Long Time, No Post...

We moved to a new house. I recovered from the shock of the move to Southern California. And the babes became kids, as they tend to do with or without parental consent. I also worked. And inevitably, gainful employment begets couch potatoes and questionable past-times as a substitution for thoughtful writing. But I am back and committed to unravelling the next great mystery before me...my life at forty.

First things First:
First day of First Grade for Gabriel was yesterday. He got the royal send-off from his family, right into the arms of super-model, Mrs. Salvaggio. My god, she is pretty! Rumor has it she's been teaching first grade for 8 years, but unless she taught in the womb or undergoes cryogenic freezing every summer—I find it impossible to believe. Needless to say, he was anxious to get back today. "Mrs. Salvaggio is really nice, kinda like my kindergarten teacher, except she wears fancier shoes!" (Now, I would say her shoes are just the beginning of what is fancy about her. But I am not going to knock the kid for appreciating fine footwear.)

On the other hand, Phoebe is NOT amused with this school thing. She does not share my, or Gabriel's, love of the learning institution. She frowns upon us lemmings and for that she has my sincere admiration. But still, she is going to school—like it or not. Her biggest problem with pre-school is napping. One has to question why anyone would refuse to nap. Exiting this excessively perky, loud, congnizant world for a few fleeting moments of peaceful slumber is such a joy. Who, in their right mind, would deny themselves that pleasure? But once again, so few of us are actually Phoebe. She also shares an appreciation for a well-crafted, strappy sandal with just the right amount of metallic detailing, so she can't be all wrong.

Me, I am left to start undertaking the organization of the house, and my life. Where to start? I have randomly decided, the spice drawer! Spices and herbs have played a dramatic role in the shaping of Western civilization, surely they can suffer through a bit-part in the beginning of my mid-life adventures.

Mary Tyler Moore...where are you?

I met a very old friend from college last night. It was great. And it was weird. Totally weird.

She was just in town for the weekend. By some freak twist of fate, another friend from that era found me, sent her my email and next thing you know we are face to face in a wine bar in the Gaslamp District of San Diego. Stranger things have happened, but not to this little recluse.

And clearly, it was deemed by the gods that I was meant to confront my past. And I owe them my thanks, for sending the kindest and dearest representative to give my account for my youth. But I was completely ill-prepared for the evening.

Meeting an old friend makes you face two brutal facts: One—you are definitely getting old and Two—you used to be stupid. Okay, chances are that you are probably still a bit daft, but there is nothing like breaking bread with a witness to the less-savory moments of your younger years.

And here is what is truly nerve-wrecking, you have to summarize the last decade in some manner that makes it both interesting (which for me is typically the more gruesome details and horrific aspects), and positive (although it stands to reason that having survived under my own guidance, something went right), and appropriately wistful (to honor your companion and the time you shared). Inevitably, the conversation will be morose, witless and pathetically guilt-riddled, at least in my case (you honestly could have put money on it).

And after a few glasses of wine to sooth the nerves and loosen the tongue, it becomes a train wreck. I don’t know about you, but when my mouth is driving the express train—destination: disaster. My brain typically departs about three stops earlier and for some reason always brings the gift of silence along for good measure.

Yes, I just won’t shut up! And damage control is the worst possible form of company, much less conversation.

In the future, I will prepare a statement. I will define my path with the poise and confidence of someone who understands where they have been and knows where they are going. I will have jovial quips about the tough times, glorious recounting of the good times, and motivational affirmations peppered throughout with an effervescent layer of wisdom. I will become the gal, who had that gleam in her eye, you just couldn’t forget, and she really made something of herself. I will be Mary Tyler Moore.

But the girl that showed up for dinner was not MTM. She was suspiciously similar to someone I knew in college. She was awkward, apologetic and honest to the point where one becomes painfully embarrassed for them. She dressed inappropriately and laughed too loud and was too opinionated. And although that girl makes me cringe, I know that she is at the heart—me. And if nothing else, she is living with sincerity.


I want to thank Angela for taking time out of her brief vacation to visit with me. It was nothing short of a small miracle that it happened. I hope she experienced a mere fraction of the reward that I received.

Survival of the Freshest

My kids were bad today.

The kind of bad that makes you start scanning want ads for job openings and considering an illustrious new career as a sanitation specialist—knowing you have all the experience it unfortunately requires. The kind of bad that makes you consider running out for cigarettes and never coming back even though you don’t smoke. The kind of bad that makes crazy people look like good parents making necessary decisions.

