Nothing funny here. Just a reminder about something important. I like the words I used to describe yoga to my brother-in-law so I'm going to repeat them here.
For me, Bikram yoga has replaced the operating room, physical therapy, medication and the gym. I can't say enough good about it. A healthy spine and strong core are gifts to myself that I don't know how I lived without. A dark, scary time in my life a year and a half ago, when I was scheduled for three level fusion surgery of my cervical spine, has turned into something beneficial that touches all areas of my life, mental as well as physical.
I don't want to go on and on because, just like blabbering to a mother-to-be about your labor and early parenting experiences, the uninitiated have no frame of reference in which to process the information.
Try a class if there is one near you. Go to www.bikramyoga.com. The class finder link is on the left. If not, at least try a hatha yoga class, the therapeutic benefits may take longer without the aid of the heat, but the postures in Bikram yoga are based on hatha yoga.
Happy strengthening and stretching and sweating. The end.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Rain.
So I head out today for a certain "salon" appointment. I tend to put this one off because it, well, HURTS. Anyway. I arrive at my appointment after driving through dust/ash/mud slicked streets that are enjoying their first soaking rain in almost a year. Whee. It turns out that the crappy-ass neighborhood my salon has recently relocated to has a minor issue with storms. I didn't make much notice of the three major intersections I passed through that had police directing traffic until I show up for my appointment and find out there's been no power to the area since 9pm last night. Hmmm. New appointment for next Monday. Now I've got to psych myself up all over again.
Upside: I'm offered a free skin-care product for my inconvenience. Yay.
Then, I get on the freeway to return home. Oops. ALL lanes blocked, probably due to some unseen tragedy up the hill and around the curve. I'm starting to wonder about this much needed storm.
Upside: It's not my car that caused the back-up.
So finally I arrive home, it took about an hour to creep to the next exit and wind my way through side streets, ala Steve Martin's commute in "L.A. Story." I hit the driveway, push the gate opener and find one more casualty of the rain. Yup, gate won't open. My car's ass is hanging out into the street while I grapple with the oily, dirty pin so I can open the gate manually, and I slip and fall flat on my face into the dust/ash/mud stream coming off our property.
Upside: Power isn't out to the house, so hopefully we only need a fuse, or mabye a new transformer. And, I was already doing laundry...
So I'm still thinking maybe this run of bad luck is the storm's fault when I remember that it was yesterday that I discovered, before all this rain started, that my AMEX card showed six fraudulent charges.
Upside: Whoever stole my credit card info. was smart enough to use a fake phone number and email, but overlooked the fact that all the weird crap they ordered online was still being delivered to my address.
Anyway, now that I've documented my string of bad luck, I hope it will leave me alone for a while. And rain, I'm sorry I doubted you, keep it coming.
Upside: I'm offered a free skin-care product for my inconvenience. Yay.
Then, I get on the freeway to return home. Oops. ALL lanes blocked, probably due to some unseen tragedy up the hill and around the curve. I'm starting to wonder about this much needed storm.
Upside: It's not my car that caused the back-up.
So finally I arrive home, it took about an hour to creep to the next exit and wind my way through side streets, ala Steve Martin's commute in "L.A. Story." I hit the driveway, push the gate opener and find one more casualty of the rain. Yup, gate won't open. My car's ass is hanging out into the street while I grapple with the oily, dirty pin so I can open the gate manually, and I slip and fall flat on my face into the dust/ash/mud stream coming off our property.
Upside: Power isn't out to the house, so hopefully we only need a fuse, or mabye a new transformer. And, I was already doing laundry...
So I'm still thinking maybe this run of bad luck is the storm's fault when I remember that it was yesterday that I discovered, before all this rain started, that my AMEX card showed six fraudulent charges.
Upside: Whoever stole my credit card info. was smart enough to use a fake phone number and email, but overlooked the fact that all the weird crap they ordered online was still being delivered to my address.
Anyway, now that I've documented my string of bad luck, I hope it will leave me alone for a while. And rain, I'm sorry I doubted you, keep it coming.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
A half acre ain't gonna be enough..
There have been many creature funerals at our house. Everything from the cat who came before the kids to a praying mantis that was killed with kindness. The mice are buried on the wild back hill, the fish went, um, down the toilet, and the lizards have their own well-populated rocky area near the cactus.
Today I discovered a private burial site for something I didn't even know ranked it's own funeral.
My youngest daughter's favorite plaything all weekend was a balloon with a gobstopper inside. Who knows the appeal? All I remember is it watched TV and slept with her for several days. I'm sure that I've mentioned in the past that she's a combination of immature for her age and also very nurturing?
Anyway, unfortunately, on Monday after school, it met the end the way most balloons do. It popped unexpectedly, scared the shit out of all living things within range, and the gobstopper disappeared under the dusty recesses of some (yet to be identified) piece of furniture.
I saw her tear up, but how much sympathy can I muster for a balloon that just about stopped my heart? I breezed over her disappointment and got on with whatever important Mom thing (facebook) I was doing.
My sweet little thing handled it in her own way...there are now two new headstones in the yard with fresh flowers scatted in front of them. One for "ballooney" and one for "gobbey". They even post the day and year (month excluded) of their demise and a RIP rounds out the epitaph. How touching in a strange little girl sort of way...Love ya Mads.
And, yes, like my sister-in-law suggested, I may need a bigger yard soon.
Today I discovered a private burial site for something I didn't even know ranked it's own funeral.
My youngest daughter's favorite plaything all weekend was a balloon with a gobstopper inside. Who knows the appeal? All I remember is it watched TV and slept with her for several days. I'm sure that I've mentioned in the past that she's a combination of immature for her age and also very nurturing?
Anyway, unfortunately, on Monday after school, it met the end the way most balloons do. It popped unexpectedly, scared the shit out of all living things within range, and the gobstopper disappeared under the dusty recesses of some (yet to be identified) piece of furniture.
I saw her tear up, but how much sympathy can I muster for a balloon that just about stopped my heart? I breezed over her disappointment and got on with whatever important Mom thing (facebook) I was doing.
My sweet little thing handled it in her own way...there are now two new headstones in the yard with fresh flowers scatted in front of them. One for "ballooney" and one for "gobbey". They even post the day and year (month excluded) of their demise and a RIP rounds out the epitaph. How touching in a strange little girl sort of way...Love ya Mads.
And, yes, like my sister-in-law suggested, I may need a bigger yard soon.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
My favorite season.
OK, so my spawn have returned to school.
Fourth day now to be exact.
I can run around accomplishing the mundane tasks of "wife and mom" without any input from the peanut gallery about when we should leave Costco or just how many errands is too many in one outing.
Big sigh of relief.
I can browse the net without someone reading over my shoulder and, today, I turned the car stereo WAY up and listened to a whole damn song without interruption.
Another whew.
One problem.
I keep making comments out loud, like maybe someone is listening.
Is it possible that I..gasp..miss them!
That's crazy!
Have they evolved enough from the needy hell that is baby and toddler that I now might actually LIKE having them around?
Oh, shit, I just looked at the time, I only have an hour left before school pick-up.
That's nowhere near enough physical and mental space for one day.
I take it all back, thank god for school.
Fourth day now to be exact.
I can run around accomplishing the mundane tasks of "wife and mom" without any input from the peanut gallery about when we should leave Costco or just how many errands is too many in one outing.
Big sigh of relief.
I can browse the net without someone reading over my shoulder and, today, I turned the car stereo WAY up and listened to a whole damn song without interruption.
Another whew.
One problem.
I keep making comments out loud, like maybe someone is listening.
Is it possible that I..gasp..miss them!
That's crazy!
Have they evolved enough from the needy hell that is baby and toddler that I now might actually LIKE having them around?
Oh, shit, I just looked at the time, I only have an hour left before school pick-up.
That's nowhere near enough physical and mental space for one day.
I take it all back, thank god for school.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Summer
As an adult, I still look forward to summer with the anticipation of FREEDOM that those months brought to me as a child. Not only did the responsibility of school fall away, but so did the need for boots, mittens, sweaters, umbrellas, heck, clothing in general.
We would get up in the morning, throw on a swimsuit, succumb to the dousing of "OFF" (I grew up in Minnesota) and head out on our bikes to dig melted tar out of the street, skateboard down the spiral freeway pedestrian ramps, and plan the dreaded "can my friend sleepover" ambush on our parent(s). Pushing around those fluid filled blisters on our shoulders on a drive back from the day at the lake in the scorching sun was unending entertainment.
Church camp on a leech-filled lake four hours outside the city was our idea of heaven. The kids ran free for a week while the parents drank themselves into a boozier state of "holier-than-thou". There was nothing better than passing the swimming test to get your ankle bracelet that allowed unquestioned access to the raft 100 yards out into the lake.
You all know where this is going....Now I am the parent, when in the hell did that happen? I am surprised every year by the massive amount of responsibility and reduction of free time that summer rains on me.
WTF? My new favorite month is September, and NOT because both my girls made their entrance into this world then, or because I got married in that month, big deal. Whatever the date school starts on the first Thursday after Labor Day is my ticket back to sanity, order, and bedtimes in the single digits. The anticipation of freedom that I used to feel as a child at the beginning of summer has now shifted to fall.
Now...all I have to do is make sure my kids never get a whiff of the added work, the explosion of mess and NEED that this wondrous time of year creates. I want them to remember me buzzed on the beach with my boring friends while they run free on their scooters and bikes and boogie boards. They don't need to know how much effort and time is needed to produce these carefree memories.
