000-10:00

There are times in life where I find myself in a moment of clarity (trust me, it doesn't happen too often) and I will look around and think "What the fuck are you doing?" Happened quite a few times in Vegas, usually when I found myself wandering through the casino floor at 3am without any pants on - but that is a story for another time. (A time which is coming soon, don't you worry.)

Last week (which was admittedly, a doozy) it also happened at Boston's Logan Airport. I was just back from Vegas, where I had not slept more than a few hours at a time for days on end. I was exhausted, dehydrated from all of the disgusting recirculated air, and probably on the brink of scurvy from vitamin deficiency. I had driven through the night to pick up the kids, and now I was bringing them back to Boston for our trip home. The kids and I had a 6 am flight, so I had planned it all out in my mind: day at the museum, dinner with friends, return rental car, sleep at airport hotel, catch 6 am flight. As I sat in the Museum of Science that afternoon I pulled up a travel site on my phone and made a reservation for that night. It took a few tries - something was wonky with their search engine, or maybe with my phone reception, but whatever it was I finally worked it out, got a confirmation number, and we went off to dinner.

After dinner, as darkness fell on the streets of Boston, we said goodbye to our friends and drove off towards Logan to return the rental car. Before getting on the highway, I pulled over to get the address of the hotel I had reserved, thinking we would check in, drop our bags, and then return the car - that way I wouldn't have to schlep 3 suitcases and 4 carry-ons all over creation. I pulled up my email to find the information, and discovered that......there was no confirmation email.

Hm.

I called the website on which I had made the reservation, and was cheerfully informed that while I did get the screen that said I was confirmed, and had a booking number, I did not actually have a reservation. I looked at the clock. 8:45pm. I had to return the car, and would have to straighten this all out afterwards. Big airport, lots of hotels to choose from, no problem but what a pain in the ass. We stopped for gas, returned the car, got our bags out, hopped on the shuttle to the airport, and went inside to the booth that had phones for all the airport hotels. I scanned the list and started calling all of the properties that I thought we could afford. No answer. Busy. No answer. Sold out. Sold out. $359 a night. Sold out.

Oh. Fuck.

To my credit, I did not collapse in sobs on the floor. Instead, we went up to the ticketing counter to try to check our bags for the flight the next morning - my thinking being if I could just get rid of these damn bags, I would have less to keep track of, and we could just hop on an airport hotel shuttle bus and go crash for a few hours. Every motel in Boston could not be sold out. That would be ridiculous. Then I checked the time.

It was 10pm.

The ticketing counter was closed.

I sat down and put my head in my hands.

That's when Lucy piped up: "Mommy, where are we going tonight?"

Because, you see, it wasn't just me sitting on my suitcase in the airport at 10 pm. I had my kids with me. And mommy had no fucking idea where we were going that night. I calculated times in my head. IF I could find a hotel room now, and IF the hotel had a shuttle, it would be, what, 30 minutes before we could get a room? An hour to get them to bed? And then wake them up again at 4? I needed a hotel close by. Preferably IN the airport.

I looked up and saw "HOTEL" with an arrow. It was like a miracle.

"We are going to the Hotel!" I said it cheerfully, even though I knew that walking up to the desk of this fancy hotel without a reservation would cost me dearly. And considering that we had - at best - 6 hours before we would have to leave the room and go back to the airport for our flight, I was pretty horrified by this turn of events.

So we dragged all of our belongings along the skybridge, through the parking garage, and into the hotel. Down long carpeted corridors, past endless conference rooms on that dizzying floral hotel carpet. Up an elevator. Down an elevator. At last we arrived at the front desk, where there was quite a crowd of people waiting to check in.

I knew it before the guy behind the desk said a word.
Sold out.

We trudged back upstairs and collapsed on the couches. The kids were remarkably cheerful. I contemplated trying to get them to sleep right there, but realistically it wasn't going to happen - we'd get tossed out shortly. "SO!" I said brightly "How do you feel about sleeping in the car?"

"Mom." Max looked at me like I was insane. "We don't have a car."
"No problem" I assured him.

We made our way back to the airport, stopping to use the bathroom and brush our teeth before "bed". We walked out the sliding doors and I headed straight for the rental agency bus parked at the curb. "Do you have cars available?"