And when kids are this bad, there is little that you can really do about it. If you try to talk rationally, they counter with high-pitched irrationality. If you whisper, they scream. If scream, they implode. If you ignore them, they stalk you. If you turn on the tv, they fight over where to sit and how to adjust the volume—and let’s not even mention the heated debate on the choice of program. If you feed them, they spit their food. With every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction—just as the universe planned it, well before these tiny demons were a devil’s tail on my behind.

When I am faced with a day like today, I don’t want to answer the phone, the door, the email, all I want to do is build a fire in the yard and send a smoke signals to the ghost of the parents who have come before me. And ask them “Why?”

Why didn’t you warn me? Why would you let me walk down a path that leads to such misery? Why put up with this insanity and allow someone else to do the same? Why let the cycle continue and the mayhem prevail?

Is the survival of the species really worth it?

I have recently come to understand that the champion version of early man who outlived all the others is the Homo Sapien. He accomplished this incredible feat through the gift of communication. He prevailed where the others failed because he learned to talk and to work together and to share information and build a culture.

It is a curious victory from my perspective.

Because today, I would say that the entire success of the species, in particular my two very naughty offspring, lies squarely on a complete and utter ignorance. A total lack of communication, or perhaps a brilliant omission—but anyway these little ankle-biters exist in no thanks to our ancestor’s verbal prowess. It is not an abundance of information, which made me do it. It is safe to say, that nobody told me there’d be days like these.

No, they exist because I had no bloody idea what I was getting into. And they continue to survive because as rotten as they are, I can’t imagine a world without them.

Mocha, please.

Exactly where in the universe is it acceptable for a mother of two to brave the gym after 9 hours stuck in a blizzard and four hours more of driving home? Needless to say: nowhere.

But it seems I live in a world where my very own sister-in-law is stranded on a highway with her mother, husband, and two children under 5, and she does the unthinkable. She suffers and then she inflicts even more suffering because clearly the universe didn’t rain on her parade enough for the day. And my concern…”Did you cry?” My first question in fact!

Because all I could visualize is the wet, puddle of emotion that used to be mother, daughter, and wife to the company in that vehicle that is now soaked with my self-pity. Lord knows that a mighty river would be flowing from my eyes—assuming that I was properly hydrated, and the weather didn’t promptly freeze tears directly to my cheek.

Yeah, I immediately knew I couldn’t handle it.

If God truly delivers only what we can handle, than there is little chance of me ever being in Lynne’s shoes. There is an obvious reason it was Lynne stuck in that blizzard and not me—she is unsinkable. Clearly, there is reincarnation—Molly Brown has surfaced. The mere thought of it drove me to drink like I was trying to wash away a miserable memory that never actually happened.

The kicker to the whole thing is that Lynne, in a moment of hysteria or heroics, drops off her mom at 4;45am and heads to the gym. What possesses a human to endure such an ordeal and mock us all by going to the gym afterwards?

I already shrunk in face of her discipline and self-control to lose 40 pounds, and now I am totally humiliated by her strength and resilience during a blizzard. Rest assured that if I am stuck in anything for more than 2 hours with my kids, I’m headlong into a chocolate, cheese and wine shut-in that will last for as long as it takes. Don’t call me.

I suppose we each have our own way of coping or possibly prevailing over a situation, if we are lucky enough. I am still searching for the “gym” which provides my soul a calm in the storm.

In desperation, I recently bought “The Secret”, a book about the power of positive thinking, in hopes of finding the answer to my fears. It is a book that asks for an open mind and willing heart, which to my thinking is a ledger begging for totally mockery.

Yet as a grown woman, I have learned to control my skepticism for a cause. So, when I read about a woman who beat breast cancer with a comedy movie blitz, I held my tongue. And a man who went from reading glasses to perfect vision in three days, I reserved judgment. Yes, it is filled with miraculous feats of mind over matter and wondrous stories of health and well-being. Who was I to doubt?

I decided that I couldn’t dismiss the fact that my mind is likely a powerful creature without proper house training. And thinking happy thoughts can’t really be a bad idea; I mean nobody GOT cancer from being positive.

The book also gave step by step instructions on losing weight, the process is just vague enough that you couldn’t really hold anyone accountable but yourself for not becoming super-model slim.

I thought I should try it. And seeing as how I lack Lynne’s eleventh hour enthusiasm (read: insanity), there was no risk involved. I have a whole ‘nother brand of insanity which I am marketing. I am currently repeating myself like a broken record, “I am 155lbs…I look great, I feel great, I am my ideal weight.” If you spooked me at any time in the last four days I might have shouted it at you, like a nut-job.