So far this summer we have traveled to Portugal and Spain, blown up our own illegal fireworks, culitvated zucchini, tomatoes and beans, made paper, hung out at Venice Beach, ridden mechanical bulls, created underwater videos in the pool, and there have been no trips to the ER. Still in the works are trips to see family in the Northwest and a week camping at the beach.
I'm gonna pat myself on the back for a great first five weeks and hope my children come away with some lasting memories of fun and freedom. I'll ask them twenty years from now just how great it was...
We would get up in the morning, throw on a swimsuit, succumb to the dousing of "OFF" (I grew up in Minnesota) and head out on our bikes to dig melted tar out of the street, skateboard down the spiral freeway pedestrian ramps, and plan the dreaded "can my friend sleepover" ambush on our parent(s). Pushing around those fluid filled blisters on our shoulders on a drive back from the day at the lake in the scorching sun was unending entertainment.
Church camp on a leech-filled lake four hours outside the city was our idea of heaven. The kids ran free for a week while the parents drank themselves into a boozier state of "holier-than-thou". There was nothing better than passing the swimming test to get your ankle bracelet that allowed unquestioned access to the raft 100 yards out into the lake.
You all know where this is going....Now I am the parent, when in the hell did that happen? I am surprised every year by the massive amount of responsibility and reduction of free time that summer rains on me.
WTF? My new favorite month is September, and NOT because both my girls made their entrance into this world then, or because I got married in that month, big deal. Whatever the date school starts on the first Thursday after Labor Day is my ticket back to sanity, order, and bedtimes in the single digits. The anticipation of freedom that I used to feel as a child at the beginning of summer has now shifted to fall.
Now...all I have to do is make sure my kids never get a whiff of the added work, the explosion of mess and NEED that this wondrous time of year creates. I want them to remember me buzzed on the beach with my boring friends while they run free on their scooters and bikes and boogie boards. They don't need to know how much effort and time is needed to produce these carefree memories.
So far this summer we have traveled to Portugal and Spain, blown up our own illegal fireworks, culitvated zucchini, tomatoes and beans, made paper, hung out at Venice Beach, ridden mechanical bulls, created underwater videos in the pool, and there have been no trips to the ER. Still in the works are trips to see family in the Northwest and a week camping at the beach.
I'm gonna pat myself on the back for a great first five weeks and hope my children come away with some lasting memories of fun and freedom. I'll ask them twenty years from now just how great it was...
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Trading addictions.
So I'm a facebook whore. I can't stay away. At first, the draw was reconnecting with all the people I friended and lost in my many moves. Then it was Scrabble. Now it's Mafia Wars.
I barely even update my status anymore because any feedback I get on that might take away precious time better spent banking my money, robbing unsuspecting landlords and attacking other mafias. I won't even go into the shopping sprees where I acquire my many tools of violence.
I figured out today that my kids are suffering. Jos is begging for an email and a facebook page so she can join in on my obsession. Oops. Madeline has created a menagerie of clay sculptures in colors of clay we don't own, she's been "clay mixing" and forming friends while perched directly in front of the TV for hours on end. Double oops.
So I decided that I will only hit the internet when they are at school or asleep. Needless to say, I managed to wash a few dishes today, return some shoes, clean the cat box, and still spend about three hours buried in my make-believe world of crime and, uh, more crime.
My only hope now is for someone to take a hit out on Don Kempsey and end this obsessive nonsense. Ooh, ooh, I'm gonna go check to see if I'm still alive.
I barely even update my status anymore because any feedback I get on that might take away precious time better spent banking my money, robbing unsuspecting landlords and attacking other mafias. I won't even go into the shopping sprees where I acquire my many tools of violence.
I figured out today that my kids are suffering. Jos is begging for an email and a facebook page so she can join in on my obsession. Oops. Madeline has created a menagerie of clay sculptures in colors of clay we don't own, she's been "clay mixing" and forming friends while perched directly in front of the TV for hours on end. Double oops.
So I decided that I will only hit the internet when they are at school or asleep. Needless to say, I managed to wash a few dishes today, return some shoes, clean the cat box, and still spend about three hours buried in my make-believe world of crime and, uh, more crime.
My only hope now is for someone to take a hit out on Don Kempsey and end this obsessive nonsense. Ooh, ooh, I'm gonna go check to see if I'm still alive.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Secret Lives of Cats
I have not written about the cats lately. They are as different from each other as my children.
Lilly is fluffy, clean, long-haired. She has a massive tail and tiny little crossed eyes that make her look sweet and a bit worried.
Bongo has short, wiry fur and a tiny body for such a fierce warrior. He's a bundle of muscles and curiosity and dirt.
We have been in and out of town a lot lately. The cats are allowed outside, but when we are gone, I just lock them in.
When we return, both run outside immediately to roll around on the driveway, because that's way better than rolling around on the wood floor. Then they follow us around for a while to say "we missed you", then it's business as usual.
For Lilly, she sits near a bush and watches the bugs fly around.
Bongo will rush around looking for something to kill and when it's dead he brings it back for Lilly to play with.
I often imagine what they do for days on end when we are away. Maybe something like this...
Lilly: "Bongo, there's no use trying to get outside, why don't you follow my lead and take a bath or something?"
Bongo: "Quiet! I see a squirrel. If I paw at this glass hard enough I think I'll get out.
Lilly: "If you really want to do something productive, see if you can get that bag of treats open."
Bongo: "Treats! My treat is that BIRD right outside, aaaahhh, must get BIRD!
Lilly: "Bongo, where are you going now? That's the family room, you can't get out that way either and the food, water, and couch are over here...OH, not again! I've told you a million times, the only thing that happens when you climb up the inside of the fireplace is you get more filthy!"
Bongo: "OK, I'm at the top, I can smell the outside, but you're right, and I'm stuck again. Can you talk me down? I keep forgetting how to climb backwards."
Lilly; "I'll help you out of the chimney, but you HAVE to promise to bathe once I get you out."
Bongo: (Claws crossed) "OK, I'll do it, now get me down so I can look for another escape route."
Lilly: "It's been two days, could you spare a moment to get the soot off the underside of your feet and maybe clean your ass while you are at it?"
Bongo: "Stop complaining, I licked my tail for a while yesterday, jeez. LIZARD! Oh god, my life sucks. Where ARE my humans?"
...and so on.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Tis birthday season.
The gift suggestion list my husband gave me for shopping with the girls for his birthday.
Running shoes.
Collar stays.
White work shirts.
Good God. My husband needs a hobby.
Other than Facebook Scrabble.
Memorial Day weekend will be a welcome infusion of NATURE at the beach. No internet access, lots of sand and surf and beer and campfires.
Maybe I'll even start a game of Scrabble with a real board.
Running shoes.
Collar stays.
White work shirts.
Good God. My husband needs a hobby.
Other than Facebook Scrabble.
Memorial Day weekend will be a welcome infusion of NATURE at the beach. No internet access, lots of sand and surf and beer and campfires.
Maybe I'll even start a game of Scrabble with a real board.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Random thoughts II
Back to the tabula rasa thing...how can I have one child who returns from school missing all the skin from her knees and elbows and no adult there is the wiser, while the other child has her own chair at the nurse's office and my cell is on speed dial?
I'm going to start dropping hints to my daughters about eloping when the time comes..
I recently learned that porcupines don't have quills on their bellies in order to more comfortably give other porcupines "a big hug" at certain times of the year. I think that will be my new code phrase to hubs...The flip side of that, if I stop shaving, then do I get the bed to myself?
I'm relentlessly spinning Amos Lee, if I don't stop soon I'm going to slip into a self induced depression. I need happy music suggestions. Eric Hutchinson is all I've got.
Why is there a dive meet on Mother's Day weekend?
I'm going to start dropping hints to my daughters about eloping when the time comes..
I recently learned that porcupines don't have quills on their bellies in order to more comfortably give other porcupines "a big hug" at certain times of the year. I think that will be my new code phrase to hubs...The flip side of that, if I stop shaving, then do I get the bed to myself?
I'm relentlessly spinning Amos Lee, if I don't stop soon I'm going to slip into a self induced depression. I need happy music suggestions. Eric Hutchinson is all I've got.
Why is there a dive meet on Mother's Day weekend?
Monday, April 27, 2009
Whew.
So the wedding we attended last weekend went off without a hitch.Looking back, I realize I was witness to a study in courage.
There was a multitude of children present. Every single one of them dressed to a tee. Tuxedos, ties, tights and heels abounded. For many, it was their first time in clothes somewhat less comfortable than pajamas. I didn't hear one peep of complaint. After a decade of parenthood, I claim the right to call that behavior surprisingly mature, if not brave. Especially when I had my heels off as soon as we hit the cocktail area.
I watched the bride's father hand off his beautiful young daughter to the groom without losing it. Even after several beers. Go Dave!
And last, but not least, I listened to high school sweethearts speak idyllic words of undying love, commitment and eternity. Their vows were taken in front of an audience filled with parents, step-parents, half-siblings, significant others of grandparents, and who knows who else in our culture of blended families built on failed relationships. Now that took some big brass ones.
I did the same thing almost two decades ago. My husband and I were the same age and my step-family filled half the church. We knew the odds were stacked against us. Through our moves and jobs and children, we have forged ahead.
Life isn't like those fairy tale words spoken at the altar, but if Jenny and Caleb stay true to the team they were on their wedding day, they'll do just fine.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Formal Wear
How to shop for wedding dresses for your beach-bum-comfort-addicted-accessory-challenged-school-uniform-wearing tween daughters.