Half an hour later, I pulled an enormous Grand Marquis into the cell lot and cut the engine. There were only a few spaces left, it was well lit and although the sign said "Maximum 30 minutes" I figured it was so busy no one would notice.

The kids were already asleep, wrapped in blankets, heads rested on pillows, full bottles of water and a basket full of snacks on the floor. I sat and stared out the windshield and felt like an absolute failure. My children - who trusted me to take care of them, to provide for them, to plan and prepare for them - were sleeping in a car, in a parking lot, and in a few hours I would have to wake them up and drive back to the airport. As I dozed off I sent a little message out to the universe: "Please don't let us get woken up by a cop shining his flashlight in here and tapping on the window." Because while it was funny in high school, I had a feeling my kids wouldn't find it amusing tonight.

(***Special thanks to the team at the Boston Logan Alamo/National office - you guys were awesome!***)

Pleather and Pasties: Rollercon 2011 derby wedding.

2011-07-31T21:11:00.003-10:00

When we saw the red sleeve poking out from the rack, the immediate response - the only acceptable response - was: "Perfect."

It was 9-something in the morning, and I had only slept for a few hours - but there was some serious business to attend to. I was getting married that night, and I didn't have a thing to wear.

Thank god for Savers.

After an evening spent in the back of a Hummer limousine, being refused entry to a strip club because we didn't have any pants on, and then flooding the bathroom of my hotel room, I was a little worse for the wear. Care Bear had blown into town the night before in daddy's Caddy, and was willing to drive me around because she is pretty fucking amazing - so with a pit stop at Starbucks and a few trips to the potty, we were on a mission. First stop: Walmart. I wore a leopard print strapless dress for the occasion, keeping with my "no pants in Vegas" rule that I had been strictly enforcing. And also because I had not packed any appropriate clothing whatsoever for a trip to "civilization" aka "not rollercon".

Walmart didn't have a damn thing that we needed, so we went next door to Savers and got ourselves some lace curtains, a pink apron with a heart on the front that said "Jesus Bakes" or something like that with a quote from the bible, and the piece de resistance: A red pleather motorcycle jacket that fit like it was made for me, if I were to have a pleather jacket custom made. Which I would not. But I digress. I had hit wedding gold, for the very reasonable price of $7.99.

Our next stop was the American Apparel outlet. After wandering the aisles, I was getting a little anxious. I had felt sure I would find some sort of amazing bodysuit that was going to pull my whole look together, and yet, somehow, the leotard of my dreams was nowhere to be found. I took a closer look, and found something that I still cannot quite get my head around. I found a glittery gold skirt that American Apparel was calling a strapless dress (which is a perfect example of why I love that place so damn much) and a matching zip-front bodysuit.

Oh, it brought a tear to my eye.

We returned to the hotel triumphant, and I presented my fellow bride with her "dress". When she pointed out that while American Apparel might think it was a dress, she did not necessarily agree, I suggested that she wear it as a skirt, and just put on some pasties. Problem solved.

I withheld the jacket, as I wanted to keep some element of surprise for the actual wedding night, and then she rushed off to class and I went back to my room to take off the animal print and slip into something smaller. A few hours later found Carrie and I in my bathroom, which had mostly recovered from being completely submerged the night before. The damp carpet smelled like feet but it was clean, so rather than get hair all over it (YOU'RE WELCOME HOUSEKEEPING) I sat on the edge of the tub and Carrie climbed in behind me and proceeded to cut off approximately 75% of my hair. Since my hair was pretty short to begin with, and after a few minutes of watching massive amounts of hair fall to the floor, I mentioned that while I had given her carte blanche with the haircut, I would prefer to avoid a bald spot.

She wasn't amused.

15 minutes later I had a new amazing haircut, and another bathroom disaster on my hands.

Carrie had to leave, which broke my heart because I had really wanted her at my wedding - so we went downstairs and she drove off into the desert and I went in to watch my future derby wife skate. When she came off the track, we had a quick conversation about the evening's nuptials, wherein we discovered that neither of us had thought to buy rings. No matter, there was a convenience store in the lobby, surely they would have something......this IS Vegas after all.

An hour later I discovered that even in Vegas, next door to a wedding chapel, convenience stores do not carry rings. Which is, in my mind, a huge oversight on their part. They did, however, have dangly dice earrings and vodka, and I am nothing if not flexible.

My bride, meanwhile, had snuck off and bought some really spectacular wedding rings, so all of my worry was for naught - we had both earrings AND rings and all was right with the world. I hopped in the shower, and she went off to her room to get her pasties on and whatever else brides do. I wouldn't know, because I spent half an hour trying to secure my bodysuit with double sided tape which I am pretty sure is not what brides usually spend their time doing. In my excitement at finding such great outfits I had neglected to try anything on and, sadly, my bodysuit gave me both cameltoe AND wedgie which was remarkably uncomfortable to say the least.

I can say with certainty that getting ready to get derby married took much longer than the amount of time I took getting ready for my wedding to my husband. Choosing the perfect amount of unzipped for maximum cleavage, deciding whether I should wear fishnets or leggings with hearts on them, and securing that curtain to my head was a lengthy process. My counterpart was busy with adhesives and a sharpie, so she had her own set of issues to work out. All of which meant that we missed the first wedding ceremony of the evening. Thank goodness, they had more ceremonies scheduled later on - with all of the trouble we had gone to getting ready to get hitched, I was getting married that night - even if I had to drag the minister out of the pool party that was raging outside to do it.

Finally we were both ready, I in my red pleather and she in her red pasties, both in fishnets. Our officiant was an eight months pregnant derby girl in an Elvis suit, and as we repeated the vows and stuck rings on fingers and smiled for the cameras, I looked around the room and thought to myself -

"I must never let my children see these photos".

You, on the other hand, will get a peek. Like my facebook and/or follow me on twitter - in the coming days I will review the documentation of our big event with my brand spanking new derby wife (Though I must confess, there is no spanking involved. Yet.) and with her permission I will post a few choice photos of the evening. In the meantime, you can read a version of our vows here.

I don't know if getting married will change things between us, but in the meantime I'm going to get us registered at Macy's TOOT SWEET and then sit back and wait for the wedding gifts to start arriving. I could really use some new towels.

Wild Turkey: good - wild turkeys: bad.

2011-07-14T05:55:00.000-10:00

Here in Connecticut, they have a lot of animals running about. Usually the biggest problem is keeping your pet from getting skunked, and figuring out how to secure the garbage cans in such a way that the raccoons cannot get at the trash contained within. Many an hour has been spent building wooden hutches for the cans, or setting up elaborate bungee cord/rope/rock contraptions to keep the lids on and the animals out of the trash - but no matter which strategy you choose, even the most highly engineered deterrents don't work. My latest attempt involved a bungee cord and a beach chair, tied to the top of a trash can who's lid had been inverted. It was so complicated that I had trouble opening it to put the trash inside each night. And those little bastards still got into the bag of chicken wings all the way at the bottom of the barrel. Assholes.

But this summer, it has been.......more than that. I don't know why, I don't know if animals are being so squeezed out of their natural habitats and are migrating to my family's neighborhood or what - but my first hint that something was amiss came the afternoon that I drove up to the house, and a coyote or some other coyote-like animal was standing in my driveway.

Glaring at me.

It's very unsettling to have an animal that most closely resembles a small gray dog stand facing your approaching car, and looking like he was going to go all honey badger on the front grill. I call him a coyote, but he could have been a rabid dingo for all I know - if it's not a mongoose I am completely uable to identify any animal without the aide of a zookeeper, a tour guide or some excellent signage that includes photos. But I know this: there is absolutely NO WAY IN HELL that I am going to have a dingo taking my babies, so I did what any mother would do. I backed the car up, put it back in drive, and gunned it. The beast had enough commoon sense to recognize another member of the honey badger family, and he moved slightly to the left to let me by. Then he started to trot down the driveway, following us towards the house. Oh, hell no. I slammed on the brakes, revved the engine, and threw it into reverse. The tires caught the gravel and spun as they gained traction and speed, and we careened backwards. I stared him down out of the rear window as we approached much more quickly than anyone had anticipated. But I was not going to slow down - I had to make a point.

I think he actually shit himself as he ran off into the bushes.

But still, he's out there somewhere, along with another unlikely predator - wild turkeys.