1. Slug back a few drinks. Your husband can drive, he's coming along because he is incapable of spending time alone.
2. Hit the children's sections at Ross, TJ Maxx and Marshalls one week after Easter and hope for a clearance bonanza on badly made, highly flammable, pastel explosions of "unique" fabrics and cuts.
3. Watch your daughter's faces go ashen at the selection. Internally relive countless horrible "you have to wear this" moments from your own childhood.
4. Find one perfect match for the child who cares the least about what's on her body. Start praying to the dress gods that you will not have to commission a one-of-a-kind piece for what the other child has in mind.
5. While the oldest is trying on the trillionth ugly dress, ask how she would like to do her hair in an attempt to distract from the fact that her legs are exposed. Her legs are hairier than a testosterone soaked Greek man, and if she notices her lower extremities she'll again beg for the bleaching cream torture. That's FUN.
5. Realize that whatever the end product of all this shopping, chances are, flip-flops or Uggs will not be the appropriate shoe for the outfit and the shopping will start all over again tomorrow.
6. Wind up the first day by bribing everyone to let you shop alone the next day.
7. Remember that shopping alone means having to shop sober, have a change of heart and invite them all along for round two.
1. Slug back a few drinks. Your husband can drive, he's coming along because he is incapable of spending time alone.
2. Hit the children's sections at Ross, TJ Maxx and Marshalls one week after Easter and hope for a clearance bonanza on badly made, highly flammable, pastel explosions of "unique" fabrics and cuts.
3. Watch your daughter's faces go ashen at the selection. Internally relive countless horrible "you have to wear this" moments from your own childhood.
4. Find one perfect match for the child who cares the least about what's on her body. Start praying to the dress gods that you will not have to commission a one-of-a-kind piece for what the other child has in mind.
5. While the oldest is trying on the trillionth ugly dress, ask how she would like to do her hair in an attempt to distract from the fact that her legs are exposed. Her legs are hairier than a testosterone soaked Greek man, and if she notices her lower extremities she'll again beg for the bleaching cream torture. That's FUN.
5. Realize that whatever the end product of all this shopping, chances are, flip-flops or Uggs will not be the appropriate shoe for the outfit and the shopping will start all over again tomorrow.
6. Wind up the first day by bribing everyone to let you shop alone the next day.
7. Remember that shopping alone means having to shop sober, have a change of heart and invite them all along for round two.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
I love Bikram Yoga, but..
I have a love/hate relationship with my yoga. First a bit of history, then a story or two.
I have referred to yoga often in the first couple of months on this blog. The route that brought me to it is cluttered with greedy, self-serving doctors, prescription meds and boring ass physical therapy.
Last year, while wrestling for control of my own medical decisions regarding multiple issues in my cervical spine, I kept hearing well-meaning converts preach about yoga. I had closed my mind to three-level fusion surgery that the neurosurgeon said was "urgent." I was stagnating in PT, gaining strength but still medicating permanently knotted muscles with anti-inflammatories, narcotics and muscle relaxers. I decided yoga would be my next proactive step.
I had never done any yoga when I chose my class from the local community college bulletin. There were four or five styles to choose from, I read the minimal description for each one and blindly chose Bikram's Beginning Yoga. The postures themselves are a form of hatha yoga, widely practiced in the US. The difference with Bikram's style is the heat of the room-105 degrees-and the length of the class-ninety minutes.
I now know that "beginning" is a bit deceptive. Newbies are given the goal of "just remaining in the room" for the full ninety minutes of their first class. Unless you become a teacher, which is an intensive and sequestered nine week course, there are no advanced classes. Everyone always does the beginning class. Each class is the same series of twenty-six poses, done twice. You work only as far as your own body will go. The person next to you may have been practicing for ten minutes or ten years.
I don't remember much about my first class except that I hated it. At the end I collapsed on my puddle of a towel and tried to figure out how I was going to drag my ass off the floor. I hadn't sat out any poses. I survived, but barely.
I found myself back at the studio again the next night. Why? Now I knew what I was in for and I was terrified. At the same time, the sense of accomplishment that had buoyed me all day told me to get my scared, sore body back in there for another go-around. So I did.
That was last June. I had a bunch of fits and starts during my busy summer, and finally settled down into a regular three or four day a week practice last fall. I no longer take any medications. Not only that, my forty-year-old body, always small, always in shape, is healthier than it's ever been, inside and out.
What's not to like?
Well, some days are miserable in class, just like some days in life. If you don't master the delicate balance and timing of food and hydration you can be in for a tough(er) haul. Also, the teacher's personalities vary widely. I enjoy most of them for how each one brings out something different in my practice. There has never been an instructor that has motivated me to turn around, walk away and come back another day.
There is now.
Tuesday night I drew the short straw. I'd had the evening's teacher once before, but it was last summer. I remember him being confident, making personal corrections here and there, and having a good grasp on the heating system. Two nights ago he was much more than that. He was rock-star arrogant, the room was more oveny than usual-not enough humidity-and he was obviously frustrated with several of the students he knew well.
There I was, quietly sweating my way through class, happy that it wasn't too cold, and keeping to myself on one side of the room. I was at a sister-studio, not my usual one, so I was a bit out of my comfort zone but holding my own. We were getting close to the end of the standing series (the first hour of class) and out of the blue, Jeff looks over in my direction and says "You've done quite a number on MY MIRROR." Sure enough, I look to my right and the side mirror has a handful of sweat trails running from my head to the floor, displayed for all to see. It's nothing out of the ordinary, by the last class of the day most of the mirrors are coated in the exertions of the day. Not this mirror, it was spotless except for my location. He must have cleaned BEFORE class. What sense does that make?
I acknowledged his comment with some kind of shrug or nod, we're not really encouraged to talk in class, and continued on. About 20 minutes later, near the end of class and in the middle of dialog (a continuous set of timed verbal instructions that the teacher leads the class with...) he walks over to a utility closet, grabs a RAG and some WINDEX and, while still talking us through our pose, walks over to the mirror by me and CLEANS it!
Not only did the smell of the cleaner set me off my game (odors are tough to handle in that environment) but I suddenly grasped just how amazingly disrespectful he was being. The urge to kill the asshole didn't surface until after class ended. Fuck, thanks for the humiliation.
If he's at the front desk next time I walk into a studio, I have several things I imagine saying to him, but I won't. I'll walk away and save my energy for another class. I WILL gossip to my yoga friends about my experience, hoping for some outraged feedback, but that's all. I have no desire to hang on to those emotions and I highly doubt he'd give a shit what I think. Cest la vie...
The other yoga issue on my mind is an incident that happened two days before Mr. Asshole did his neat-freak number on me. It was last Sunday afternoon at my regular studio. The place was packed with beginners, a new community college session must have been starting. As long as I can get a good spot in the front I usually enjoy the classes full of new yogis. The instructor uses more descriptive dialog, the energy of the huge class is a positive, and I feel pretty good about how far I've come if I get pointed out as a good example.
So we start the class off full and expectant. I'm inspired because my FAVORITE instructor, who is leaving us for Vegas, then Australia (nice life those guest teaches have...) is practicing with us. The first few poses go well, no one has succumbed to heat or exhaustion yet, too early.
Along comes Eagle pose. (See the top of my post for a visual, I can't figure out the whole "add image" thing yet.) In Eagle, you are balancing all your weight on one bent leg, the other leg crosses over that knee and behind the leg with your toes hooked around the calf, and your elbows, forearms and wrists are wrapped up in each other. We are ending the second set of this pose when I HEAR a pop/crack followed by screaming, then another set of crack-crack. Oh god, the woman one row behind and two mats over has hit the ground in an odd collapsed arch, one knee bent in the air and is yelling "help me, help me!" Shit. The instructor for the evening immediately moves into action, she knows this is BAD.
While she soothes Miss Screamer and internally freaks, the other teacher runs for the phone. The paramedics are at the studio within about three minutes. The other forty odd people or so are in varying states of "help" or inertia. I decided not to help, there were plenty of chefs in the kitchen. It gave me plenty of time to listen. I learned that the yoga victim was twenty-nine years! old, had recently given birth and lived at least ten miles away. Crap, that's a lot of effort and planning to get to somewhere to injure yourself in front of an audience. I also learned from the paramedics that she had dislocated her knee and broken her ankle. Ewwww. The screeching and moaning continued as they tried to mobilize her leg for transport. I escaped into the bathroom at that point.
The whole incident only took about fifteen minutes. Once the ambulance left, class continued. To say the least, it wasn't my best class. We all soldiered on, but I'm willing to bet that no one got any kind of inner peace from class that day.
Those are my bitches for the month about my yoga. I'm on my fifth day in a row, two of them involving the incidents described above, so the love must still be outweighing the hate. Back I go tomorrow, a birthday present for myself. Here's hoping I'm the worst one in the class and the rock star is teaching somewhere else...
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Gifting.
I'll be forty-one next week.
My husband is out shopping with the kids as I write. The kids get me gifts, but my husband and I, we do not exchange presents. I put the kibosh on that looong ago.
One year, still back in college when I lived in a studio with no kitchen, he bought me a deep fat fryer, a crock pot, a vacuum and a wok. All at once.
So no more gifts.
The kids have better ideas, but they are dependant on their father to help them secure the goods.
It doesn't always work out as planned.