I had heard talk about wild turkeys in the yard, and we were keeping an eye out. But almost a week had passed, and we hadn't heard so much as a "gobble". We may have been listening for the wrong thing, however. In real life, turkeys don't really gobble. I was lying in bed one night, sound asleep, and suddenly right outside my window there arose a commotion the likes of which I had never heard before.

"WUBBAHWUBBAHWUBBAHWUBBAH".

I sat straight up and reached for the light. Fumbling in the dark, the noise was getting - if possible - louder.

"WUBBAHWUBBAHWUBBAHWUBBAH"

I gave up on trying to turn on the lamp, and just stuck my head straight out the window to see what the hell was going on out there.I blinked and rubbed my eyes and squinted. There was something in the yard. Actually, several somethings. Actually, quite a few somethings. But what the fuck were they?

"WUBBAHWUBBAHWUBBAHWUBBAHWUBBAH"

Three of the whatever-the-hell-they-weres were larger than my 6 year old. And then there were a bunch of smaller animals, sort of similarly shaped, but what the heck were they? And then, I realized.

Wild fucking turkeys.

Sweet Jesus. The biggest one was the size of a trash barrel, and the whole pack (flock?) was jabbering away about.....something. So I grabbed a flashlight I found next to the lamp, and shined it directly on them. They scattered and headed for the driveway, complaining the whole way. Eventually, the noise faded, and I fell back asleep. A few hours later, something happened that was SO FUCKED UP that I still haven't been able to sleep through the night without a handful of Tylenol PMs.

There was a breeze from the window carrying the salty ocean air into my room, and I had dozed off clutching my flashlight. Suddenly, I was woken up by a combination of things that came together in one perfect moment of terror. All at once, there was this horrible noise and a huge weight on my head and a terrific crash.

"WUBBAHWUBBAHMRAAAAWWWWWRRRRRWUBBAHWUBBAH"

I screamed and threw myself out of bed and across the room, grabbing at whatever was on my head with the intention of throwing it as fast and as far as I could. But it was already gone. The noise continued unabated. I was absolutely hysterical, in a dark room, with no idea what was going on.

"WUBBAHWUBBAHMRAAAAWWWWWRRRRRWUBBAHWUBBAH"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!" It took me a minute to realize that I was the one shouting. I yanked open the bedroom door and threw on the hallway light. Two eyes glowed at me from the windowsill.

My aunt's cat was trying to throw herself through the screen, to get to the wild turkeys that were once again gathered outside my bedroom window. I stood very still for a moment and did a little self-assessment. No blood, no injuries, nothing in my room but the cat. The lamp from the bedside table was overturned, but it wasn't broken. And most importantly, I hadn't pissed my pants.

I spent the rest of the night locked in the bathroom with the light on, reading old issues of Real Simple and trying to get the adrenaline out of my system.

The next morning dawned and I was a total mess. By about 4pm, I realized that we needed coffee if I was going to make it to dinnertime without passing out face first in the living room during the evening news. We got in the car and headed down to the Big Y. As we pulled in, the kids were pressed against the window, watching soe excitement in the parking lot. Two men with nets and boxes were standing in the parking lot, watching something. A woman was taking pictures with her phone. As we got closser, I realized the object they were fixed on was a snake.

Fuck. That. Shit.

This may come as a shock to you, but I am not Steve Irwin. I am not interested in having any up-close encounters with wildlife unless they are behind a lot of glass, or perhaps locked in a cage or contained by a tall fence. Or stuffed. I can handle them stuffed. But since arriving I have had my fill of nature. I have faced coyotes glaring at me in my own driveway, deer eating the garden, raccoons eating, well, everything, skunks and wild turkeys and rabbits in the yard....but I will not have snakes in the parking lot I WILL NOT HAVE IT.

And so we returned home empty-handed. I watch them oh-so-carefully when they are playing outdoors. And then when they come in, oh baby. The hunt for ticks alone can ruin a perfectly good dinner. This place is hell for my anxiety, but frankly, I think my OCD is giving me an edge. I mean, sure I'm in a fucking blind panic every minute of the day....but I am also taking action, combing through hair, shaking out clothes, inspecting them head to toe before AND after the shower. My poor 10 year old son would really appreciate it if I would lighten up, and stop making him check his balls for insects. But I think he should just be grateful I let him do it himself.

My magical muffin

2011-07-12T07:16:00.001-10:00

We've been roadtripping this past week, and I have to say that it has gone much more smoothly than last year's debacle.

Part of the difference has been that I am not driving with two small children and my grandmother. Part of the improved experience is that the bumper did not fall off the car at any time during the trip. But mostly, it's because we fired Glenda and her replacement, Sully. This came about when I switched cellphone plans this spring, and after much wringing of hands and surfing of web, I chose a plan that includes a navigation system. One that actually, you know, navigates. While Glenda's british lilt was lovely and Sully's mangled Bawstin accent was amusing, neither of them had any sense of direction whatsoever - crucially important in a GPS system, it turns out. So now I use my cellphone. The voice is boring, but the service is great - very accurate and easy to use.

It's been lovely.

Except.

Every so often I lose my signal, and sometimes this happens at the most inconvenient time. You would expect that the signal might fade in, say, a tunnel. But shortly after we got on the highway, it unexpectedly lost its signal. I had checked the directions, told Sami which exit to take, and put the phone down. I opened a box of muffins, and put them on my lap, forgetting that my phone was there. Suddenly, the gps announced "Signal has been lost".

"Whoops, sorry. My muffin must have blocked the signal." I said without thinking.

Sami choked on his iced coffee.

"My muffin is very distracting" I continued, raising one eyebrow and catching his eye. He smirked.

I moved the box. "Hard to get a signal down there" I continued, as I reached between my legs to find the phone.

"I get my signals loud and clear down there" Sami managed to get out in a strangled voice.

"Yeah, well, you're not a GPS. You know where to go. You don't need directions."

"Well, sometimes I get off too soon."

I glared at him and turned my attention to the road, and my muffin. NOT THAT MUFFIN.

I was quickly distracted. Just in front of us, a car was playing Tangled on their overhead tv screen - which was jumbo sized. Since Sami is a terrible tail-gater, I was able to watch quite a bit of it. So that was nice. I do like that movie.

And then he said "I need $2 for the toll."

Ah, the toll.

For the next two hours, we dutifully waited in various lines to pay for the right to drive on the highway - "legalized extortion" Sami calls it. He also refers to it as "highway robbery" - especially when we get closer to New York City, and the tolls skyrocket. We were $26 dollars in the hole by the time we got to the George Washington Bridge. I had one $10 bill left in my wallet. I pulled it out nervously - the last toll had been over $9 - and we had just paid that 5 minutes ago. As we approached the booth, we could make out the sign:

"TOLL: $8"

"WHAT!?" Sami was coming unglued. He rolled down the window and stuck out the last of our cash. But before the toll collector could take it, Sami leaned out the window.

"EIGHT DOLLARS?! EIGHT???? SERIOUSLY????"

She looked unfazed. Somehow, I have a feeling she has heard this before.

"Yessir. Eight dollars."

He shook his head and snatched the change when she held it out. "Gee, thanks" he said through gritted teeth as he pulled away. I prepared myself for a long and heated rant about the origin of tolls, and how they should be illegal now that the roads have been built and paid for, and how his tax dollars are being wasted ad nauseum. Luckily, his focus quickly shifted to the utter free-for-all that begins just past any toll booth. Drivers from all 8 toll lanes were gunning it for a spot in one of the three highway lanes few hundred yards ahead. It was bedlam. Cars were crossing 3, 4, even 7 lanes of traffic, jockeying for position. One woman came flying past us on the left and nearly clipped the front of the car as she merged in front of us. "Holy FUCK!" Sami shouted as he slammed on the brakes and swerved to avoid her. I was clutching the door handle and trying to keep my mouth shut so he could concentrate. "Did you see that shit?!" he was rolling up the window and simultaneously waving his hand in the air, gesturing towards her car. "Her side mirror is still folded in - she doesn't even have her side mirror open."

I was sympathetic. "Honey, do you really think she was going to use that mirror anyway? She probably hasn't even noticed it's folded in. If she had, she would have fixed it before getting on the interstate. And she would have seen us in her reariew mirror, anyway - if she had been looking. Which clearly, she wasn't."

"That's true" he muttered. "I guess mirrors aren't necessary if you don't appear to use any mirrors at all."