I own a green yoga mat that I faithfully use several times a week. Green is unofficially banned in my style of yoga (long story) but I schlep the offending mat into class every time.
Although I wear only silver jewelry, I have a "mother's" charm in the shape of a little girl made out of gold and sapphire. I try to remember to switch over to a gold chain every once in a while.
I drink gallons of coffee out of huge mugs, but I use the tiny 6 ounce cup with frogs on it when my littlest is paying attention.
I can't wait to see what comes my way this year.
Even when the kids gifts don't actually hit the mark, they come much closer than any attempt by my husband...
Love ya, hon...don't worry, I already bought myself something from you.
My husband is out shopping with the kids as I write. The kids get me gifts, but my husband and I, we do not exchange presents. I put the kibosh on that looong ago.
One year, still back in college when I lived in a studio with no kitchen, he bought me a deep fat fryer, a crock pot, a vacuum and a wok. All at once.
So no more gifts.
The kids have better ideas, but they are dependant on their father to help them secure the goods.
It doesn't always work out as planned.
I own a green yoga mat that I faithfully use several times a week. Green is unofficially banned in my style of yoga (long story) but I schlep the offending mat into class every time.
Although I wear only silver jewelry, I have a "mother's" charm in the shape of a little girl made out of gold and sapphire. I try to remember to switch over to a gold chain every once in a while.
I drink gallons of coffee out of huge mugs, but I use the tiny 6 ounce cup with frogs on it when my littlest is paying attention.
I can't wait to see what comes my way this year.
Even when the kids gifts don't actually hit the mark, they come much closer than any attempt by my husband...
Love ya, hon...don't worry, I already bought myself something from you.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Time.
There are not enough hours in a day. So cliche.
Many days there are more than enough hours. I just don't always use them efficiently.
My mother is super organized. She thinks I don't plan ahead just to annoy the shit out of her. Good thing we live several states apart.
I don't want to think about what's for dinner at 7am. Even when I don't my family gets fed. And not from bottles and boxes and jars.
There is not a specified time to clean the cat box, but it's rarely overflowing.
I don't have a laundry day. It's every day.
My job is my family. Organization and efficiency are all about the end game. Getting things DONE.
But this work I do, it's never done.
It's a good fit for me I think.
My husband always claims that if he were the one to stay home that the clothes would be folded and put away, the kids wouldn't know art supplies even existed outside of a classroom, and he and the vacuum would have a close personal relationship.
Have at it honey. I'll start looking for an empty padded cell for you...
So instead of focusing on a nonexistent finish line, I set priorities. Today they include ferrying my kids to and from school at the appropriate times, making something edible out of the rotten bananas on the counter, and battling scum in the shower. YAY.
Because I'm my own boss, I also get to "waste" a little time on the blog, in the yoga room, and doing the Thursday crossword.
My lost hours are really just pieces of myself I steal back from the unending circle of mundane busywork. It would be so easy to do my job "better" but then where would that leave me?
I propose that my unorganized life is a sign of maturity, not the opposite. That's my story and I'm sticking to it...
Many days there are more than enough hours. I just don't always use them efficiently.
My mother is super organized. She thinks I don't plan ahead just to annoy the shit out of her. Good thing we live several states apart.
I don't want to think about what's for dinner at 7am. Even when I don't my family gets fed. And not from bottles and boxes and jars.
There is not a specified time to clean the cat box, but it's rarely overflowing.
I don't have a laundry day. It's every day.
My job is my family. Organization and efficiency are all about the end game. Getting things DONE.
But this work I do, it's never done.
It's a good fit for me I think.
My husband always claims that if he were the one to stay home that the clothes would be folded and put away, the kids wouldn't know art supplies even existed outside of a classroom, and he and the vacuum would have a close personal relationship.
Have at it honey. I'll start looking for an empty padded cell for you...
So instead of focusing on a nonexistent finish line, I set priorities. Today they include ferrying my kids to and from school at the appropriate times, making something edible out of the rotten bananas on the counter, and battling scum in the shower. YAY.
Because I'm my own boss, I also get to "waste" a little time on the blog, in the yoga room, and doing the Thursday crossword.
My lost hours are really just pieces of myself I steal back from the unending circle of mundane busywork. It would be so easy to do my job "better" but then where would that leave me?
I propose that my unorganized life is a sign of maturity, not the opposite. That's my story and I'm sticking to it...
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Food Chain.
I'm sitting outside on Friday night. Maybe midnight. Not THAT late, but everyone else in my family is tucked soundly into bed. Not me. I'm sneaking in cigarette, even though I don't smoke anymore. Yeah.
So I'm guiltily enjoying my American Spirit Yellow 'cause that brand makes smoking more worthy somehow...and I reach down to pet our new long haired cat, Lily, when I remember that the cats aren't allowed outside after dark.
ACK! It's the fucking local raccoon scout. Stupid raccoon. He's not only NOT afraid of me, he's cuddling up for a little foreplay before cleaning his grubs on our pool step. Where is your wife, what will your kids think? Do you have no shame? No decency?
Turns out the wife and kids would also like a bit of gratitude for ridding our lawn of those pesky insects. What's ten or fifteen feet of rolled up grass compared to an invasion of grubs and worms and beetles? Oh wait, the bugs are supposed to be there. I just hope there are enough to turn the soil AND feed our raccoon population.
Later, the coyotes will traverse the nighttime highway that is our backyard. They will get no "aww, how cute" from me. Outside of wasps, coyotes are the only living thing for which I harbor murderous intent. The eerie chorus of yipping from a successful hunt lives hauntingly in my mind from my years in Phoenix. I've also heard that awful sound in our own neighborhood in Pasadena. Someone's chihuahua or poodle was the reason for celebration each time here in SoCal. My own OLD cat finally succumbed to their pressure last summer..
Despite the occasional close encounter, I revel in the wildlife that has endured the onslaught of population density. Occasionally we get warnings about mountain lions or bears who have "invaded" our territory. Umm...you've got it backwards ABC7. The beautiful hawk that lives in the Deodar Cedar in our front yard? Eat all the baby bunnies you can find, heck, take a few baby raccoons or coyotes...just leave my kid's cats alone.
P.S. The nearly blind baby skunk that scavenged our front yard every nightfall last summer and was named "Opus" by my daughters, PLEASE, God or whoever, don't let that be the same squashed bloody skunk that I nearly ran over yesterday outside our driveway on the way to school...I told the girls it wasn't.
So I'm guiltily enjoying my American Spirit Yellow 'cause that brand makes smoking more worthy somehow...and I reach down to pet our new long haired cat, Lily, when I remember that the cats aren't allowed outside after dark.
ACK! It's the fucking local raccoon scout. Stupid raccoon. He's not only NOT afraid of me, he's cuddling up for a little foreplay before cleaning his grubs on our pool step. Where is your wife, what will your kids think? Do you have no shame? No decency?
Turns out the wife and kids would also like a bit of gratitude for ridding our lawn of those pesky insects. What's ten or fifteen feet of rolled up grass compared to an invasion of grubs and worms and beetles? Oh wait, the bugs are supposed to be there. I just hope there are enough to turn the soil AND feed our raccoon population.
Later, the coyotes will traverse the nighttime highway that is our backyard. They will get no "aww, how cute" from me. Outside of wasps, coyotes are the only living thing for which I harbor murderous intent. The eerie chorus of yipping from a successful hunt lives hauntingly in my mind from my years in Phoenix. I've also heard that awful sound in our own neighborhood in Pasadena. Someone's chihuahua or poodle was the reason for celebration each time here in SoCal. My own OLD cat finally succumbed to their pressure last summer..
Despite the occasional close encounter, I revel in the wildlife that has endured the onslaught of population density. Occasionally we get warnings about mountain lions or bears who have "invaded" our territory. Umm...you've got it backwards ABC7. The beautiful hawk that lives in the Deodar Cedar in our front yard? Eat all the baby bunnies you can find, heck, take a few baby raccoons or coyotes...just leave my kid's cats alone.
P.S. The nearly blind baby skunk that scavenged our front yard every nightfall last summer and was named "Opus" by my daughters, PLEASE, God or whoever, don't let that be the same squashed bloody skunk that I nearly ran over yesterday outside our driveway on the way to school...I told the girls it wasn't.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Body Images.
My oldest daughter came out of the locker room last night with a new view of the world.
She's in there because she dives. A lot. She used to have long, curly, brown hair. Now the dead, blond wisps barely graze her shoulders. A side effect of over chlorinated pools brought on by the national hysteria about germs...but I digress.
So, anyway, the showers and changing area have exposed her to a lot of naked bodies in her short decade on this planet. Mostly female, but not all. Not a problem for me, I want her to understand that not all of us, none actually, look like the girls in the beer commercials.
She has first-hand knowledge that after age, oh, seventy or so, your skin and muscles aren't as friendly with each other as they used to be. No matter how many laps a week you swim.
She's shared the shower with two-year old little boys who are really happy that their penis has been freed from the swim diaper. I told her it's a default for all boys and men, they can't keep their hands off that thing. Too fun.
She battles for locker space with the young teens who have beautiful bodies in all shapes and sizes and stages, but are shy about everything so new.
She's seen women who have so much...ahem...hair down there, that they shampoo AND condition it. Who knew? Us women, we love to talk about sex, but not so much about maintenance.
Yesterday though, even my eyes-wide-open ten year old was amazed.