"I'm hungry" Lucy said from the backseat. It was a sore subject. The kids had refused all offers to stop for food earlier - and now we had passed all the good rest stops - My favorites were in Maryland, where both the Maryland House and the Chesapeake House have Popeyes, Burger King, Cinnabon AND Starbucks, and huge family bathrooms. It's like mecca for chrissakes. You can smell the Cinnabon from the highway. But once you get towards the top of the New Jersey turnpike, they rest stop food options turn to Sbarros and Arby's, with a Nathan's Hotdogs thrown in for good measure, and frankly I'd rather go hungry and pee on the side of the road than eat that shit.

So I handed her a muffin. NOT THAT KIND OF MUFFIN.

sexy ankles keep a marriage strong

2011-07-07T03:23:00.001-10:00

"Can you see my ankles in these pants?"

"Dude, I can see your shins in those pants."

"Damn."

"No bueno, man. Gotta get new pants. Hate to say it but wowzers, they got those wrong."

It was late at night, in a hotel room in the middle of nowhere, on the 4th of July weekend. The kids were passed out on one bed, and I was sitting on the edge of another craning my neck to check out Sam's tuxedo. We had a wedding the next day, and he had just gotten off a plane.

And the tux didn't fit.

I lay back on the bed and absentmindedly scratched the rash on my forehead that had popped up with perfect timing that morning. Either I had touched something I was allergic to, or it was a reaction to the antibiotics I had been taking. I didn't really care why I had the rash, I just needed it to go away - it was really itchy and super unattractive and covered not just my forehead, but also half my face, and my neck. And it was creeping onto my chest. I was starting to wonder if it had been brought on by stress.

None of the tuxes had been right. Either they hadn't fit, or the tie had been the wrong color, or the shirt had been pleated instead of flat front. Some guys had cufflinks, some didn't. And when I had picked up Sam's tux myself, earlier that day, I had been aware of the issues, and made sure I had the right sizes and colors and styles. Except. The pants were too short.

I wasn't surprised, but it still sucked six ways til Sunday. Because what this meant was that tomorrow morning, after 3 weeks of not seeing each other, we were going to spend another day apart. He was going to leave and spend the morning getting new tux pants, and the afternoon as an usher, while I spent another day wrangling two kids and trying not to lose my cool. Only this time it was going to involve dress clothes and an orthadox church.

But what can you do? It's a wedding, it's family, and he did look pretty hot from the knees up so in my mind it was worth it. I would gladly give up 3 hours in the morning, for 12 hours of my husband in a tuxedo later. And we didn't have to return it until the next morning.

Bonus. Let's get our James Bond on - no pants required.

The thing that was really bugging me about all of this was the moments leading up to that slo-mo Hallmark moment when he ran up to my car at the airport, dropped his bags on the curb, and swung me around like a soldier home on leave greeting his best girl. Even the cop gave us a minute before blowing his whistle and reminding us it was an active loading zone we were making out in.

It would have been so much better had I not been sweaty and my arms shaking uncontrollably.

I had just completed the pre-wedding triathalon: tux, shoes, airport - and I was totally drained by the time I found my husband standing on the sidewalk in the crowd of arrivals.

It started innocently enough. I was going to leave the kids at the beach with their cousins, drive to Boston, pick up a tuxedo, get Sam, and drive back to the beach. But of course there were complications. The first one being that I had absolutely no idea where the tuxedo shop was. Turns out, it was in the middle of a pedestrian mall - with no parking or driving allowed. So I ditched the car in Chinatown and went racing through the narrow streets, some smelling not-so-faintly of piss, some so foreboding that I turned around and ran back in the opposite direction looking for an alternate route. I got to the tux shop an hour before closing - and 15 minutes before Sam was due to land. After checking the bag carefully, I remembered a key element:

"Oh yeah, we need the shoes."
"You didn't order shoes."
"Sure I did! I put his shoe size on the little card thing-y."
"No, no shoes."
"Well, okay, whatever, I need shoes. Can you just add them to the tab?"
"No."
"Um......can I pay seperately?"
"No."
"......."
"We don't have any shoes." The man was saying this like there was something wrong with me. I looked around wildly. I was in a place with the words "Men's" and "Warehouse" in the name. There were displays of shoes. I was renting a tux. I needed shoes.
"I don't understand. The wedding is tomorrow. You rent clothes for weddings. I NEED SHOES FOR THE WEDDING." I checked my watch. The plane was landing in 5 minutes. I was in the center of Boston, 10 minutes from my car, arguing about renting patent leather shoes? I mean, let's be real. NO ONE wants to rent those damn shoes. They must have garbage bags full of them in the back. RIGHT?