Water aerobics class starts during diving, and ends after we've vacated the locker room. For those of you uninitiated in the ways of the pool, water aerobics is a class usually taken by people trying to get back into a life of movement after many years of not moving. These women are often big. Really big.
So someone was late to their water aerobics class. I heard about it something like this..."Mom, mom, mom, mooommm. I saw a woman with boobs as big as my HEAD! Her legs were the size of my TORSO. And her BUTT was as big as all the butts in our whole family! While she was putting on her suit it kept getting STUCK on the extra parts of her body!"
I enjoyed her amazement. I reminded her that this woman was putting in an effort to get back to "healthy." I don't like the words fat and skinny. I teach my kids to move, not as a way to control weight, but because that's what bodies are made to do.
All my daughter could focus on though was making a mental note to NEVER get that big. I can't blame her. There are teachable moments, and then there are "ah-ha" moments. I don't think that image is going to fade from her mind any time soon. Maybe it shouldn't. When it comes to living in the skin we were born with, some things are beyond our control but not ALL.
Chalk up one more life lesson to the women's locker room.
She's in there because she dives. A lot. She used to have long, curly, brown hair. Now the dead, blond wisps barely graze her shoulders. A side effect of over chlorinated pools brought on by the national hysteria about germs...but I digress.
So, anyway, the showers and changing area have exposed her to a lot of naked bodies in her short decade on this planet. Mostly female, but not all. Not a problem for me, I want her to understand that not all of us, none actually, look like the girls in the beer commercials.
She has first-hand knowledge that after age, oh, seventy or so, your skin and muscles aren't as friendly with each other as they used to be. No matter how many laps a week you swim.
She's shared the shower with two-year old little boys who are really happy that their penis has been freed from the swim diaper. I told her it's a default for all boys and men, they can't keep their hands off that thing. Too fun.
She battles for locker space with the young teens who have beautiful bodies in all shapes and sizes and stages, but are shy about everything so new.
She's seen women who have so much...ahem...hair down there, that they shampoo AND condition it. Who knew? Us women, we love to talk about sex, but not so much about maintenance.
Yesterday though, even my eyes-wide-open ten year old was amazed.
Water aerobics class starts during diving, and ends after we've vacated the locker room. For those of you uninitiated in the ways of the pool, water aerobics is a class usually taken by people trying to get back into a life of movement after many years of not moving. These women are often big. Really big.
So someone was late to their water aerobics class. I heard about it something like this..."Mom, mom, mom, mooommm. I saw a woman with boobs as big as my HEAD! Her legs were the size of my TORSO. And her BUTT was as big as all the butts in our whole family! While she was putting on her suit it kept getting STUCK on the extra parts of her body!"
I enjoyed her amazement. I reminded her that this woman was putting in an effort to get back to "healthy." I don't like the words fat and skinny. I teach my kids to move, not as a way to control weight, but because that's what bodies are made to do.
All my daughter could focus on though was making a mental note to NEVER get that big. I can't blame her. There are teachable moments, and then there are "ah-ha" moments. I don't think that image is going to fade from her mind any time soon. Maybe it shouldn't. When it comes to living in the skin we were born with, some things are beyond our control but not ALL.
Chalk up one more life lesson to the women's locker room.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
A love letter.
Although I have six brothers and sisters in my extended family, all special to me in different ways, there is only one person who qualifies as my true sibling. My big brother by twenty-one months lived the timeline of my childhood with a perspective that no one else in this world shares.
Legend has it that he was none too pleased with the bundle of screaming fury and need that I was in those first few months (years?). A four pound preemie was definitely not what any toddler could have possibly imagined when waiting for his new sister to come home. Add insult to injury, I'd guess this point in time may be the beginning of my mother's descent into the inflexible world of control freak. I was nothing like the happy, sleepy first child she had birthed, but individuality be damned, schedule and routine were just what we all needed to remedy this new "problem."
As the years passed, he must have decided that I was the lesser of the three evils in the house. He became my protector and constant companion. My earliest memory is of my brother leaving me (in the back seat of the VW bug) to go behind a big brown gate where lots of kids were REALLY enjoying themselves. I was stuck with Mom. How could he?! It was his preschool, of course, and two-year olds weren't allowed.
From that point on, I joined in on everything that interested my (idol) brother. No way was I gonna be left behind with my parents. For the most part, he let me tag along. He played with Tonka trucks, I played with Tonkas. He climbed trees, rode big wheels, played pool, listened to disco/rock/country, read science fiction, experimented with smoking and sex at church camp...all activities faithfully mirrored by his little sister.
The last time I remember spending a lot of time together as kids was when my brother contracted mono and was forced into bed rest for about three weeks during the summer. I think we were maybe thirteen and fifteen. By that time we had survived a parent in drug treatment, a bitter divorce, a plunge into poverty, countless moves, and quality weekends with my father. I can still see that couch in the living room pulled out into a bed, my brother lifeless on it all day long and me wishing I could fix it for him. I watched his baby fat melt away as the illness dragged on. I played Deep Purple and Stairway to Heaven trying to cheer him up. I piled his bed with Dune and Farenheit 451 and probably even made cookies, hoping he'd eat.
The mono finally dissipated, but it took something with it. My brother emerged thinner and wiser somehow. He announced that living with his mother wasn't what he needed and he was moving in with Dad. By this point my father had relocated across the country, remarried someone with four kids and seemed to have his addictions under control.
Bye big bro, can I come with? I wanted nothing more. I never asked. It was time for my brother to take care of himself instead of me. I started high school without my anchor, floating free in a world of infinite terror.
I made bad choices. Not the obvious ones. I longed for popularity. I coveted the Guess jeans with the zippers at the ankle. I dutifully cooked and cleaned, trying to please my mother who's attention was focused on my errant brother, even in his absence.
Eventually he returned, but we were now on different paths. He'd picked up some new survival skills while living with Dad. They led to juvenile detention, treatment, banishment from the house, dropping out of school, and finally living hand to mouth on his own by the age of seventeen.
I still wanted to tag along. I didn't know how. I attempted to straddle our two worlds. I started smoking, I drank on the weekends at my friends parent-free houses and eventually found my way to casual drug use. At the same time, I ran track, held down a job and passed my classes without much effort. My brother only acknowledged the good girl. Try as I might, he didn't need me as a companion anymore. Hindsight revealed to me that he never did drop his protector role, but I didn't understand the big picture as well as he did.
Our lives ran somewhat parallel my last year at home. I turned my back on the high school boys who never noticed me and started going out with an "older" man. I met him at work in the suburbs, but it turns out he lived an edgy existence in a loft in downtown Minneapolis. Not only was he every mother's nightmare; experienced, grungy, and working a dead end job, it just so happened that he and my brother were friends. I spent almost a year of my limited free time with a front row seat to my brother's life. I worked hard at destroying my naive image that year but I wasn't very good at it. I wanted baaaad to belong, but the harder drugs and petty crimes of that group of immature twenty-somethings scared me.
At the predetermined time, I chose the path that led to college. I headed out of state, made new friends and struggled with academics for the first time ever. I didn't have the time for, or the access to, my brother's alternative life. We kept in touch, but only superficially. I knew he was trying out everything life had to offer and I lived in dread of the phone call telling me he was hurt or dead.
The call finally came. When I heard my Mom's voice, at the wrong time and in the wrong place, I thought I had lost him. She started with "your brother has been in an accident" but my heart stopped it's free fall when the next words out were something about "alive" and "in hospital."
I'm sure my brother could write a novel about his choices that led to him jumping a moving train that horrific night. I know he misses his foot terribly. I know that losing it did not curtail the risk taking completely. Chapters following include stopping a sixty-foot fall off a mountain with his face, repeatedly illegally bungee jumping off NYC bridges, surviving a head-on collision without a scratch, and much much more.
Things have slowed down a bit now. The next ill-timed phone call will probably be about one of our parents. We are close again, in an easy, casual way. My brother's life has mellowed to more closely parallel mine. On any given day I can assume we both do laundry, pay bills, wile away hours on the internet, cook for our family, struggle to not pick up a cigarette, work out, and any number of other mundane activities.
In my mind he will always be my first great friend and role model. He is the most interesting person I have ever known. He is also the smartest. I will always seek his approval and often be crushed by his honesty. And always, always, I know he's got my back.
I love you, bro'.
Legend has it that he was none too pleased with the bundle of screaming fury and need that I was in those first few months (years?). A four pound preemie was definitely not what any toddler could have possibly imagined when waiting for his new sister to come home. Add insult to injury, I'd guess this point in time may be the beginning of my mother's descent into the inflexible world of control freak. I was nothing like the happy, sleepy first child she had birthed, but individuality be damned, schedule and routine were just what we all needed to remedy this new "problem."
As the years passed, he must have decided that I was the lesser of the three evils in the house. He became my protector and constant companion. My earliest memory is of my brother leaving me (in the back seat of the VW bug) to go behind a big brown gate where lots of kids were REALLY enjoying themselves. I was stuck with Mom. How could he?! It was his preschool, of course, and two-year olds weren't allowed.
From that point on, I joined in on everything that interested my (idol) brother. No way was I gonna be left behind with my parents. For the most part, he let me tag along. He played with Tonka trucks, I played with Tonkas. He climbed trees, rode big wheels, played pool, listened to disco/rock/country, read science fiction, experimented with smoking and sex at church camp...all activities faithfully mirrored by his little sister.
The last time I remember spending a lot of time together as kids was when my brother contracted mono and was forced into bed rest for about three weeks during the summer. I think we were maybe thirteen and fifteen. By that time we had survived a parent in drug treatment, a bitter divorce, a plunge into poverty, countless moves, and quality weekends with my father. I can still see that couch in the living room pulled out into a bed, my brother lifeless on it all day long and me wishing I could fix it for him. I watched his baby fat melt away as the illness dragged on. I played Deep Purple and Stairway to Heaven trying to cheer him up. I piled his bed with Dune and Farenheit 451 and probably even made cookies, hoping he'd eat.
The mono finally dissipated, but it took something with it. My brother emerged thinner and wiser somehow. He announced that living with his mother wasn't what he needed and he was moving in with Dad. By this point my father had relocated across the country, remarried someone with four kids and seemed to have his addictions under control.
Bye big bro, can I come with? I wanted nothing more. I never asked. It was time for my brother to take care of himself instead of me. I started high school without my anchor, floating free in a world of infinite terror.
I made bad choices. Not the obvious ones. I longed for popularity. I coveted the Guess jeans with the zippers at the ankle. I dutifully cooked and cleaned, trying to please my mother who's attention was focused on my errant brother, even in his absence.
Eventually he returned, but we were now on different paths. He'd picked up some new survival skills while living with Dad. They led to juvenile detention, treatment, banishment from the house, dropping out of school, and finally living hand to mouth on his own by the age of seventeen.
I still wanted to tag along. I didn't know how. I attempted to straddle our two worlds. I started smoking, I drank on the weekends at my friends parent-free houses and eventually found my way to casual drug use. At the same time, I ran track, held down a job and passed my classes without much effort. My brother only acknowledged the good girl. Try as I might, he didn't need me as a companion anymore. Hindsight revealed to me that he never did drop his protector role, but I didn't understand the big picture as well as he did.
Our lives ran somewhat parallel my last year at home. I turned my back on the high school boys who never noticed me and started going out with an "older" man. I met him at work in the suburbs, but it turns out he lived an edgy existence in a loft in downtown Minneapolis. Not only was he every mother's nightmare; experienced, grungy, and working a dead end job, it just so happened that he and my brother were friends. I spent almost a year of my limited free time with a front row seat to my brother's life. I worked hard at destroying my naive image that year but I wasn't very good at it. I wanted baaaad to belong, but the harder drugs and petty crimes of that group of immature twenty-somethings scared me.
At the predetermined time, I chose the path that led to college. I headed out of state, made new friends and struggled with academics for the first time ever. I didn't have the time for, or the access to, my brother's alternative life. We kept in touch, but only superficially. I knew he was trying out everything life had to offer and I lived in dread of the phone call telling me he was hurt or dead.
The call finally came. When I heard my Mom's voice, at the wrong time and in the wrong place, I thought I had lost him. She started with "your brother has been in an accident" but my heart stopped it's free fall when the next words out were something about "alive" and "in hospital."
I'm sure my brother could write a novel about his choices that led to him jumping a moving train that horrific night. I know he misses his foot terribly. I know that losing it did not curtail the risk taking completely. Chapters following include stopping a sixty-foot fall off a mountain with his face, repeatedly illegally bungee jumping off NYC bridges, surviving a head-on collision without a scratch, and much much more.
Things have slowed down a bit now. The next ill-timed phone call will probably be about one of our parents. We are close again, in an easy, casual way. My brother's life has mellowed to more closely parallel mine. On any given day I can assume we both do laundry, pay bills, wile away hours on the internet, cook for our family, struggle to not pick up a cigarette, work out, and any number of other mundane activities.
In my mind he will always be my first great friend and role model. He is the most interesting person I have ever known. He is also the smartest. I will always seek his approval and often be crushed by his honesty. And always, always, I know he's got my back.
I love you, bro'.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Let's try another version of my last post...
Things I like that may embarrass my kids.
Shit kicking, black leather work boots. Reminds me of a guy I used to date. I don't have a pair anymore, but there are some Harley Davidson boots en route to me as I write.
Explicit lyrics. They think it's great right now that I don't shield them. Give it a couple of years, it won't be cool that Mom knows what those things mean.
Surfing. I may be small, but my ASS in a wetsuit ain't pretty.
My five ingredients or fewer rule. If the list on the side of the bag or box is as long as a novel, I don't buy it. They can commiserate with the other kids whose moms worship to the Trader Joe's god.
Beer. I haven't checked out the side panel. I like it. I'm old enough. I drink it.
Facebook. I'll assure them I do NOT want to be their friend when they hit whatever social networking site is hot in a few years. You can bet your ass I'll know their password tho'..
Thank you notes. No, not email, handwritten. My follow through isn't perfect on this one, sometimes people get missed, but NEVER the grandparents. Yup, I'm still seeking my mother's approval.
Singing along. I know every word to every song. Nope, I can't carry a tune. Sorry kids, join in and I'll be harder to hear.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Cool Things That Everyone Else Seems To Like Except For Me.
- The Dave Matthews Band. When is this song gonna END?
- Movies based on comic books. NO, there is not even ONE that I am interested in.
- People who volunteer endlessly for their kid's school. (Supposedly cool in my world). Get a fucking life. Or help create policy so we aren't compelled to make up for the shortcomings of public education.
- Expensive cars. Fast, yes. Loud, maybe. Pricey, do the depreciation math you idiot.
- Wine. My mother's drink. Ugh.
- Massive televisions. Haven't gone there yet, the one I have hasn't conked.
- Skinny Jeans. Today's teen "body by McDonalds" and this fad are not compatible.
- The Wii. I'd rather GO bowling, PLAY softball, you get the picture.
There are more, I'll save them for another day.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Oversharing.
The petty irritations, to-do lists, music and memories are never silent in my head. My thoughts run a mile a minute. All the time. Except for in yoga. I can tamp it down to two or three threads then. The heat of the room, the intensity of the practice, my struggle to just breathe and survive to the next posture, all help silence the internal dialog.
On my mind lately? My baby girl who is seven now. A very immature seven. That's OK, there is plenty of time to be old. She is everything her anxious perfectionist big sister fears. She is a mess. When she eats, food ends up on the back of her head, stuck to her earlobe, in the crease of her knee...it's a running joke around here and always proven right. She loses homework or completes it halfway in some sort of pen, pencil, crayon combo, then forgets to turn it in. She needed one more year of speech but didn't get it so she still stutters and spits and trips over consonant combinations.
None of those things stop her from happily breezing through every minute of her disaster of a life. Her newest joy is sharing every detail of her dreams, retelling each social interaction from the playground, and acting out all the funny scenes from her favorite shows. And there are lots of details. Lots. I've been trying to be attentive, sometimes my eyes glaze over in my eagerness to hear more, sometimes I even get to listen through the bathroom door. Because the story never ends. I've attempted to teach her the merits of editing, but that skill must still be in the developmental phase.
Then I realize what's going on. She's my mini-me. I do the exact same thing to any number of people throughout my day. I do it to myself. My older daughter actually cuts me off now with an "ok, ok, ok," chant. Only the cats don't seem to mind. My newest outlet, of course, is the blog.
The little one can't blog or facebook or even hit the yoga room four times a week. I owe it to her to gratefully ingest each excruciating detail. I will be thankful that she wants me as an audience and pay attention while she shares. Maybe I'll even get a word in edgewise during one of her juicy stutters. Talk on baby girl, I'm listening.
On my mind lately? My baby girl who is seven now. A very immature seven. That's OK, there is plenty of time to be old. She is everything her anxious perfectionist big sister fears. She is a mess. When she eats, food ends up on the back of her head, stuck to her earlobe, in the crease of her knee...it's a running joke around here and always proven right. She loses homework or completes it halfway in some sort of pen, pencil, crayon combo, then forgets to turn it in. She needed one more year of speech but didn't get it so she still stutters and spits and trips over consonant combinations.
None of those things stop her from happily breezing through every minute of her disaster of a life. Her newest joy is sharing every detail of her dreams, retelling each social interaction from the playground, and acting out all the funny scenes from her favorite shows. And there are lots of details. Lots. I've been trying to be attentive, sometimes my eyes glaze over in my eagerness to hear more, sometimes I even get to listen through the bathroom door. Because the story never ends. I've attempted to teach her the merits of editing, but that skill must still be in the developmental phase.
Then I realize what's going on. She's my mini-me. I do the exact same thing to any number of people throughout my day. I do it to myself. My older daughter actually cuts me off now with an "ok, ok, ok," chant. Only the cats don't seem to mind. My newest outlet, of course, is the blog.
The little one can't blog or facebook or even hit the yoga room four times a week. I owe it to her to gratefully ingest each excruciating detail. I will be thankful that she wants me as an audience and pay attention while she shares. Maybe I'll even get a word in edgewise during one of her juicy stutters. Talk on baby girl, I'm listening.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Musical beds.
My kids have long outgrown the physical need to sleep in my bed. Physical need, for me, is qualified as nursing through the night. Aka, under the four month mark in age. If the little leeches weren't actually in the bed with me for their five nursing, burping, changing sessions per night, then they probably wouldn't have made it to their crawling milestone.
Obviously, the little darlings lived through that stage. They have moved on to their own beds, can get up to use the toilet at 2am without notifying me, read until way past "lights out" and maybe even dance naked in their rooms all night. As long as the door is closed and no one needs me after 9pm, all is well. Mommy's gotta get her beer on sometime.