Apparently, not. Not right at all. No shoes.

"I can sell you some shoes." the man said helpfully. I glared at him. I didn't want to buy ugly shoes. I wanted to borrow them for 36 hours. I grabbed the tuxedo and ran out the door. 2 minutes til touchdown. I needed shoes. I stood in the middle of the street and got my bearings. Macy's. I was going to Macy's. THEY would have shoes.

The salesman took one look at me and dropped the stack of shoeboxes he was taking to the back. "How can I help?" I stood there clutching the garment bag to my chest, and gave a silent prayer of thanks. "I need a pair of black, super comfortable shoes for a man morally opposed to wearing shoes in a size 13 that can be worn with or without dress socks and that are not hideously ugly or $100. Do you have anything like that?"

He did. While he was ringing me up, my phone dinged. "SAM AIRPORT 7:21" flashed on my screen, reminding me I was supposed to be at the airport. I would have called and left him a voicemail, but that leads me to my next problem.

Sam had put his cellphone thought the washing machine the day before. He was unreachable.
He had been calling me from payphones as he made his way across the US, checking in at airports during his layovers, letting me know his progress. Hopefuly he would call soon. In the meantime, I raced out of Macy's with my purse on one elbow, the shopping bag o'shoes dangling from the other wrist, and holding the garment bag over my head as I weaved through the crowds. I rounded the corner and headed down the cobblestoned street, cutting through a parking lot and dodging traffic.

I made it back to the car, threw the stuff in the back, climbed in the drivers seat, and gingerly maneuvered my way out of the parkiing space and onto the narrow street. I got to the stop sign at the end of the block and realized I had absolutely no idea where I was going. My phone rang as I tried to type LOGAN AIRPORT into the gps. "Hi honey, I'm here." I looked up and saw a cop watching me and dropped the phone into my lap. "HONEY I CAN'T TALK I'M DRIVING I'LL BE THERE SOON GOTTA GO COP"

"I can't hear you sweetie" his voice drifted through the line. I hit end and swerved into traffic. He'd figure it out.

And so did I. I found the airport, I found my husband, and now all we needed to do was find some tux pants that had an inseam longer than 26 inches. No problem, we just had to go to Men's Warehouse and get a new pair. It's a warehouse.....there must be tons of pants there.

Whether whips and chains excite me is exactly NONE of your business. Tipper, you win.

2011-06-30T05:39:00.000-10:00

We've been spending a lot of time in the car, listening to the radio. Radio on Maui is pretty limited - we have a few amazing DJ's who really put their heart into it and support local musicians as well - which is fabulous. And every day, it's getting better - MUCH better. A landmark day for me was the morning that I heard Mumford and Son's for the first time while taking the kids to school. Blew my mind. The music, and also that I had heard it on a fairly sedate station that usually plays a lot of classic rock. The times, they are a-changing.

But a lot of it is still pretty lame. And heavy on the ukulele and the reggae.

So when we got to my hometown on the East Coast, I tuned the dial to the station I listened to most as a teenager. The one where you could call up and get on the air and make an attempt to be witty and coy with a bored DJ who is stuck there until midnight fielding calls from giggling 13 year olds. Mostly top-40, nothing too groundbreaking, and you hear a lot of the same songs over and over and over again. I wanted to know what the kids were listening to these days.

After a few weeks of hearing the same 40 songs in heavy rotation, I found myself humming along, really listening to the lyrics for the first time.

Houston, we have a problem.

I hate to say anything, because I am all about freedom of speech and I still think of Tipper Gore as that uptight bitch who tried to ruin music for everyone. One of my favorite songs in highschool was the Anthrax song with the chorus that began: "you fucking whore". I am not uptight, about music or much else, actually. A little OCD, sure. But I can live and let live.

However, my living has been dialed back a bit, now that I have kids of a certain age. Now that my 6 year old daughter keeps singing Katy Perry and Lady Gaga songs in the bathtub, I am starting to FREAK OUT A LITTLE BIT. I am just waiting for the day that she prances out of her room covered in roast beef from the deli drawer. The photos in my people magazine make it clear that life without MTV is a very good thing while my kids are young. I just don't want to answer their questions yet. I'm not ready. And what's more - I don't know the answers. However, because we are not living in a bubble, and because I am not going to listen to Raffi for one more minute of my life, it's getting harder to avoid addressing some stuff I would rather not address at the present time. This point was hammered home during a recent drive to Target.

I was cruising along the highway, listening to a catchy little tune by Rhiannon, when it hit me like that 18 wheeler that was passing me on the right. (Which, by the way, is a post for another time.)

Now, of course, I had heard a bit of the hype about her latest hit. Something about it being gratuitous and overtly sexual. And I thought "Whatever. Get over it. Call Tipper Gore, I'm sure she'll lend you her ear." I am an independent woman. A free thinker. I say "fuck" all day long and I can't see that changing anytime soon. I can handle some song about sex sung by that cute little Rhiannon. And since she is still linked to the terrible incident with that ex-boyfriend of heres, how bad could it be, right? She's JUST SO SWEET.

And then Rhiannon told me that sex was in the air and she loved the smell of it, and I stopped singing along.

Frantically, I tried to think of other words I could possibly sing instead, so that my daughter could grow up with the same skewed version of song lyrics that I did. (I mean, honestly - do you know the actual lyrics to "Iko Iko?" OF COURSE YOU DON'T.) Then while my mind was still reeling, Rhiannon informed my 6 year old that whips and chains excited her, and Lucy's eyes grew round. "WHAT DID SHE SAY?" Lucy's mouth was hanging open in the backseat. Max looked up from his video game. "What? What did she say?"

Great. Now I have the hormonal, prepubescent boy tuned in too. That is wonderful. This is just great. And Rhiannon WOULD NOT SHUT UP. She repeated herself, in case my children might have missed it the first time.

Just to be clear.

Just in case there was any question in their formerly innocent little minds.

I changed the station - which is exactly what I had suggested Tipper and all the other complainers should do. Don't like it? Change the channel. And I did. But there were still questions coming fast and furious from the backseat. And I will tell you right now - I had no idea what to say. Frankly, I was still trying to come to terms with the time warp I had just traveled - I was now the grownup, completely freaked out by graphic lyrics? HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED.

A few minutes later, we went back to the radio station, and thankfully, another song was on. Apparently, this clown woke up with a tattoo that looked like Zach Galifianakis. I just shook my head. You had to admire the brass balls of writing those words - never mind having them rhyme.What the HELL rhymes with "Galifianakis"? "Pocket", apparently. The fact that I have now heard this song approximately 6 THOUSAND TIMES IN TWO WEEKS says a lot about the music playing on top 40. Super catchy, but these lyrics are going to put me in an early grave. I think I am going to start a satellite radio station - because this is too nuts for terrestrial radio - where I edit all the song lyrics and play these hits - over and over again - in a vacuum of G-rated lovliness. (No g-strings required, thanks.)

As I was dreaming of what a huge market I could reach, intentionally misinterpreting hit songs for the masses, another song came on. This one is celebrating laziness, by telling us, in chilling detail, exactly what goes on behind closed doors when a guy is home alone. I think we all know what happens and frankly I think men should attempt to keep this on the down-low. Because honestly? It's just not that attractive, what you all do when you think no one is watching. And this song celebrates every disgusting detail. "Turn the TV on, throw my hand in my pants.....cause in my castle I'm the freaking maaaan."

Well. You just keep telling yourself that, chief. You tell me you're going to find a really nice girl and have some really nice sex - but really nice girls don't want you singing about it on the radio. And they certainly don't want the sounds that they make broadcast for all to hear. My 10 year old thought it was hysterical, however. Thanks for that. Here's a hot tip for you - if some girl is screaming out "This is great" during sex, than you are either 1. paying her or 2. doing it wrong. Because I have had some great sex - and I have never screamed out anything coherent, ever, when it was any good at all. But I guess that would really rhyme with p90x, would it? And what exactly is that, anyway? Is it like Viagra? because honestly, I would be advertising that either, man.

I cannot believe I am going to say this, but it's true. I miss "Baby Beluga". I really, really do.