Why is it then that the first question out of their mouths when they know that their Dad is going out of town is, you guessed it, "can we sleep in your bed?" Crapola. Doesn't ANYONE in this crazy house understand that I HATE to be touched while I'm sleeping? It doesn't matter the intention, I wake up in fighting mode if the reason for a nighttime disturbance is someone else's sweaty body part. Don't you all know that, for many decades, the drug of choice for any female who has survived a newborn (or two) is SLEEP?
The rules for sleepovers in my rarely-solo bed now include options for number of days that my lovely husband is out of town. One night=no way. Two nights=maybe, if you clean up all your shit without complaining or shoving it under the couch. Three nights=I have no more outs, OK, bring in all the stuffed animals, books, live animals, blankets and pillows you all usually bed down with. I'll close the door and I'll see you in two hours or so....
Guess where I end up? I rescue my (contourmemoryfoam) pillow from between my two girls who are sprawled diagonally in my very comfortable king-sized mattress. I creep quietly down the hall, so as not to wake the cats who have also settled onto my down and high thread count nest, and I climb into the bed in one of the kids rooms.
I know these mattresses well. Josephine's full-size is from Montgomery Wards 1989, Albany, NY. The queen-size, which Madeline piles with successful rescues from the crane machine at the grocery story, is from May Co. 1993, Jersey City, NJ. I can trace the history of my marriage and economic status by the sleeping options throughout my house. My beds have gotten progressively larger, more luxurious. Isn't it funny that I still choose the twenty year old option, pokey springs and all, as long as it guarantees me a full night's sleep, alone? Also, there's less pee in that one.
In the morning I climb back into bed between my two beautiful girls before the alarm goes off. It's like cheating but without all the excitement. I have revisited my past in the other bedrooms in my house, snuck in one more night of blissful solo sleep, and my girls are never the wiser that they haven't spent the night cocooned next to a very awake, very grumpy mother.
Obviously, the little darlings lived through that stage. They have moved on to their own beds, can get up to use the toilet at 2am without notifying me, read until way past "lights out" and maybe even dance naked in their rooms all night. As long as the door is closed and no one needs me after 9pm, all is well. Mommy's gotta get her beer on sometime.
Why is it then that the first question out of their mouths when they know that their Dad is going out of town is, you guessed it, "can we sleep in your bed?" Crapola. Doesn't ANYONE in this crazy house understand that I HATE to be touched while I'm sleeping? It doesn't matter the intention, I wake up in fighting mode if the reason for a nighttime disturbance is someone else's sweaty body part. Don't you all know that, for many decades, the drug of choice for any female who has survived a newborn (or two) is SLEEP?
The rules for sleepovers in my rarely-solo bed now include options for number of days that my lovely husband is out of town. One night=no way. Two nights=maybe, if you clean up all your shit without complaining or shoving it under the couch. Three nights=I have no more outs, OK, bring in all the stuffed animals, books, live animals, blankets and pillows you all usually bed down with. I'll close the door and I'll see you in two hours or so....
Guess where I end up? I rescue my (contourmemoryfoam) pillow from between my two girls who are sprawled diagonally in my very comfortable king-sized mattress. I creep quietly down the hall, so as not to wake the cats who have also settled onto my down and high thread count nest, and I climb into the bed in one of the kids rooms.
I know these mattresses well. Josephine's full-size is from Montgomery Wards 1989, Albany, NY. The queen-size, which Madeline piles with successful rescues from the crane machine at the grocery story, is from May Co. 1993, Jersey City, NJ. I can trace the history of my marriage and economic status by the sleeping options throughout my house. My beds have gotten progressively larger, more luxurious. Isn't it funny that I still choose the twenty year old option, pokey springs and all, as long as it guarantees me a full night's sleep, alone? Also, there's less pee in that one.
In the morning I climb back into bed between my two beautiful girls before the alarm goes off. It's like cheating but without all the excitement. I have revisited my past in the other bedrooms in my house, snuck in one more night of blissful solo sleep, and my girls are never the wiser that they haven't spent the night cocooned next to a very awake, very grumpy mother.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
My Mom is a...uh...er...Mom.
SAHM. Even the acronym is unappealing. This is the first time I've ever used it. Maybe the last.
On the off chance that I find myself solely in the company of adults, I avoid the question of "what do you do" for as long as possible. "Um, I live the housewife existence my mother dreamed of for herself." Shudder.
Really, all I need to do is say that I "stay at home" and my wish for the inane small talk to end comes true. My chit-chat partner suddenly needs a new drink, or turns a fake smile towards a stranger while mumbling something about needing to catch up. So my life choices are useful at times as well.
The last ten years at home has turned me into somewhat of an isolate. I often like it that way. Much like my youngest daughter, I enjoy my own company. I have less patience for adults now and much more for children. Except for those little Eddie Haskells who we all can spot from a mile away. I pretty much want to do us all a favor and choke them into oblivion.
If not already apparent, I'm a bit conflicted about my role as wife and mom. Don't worry, this won't be a rant about the unappreciated slaves that us SAHMS's have become, those circumstances are of our own making. I'm going to focus on the skills that I have acquired in the past decade at home. I wonder, as I ponder the option of going back to the grown-up world of paid employment, if any will enhance my dusty resume?
#1 I can pick up almost anything with my toes. As a baby, my first child would erupt into horrific maniacal screeching if I tried to put her down...but also enjoyed dropping shit onto the ground that she couldn't live without. I can now retrieve everything from a pacifier to a blanket with my versatile lower digits.
#2 I have no problem with nudity. I am now mature enough to realize that nudity isn't just for sexually stunted porn consumers. Potty training is a breeze when you lock 'em outside naked. There's also the frugality bonus, I didn't waste money on pull-ups or even pajamas for that matter...
#3 Air travel is much less irritating than when I was younger. Time was...I negatively judged the parents of screaming babies, kicking toddlers and whiny tweens. Now I'm so grateful when it's not my own kids that I quietly suffer the distress of other parents in blissful empathy.
#4 I am an expert short-order cook. I've come to understand that some foods are made for adults. I love smoked oysters and blue cheese, but I know for a fact that I'd love them just a tad bit less after watching my kid puke them into her dinner plate after I forced her to eat what I wanted for dinner.
#5 I can predetermine a future employee's assets while suctioning beads out of a toddler's bleeding nose. Babysitters, house painters, pool guys, general contractors...all have interviewed while suffering through my divided attention. Those who see past the t-shirts and grime, even manage to flirt a bit, either with me or my kids, are often rewarded with work. EOE be damned.
#6 I no longer underestimate the buying power of the under ten age group. I am as pro "postconsumer world" as the next eco-mom hypocrite, but guess who I'm buying for at each trip to Target, Vons or Costco? I just try to invest in as little plastic or free advertising as possible...
So, with multitasking, managing under budget, supervisory experience, availability to travel and work under pressure, and so many more UNIQUE qualities to add to my resume, I'm sure I'll be employed in no time. My kids will finally be able to say "my mom's a ______", and I'll be longing for my old SAHM days.
On the off chance that I find myself solely in the company of adults, I avoid the question of "what do you do" for as long as possible. "Um, I live the housewife existence my mother dreamed of for herself." Shudder.
Really, all I need to do is say that I "stay at home" and my wish for the inane small talk to end comes true. My chit-chat partner suddenly needs a new drink, or turns a fake smile towards a stranger while mumbling something about needing to catch up. So my life choices are useful at times as well.
The last ten years at home has turned me into somewhat of an isolate. I often like it that way. Much like my youngest daughter, I enjoy my own company. I have less patience for adults now and much more for children. Except for those little Eddie Haskells who we all can spot from a mile away. I pretty much want to do us all a favor and choke them into oblivion.
If not already apparent, I'm a bit conflicted about my role as wife and mom. Don't worry, this won't be a rant about the unappreciated slaves that us SAHMS's have become, those circumstances are of our own making. I'm going to focus on the skills that I have acquired in the past decade at home. I wonder, as I ponder the option of going back to the grown-up world of paid employment, if any will enhance my dusty resume?
#1 I can pick up almost anything with my toes. As a baby, my first child would erupt into horrific maniacal screeching if I tried to put her down...but also enjoyed dropping shit onto the ground that she couldn't live without. I can now retrieve everything from a pacifier to a blanket with my versatile lower digits.
#2 I have no problem with nudity. I am now mature enough to realize that nudity isn't just for sexually stunted porn consumers. Potty training is a breeze when you lock 'em outside naked. There's also the frugality bonus, I didn't waste money on pull-ups or even pajamas for that matter...
#3 Air travel is much less irritating than when I was younger. Time was...I negatively judged the parents of screaming babies, kicking toddlers and whiny tweens. Now I'm so grateful when it's not my own kids that I quietly suffer the distress of other parents in blissful empathy.
#4 I am an expert short-order cook. I've come to understand that some foods are made for adults. I love smoked oysters and blue cheese, but I know for a fact that I'd love them just a tad bit less after watching my kid puke them into her dinner plate after I forced her to eat what I wanted for dinner.
#5 I can predetermine a future employee's assets while suctioning beads out of a toddler's bleeding nose. Babysitters, house painters, pool guys, general contractors...all have interviewed while suffering through my divided attention. Those who see past the t-shirts and grime, even manage to flirt a bit, either with me or my kids, are often rewarded with work. EOE be damned.
#6 I no longer underestimate the buying power of the under ten age group. I am as pro "postconsumer world" as the next eco-mom hypocrite, but guess who I'm buying for at each trip to Target, Vons or Costco? I just try to invest in as little plastic or free advertising as possible...
So, with multitasking, managing under budget, supervisory experience, availability to travel and work under pressure, and so many more UNIQUE qualities to add to my resume, I'm sure I'll be employed in no time. My kids will finally be able to say "my mom's a ______", and I'll be longing for my old SAHM days.
Friday, February 20, 2009
A piece of mind.
For those of you who believe in "tabula rasa", let me share some of the art created by the kids in my house.
I was heading up our back hill to get the mail when I stumbled across our missing shoe box of miscellaneous balls. I have no idea when the stump of a long dead fern was transformed into an explosion of color and texture. I know who did it, but not why. I didn't ask, I just took some pics and went on my way. My baby girl enjoys her own company. I wonder what else she's created when I'm not looking? Note to self, look under her bed.
The other example is, of course, my oldest child. Also a beautiful explosion of color. She created this while sitting almost on top of me, jealous that my attention was focused on another task. She asked me at least four times if it was good. Then she posted it on her bedroom door.
I learn something new each day from these little humans. I have never believed for a second that I am responsible for their personality. I can only help them find the tools to navigate this world as seen through their eyes. The search continues.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Some future day.
So I am the queen of putting off the inevitable. I clean my house by sweeping the debris off the counters and floors and into drawers and closets. I've never folded a load of clothes while they are still warm. The microwave is one of my best friends, it takes up the slack when I haven't thought about dinner for four until, uh, bedtime.
Add to my list of achievements, "postponement". More specifically, jury duty. As I sat in the lush, roomy and cheerful surroundings of the jury room this morning, surrounded by a very wet (check weather) cross section of the population of Los Angeles county, I listened VERY closely to the orientation which finally started an hour after we were directed to congregate.
I don't qualify for financial hardship, have no health excuse (I'm gonna work on that one), and have no dependant care "out", since my 7 and 10 year olds are perfectly capable of managing their own lives for eleven hours a day. That left me grasping for straws. Final instruction, if you won't be available for between 5-7 working days (the average length of a trial), you have the chance to postpone for up to 90 days.
Whohoo! I was first in line to fill out the official "I'm outta here" paperwork. It turns out that three months in the legal system is actually about five months in the real world. I've got till July to figure out how to fit my civic duty into my life of procrastination.
On the way home, my car stepped up to the plate and forced me to act on at least one unplanned responsibility today. The "low tire pressure" warning light not only blinks and beeps, but at some point it starts speaking. Whee, my escape from downtown through the pouring rain, passing not one, but two, multiple car pile-ups, was set to the soundtrack of dire warnings about undiagnosed tire problems. Turns out, all four tires wanted just a little bit of attention. That's much better than one wanting a lot.
So, yay! So far, I'm having a great day. No sarcasm this time, just gratitude.
Add to my list of achievements, "postponement". More specifically, jury duty. As I sat in the lush, roomy and cheerful surroundings of the jury room this morning, surrounded by a very wet (check weather) cross section of the population of Los Angeles county, I listened VERY closely to the orientation which finally started an hour after we were directed to congregate.
I don't qualify for financial hardship, have no health excuse (I'm gonna work on that one), and have no dependant care "out", since my 7 and 10 year olds are perfectly capable of managing their own lives for eleven hours a day. That left me grasping for straws. Final instruction, if you won't be available for between 5-7 working days (the average length of a trial), you have the chance to postpone for up to 90 days.
Whohoo! I was first in line to fill out the official "I'm outta here" paperwork. It turns out that three months in the legal system is actually about five months in the real world. I've got till July to figure out how to fit my civic duty into my life of procrastination.
On the way home, my car stepped up to the plate and forced me to act on at least one unplanned responsibility today. The "low tire pressure" warning light not only blinks and beeps, but at some point it starts speaking. Whee, my escape from downtown through the pouring rain, passing not one, but two, multiple car pile-ups, was set to the soundtrack of dire warnings about undiagnosed tire problems. Turns out, all four tires wanted just a little bit of attention. That's much better than one wanting a lot.
So, yay! So far, I'm having a great day. No sarcasm this time, just gratitude.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Match mood to weather.
The kids are home today and Monday.
A four day weekend.
Full of rain.
The house has already exploded into a shrine of discarded valentine wrappers, fermenting swimsuits, overdue library books and unbussed dishes.
I could solve that last issue by forcing the kids to eat at a table or counter.
Nah. Too Pleasantville for me.
I'm going to go with the flow this weekend. I will not focus on the exponential expansion of mess and need that comes with everyone being home. All day.
My reward at the end of the "vacation" is jury duty.
Not just ANY jury duty.
Downtown Los Angeles jury duty.
The map for the parking garage on my summons shows me walking some four blocks to get to the courthouse.
The summons doesn't depict the gunfire usually associated with that area, but I think I could smell the residue as I opened the envelope.
It looks like the fortune I earn in reimbursement for serving will be spent (and then some) on better parking accomodations.
I'm sure I'll have a great story to tell.
I haven't even gotten to the part where I imagine myself passing judgement on asshole or innocent.
Here's hoping I don't get set on a jury, I am in no way mature enough to be there.
A four day weekend.
Full of rain.
The house has already exploded into a shrine of discarded valentine wrappers, fermenting swimsuits, overdue library books and unbussed dishes.
I could solve that last issue by forcing the kids to eat at a table or counter.
Nah. Too Pleasantville for me.
I'm going to go with the flow this weekend. I will not focus on the exponential expansion of mess and need that comes with everyone being home. All day.
My reward at the end of the "vacation" is jury duty.
Not just ANY jury duty.
Downtown Los Angeles jury duty.
The map for the parking garage on my summons shows me walking some four blocks to get to the courthouse.
The summons doesn't depict the gunfire usually associated with that area, but I think I could smell the residue as I opened the envelope.
It looks like the fortune I earn in reimbursement for serving will be spent (and then some) on better parking accomodations.
I'm sure I'll have a great story to tell.
I haven't even gotten to the part where I imagine myself passing judgement on asshole or innocent.
Here's hoping I don't get set on a jury, I am in no way mature enough to be there.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
So here I go...
My urge to write has resurfaced ever since I got a new laptop. I have no idea how to avoid oversharing, stepping on toes, or selfishly whining about my comfortable life. I will probably do all that and more, but if it gets me a good night's sleep again, then so be it. Lists are sooo overdone, so maybe I'll start there. Future posts will undoubtably highlight my amazing ability to depict stream of consciousness in writing form, maybe my first post will even be a combo...
RANDOM THOUGHTS
*The light in my fridge is out and I have no desire to do my job and hire someone to fix it. The bulb isn't the problem, so at this point, some sensor in the bowels of this massive power drain has conked. I'm just waiting for the fifteen year old behemoth to reach it's built-in expiration date, then I can argue with my home warranty company about the loopholes in their contract which allow them to NEVER pay out for covered items. Whee.
*Speaking of fifteen year olds, I miss my aged cat. He finally lost enough physical and mental function to lose the game of "coyote and cat" that goes on in our neighborhood each night. I made sure he was inside every night, but one evening he just didn't return in time...
*The new kittens are great, but now I live in fear that I will have to handle the emotional fallout of one of my daughter's cats making a tasty dessert. Neither would be great, both would be sad, but just ONE disappearing would be one of those vivid childhood memories that I can't fix.
*That was a bit depressing. Hmm, new cup of coffee in hand, I will go with the upbeat. I am excited as hell that we have a new president who can speak in complete sentences, even if they are peppered with ers, ums. Those breaks indicate to me that he can think and talk at the same time. YAY.
*Pandora is the first thing I lauch when I turn on the computer. Some unexpected track from the past, or a new song that catches my ear, can make my day. With Pandora, the whole creative music world is at your fingertips, what's not to like?
*So, with my "Quick Mix" blasting, I'm off to the unselfish part of my day. The unending drudgery of chores is calling. I'm buoyed by caffeine, messy construction paper hearts that say "I love Mom", and two cats who have outsmarted the predators for one more day.
RANDOM THOUGHTS
*The light in my fridge is out and I have no desire to do my job and hire someone to fix it. The bulb isn't the problem, so at this point, some sensor in the bowels of this massive power drain has conked. I'm just waiting for the fifteen year old behemoth to reach it's built-in expiration date, then I can argue with my home warranty company about the loopholes in their contract which allow them to NEVER pay out for covered items. Whee.
*Speaking of fifteen year olds, I miss my aged cat. He finally lost enough physical and mental function to lose the game of "coyote and cat" that goes on in our neighborhood each night. I made sure he was inside every night, but one evening he just didn't return in time...
*The new kittens are great, but now I live in fear that I will have to handle the emotional fallout of one of my daughter's cats making a tasty dessert. Neither would be great, both would be sad, but just ONE disappearing would be one of those vivid childhood memories that I can't fix.
*That was a bit depressing. Hmm, new cup of coffee in hand, I will go with the upbeat. I am excited as hell that we have a new president who can speak in complete sentences, even if they are peppered with ers, ums. Those breaks indicate to me that he can think and talk at the same time. YAY.
*Pandora is the first thing I lauch when I turn on the computer. Some unexpected track from the past, or a new song that catches my ear, can make my day. With Pandora, the whole creative music world is at your fingertips, what's not to like?
*So, with my "Quick Mix" blasting, I'm off to the unselfish part of my day. The unending drudgery of chores is calling. I'm buoyed by caffeine, messy construction paper hearts that say "I love Mom", and two cats who have outsmarted the predators for one more day.
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