Now, as cock-a-hooey as this whole process sounds, some freak things have come about. First of all, my repeated thoughts of being my ideal weight and visualizing my pre-marriage-skinny-ad-agency-self has remarkably left me less than hungry. It is a little surreal to go from months of wondering what should I have for lunch, what would make a good snack, and how will I face dinner to a serene…hmmmm, food---what do I want? I am calm, satisfied and freakishly unaware of the food issue.

Now, how is this possible? Are positive thoughts the Nabisco-100-calorie packs of the conscience mind? Am I channeling an ultra-depressive, quasi-anorexic version of my former self? Has putting a 155 post-it over the display on my scale actually tricked me into thinking it’s true? I can’t really answer that question.

I can tell you that I have lost over 3 pounds in the week since I started telling myself that I am 155. Like an idiot I keep repeating it. I am truly not sure that I am damaging my brain by lying to it, but I think I can’t be any more nuts than Lynne. And my way involves a lot less sweat and dirty laundry.

On the other side of this positive thinking has been a simple, unfulfilled request. They recommend starting with something small, like a parking space, or cup of coffee. The minute I read “coffee”, I imagined a steamy cup of mocha, with or without whipped cream (I am not picky.) And I thought, how great! A cup of mocha is on its way. I can practically taste the whipped cream (oh, I guess I am picky.)!

I have spent as much time lying to myself that I am actually 155, as I have spent dreaming and expecting that damn mocha. The mocha has not appeared. And that is the part of the positive thinking that I actually believed would come true.

This whole experiment has led me to the following realizations; I am motivated by lies, just like the teenage version of myself. It turns out that my lies, lies read in a book, or lies by others all have an equal opportunity to blur, alter or reengineer my reality. Not only do I get amped from a seductive lie, I am disturbingly satisfied from it. In summation---feed me a lie and I don’t have to eat for days.

The other realization is that positive thinking is a bit like Starbucks, the environment is enticing, the staff is attractive and always high, there is a deep, irresistible pull to be a part of that crowd, but they are confusing, and almost creepy, the cost is excessive and that mocha you just ordered ended up in the hands of the hyper-guy in front of you who apparently can’t read the name on the cup or care to look. Laws of attraction be damned!

The bright spot in the mocha department is Dave. He said to me like Obi-Wan Kenobi might have spoken to a Jedi in training, “Honey, maybe the universe isn’t sending you a mocha because I bring you coffee every morning.” And that is when I realized that positive thinking pales in comparison to actual miracles.

My Brilliant Make-out Artist

I admit, I have done a lot of trash-talkin’ about Phoebe and while I always add my love for her—she is due for a tribute to her uniqueness and wonder.

First of all, what you might not know is that I literally look forward to seeing her in the morning. I still worry about her during the night. I am a light sleeper and when I wake I have to fight the urge to check on her. And by daybreak, I am anxious to see her sunny face and sparkling personality.

She doesn’t ever disappoint with her a.m. hairdo. It is never quite the same and never un-amusing. She always looks like a old lady from the back with a month-old perm, and from the front, she can rock a Mohawk due to her unusual double-swirled cowlicks or a sort of Flock of Seagulls thing, or maybe just a very, queer, comb-over ala Donald Trump.

Aside from her follicle follies, she is always happy and looking anxious to begin what will inevitably be a very interesting day.

Today, she has taken to following me around and insisting on kisses. I am thrilled and bend down for a peck, only to find that when she says “KSSS”, she means; make-out under the bleachers, I hope you have a note from your parent’s; you will be late for seventh period. She is persistent, open-mouthed, very inaccurate, and much too wet. If you can get past the fact she is a toddler, good-looking, and a girl---she is pretty much my high school sweetheart.

Now, seeing as how I love this kid in a way that boggles my own imagination, I want to kiss her. I could even kiss her for hours, it would be swell. But her intentions are borderline illegal, and I can’t believe at the age of 15 months, I am forced to educate her on the laws of our state and country.

Laws be damned, I kiss her a lot today. Tomorrow, she might learn about pinching, and I had better make hay while the sun shines.

If she is anything like me, and I told she might be, then her passion du jour should be encouraged as it may be fleeting or dry up without proper nurturing. And squelching positive pursuits can only lead to negative consequences. Pucker up Mommy!

Beyond her amorous nature, I have been informed she is quite smart by her new preschool teachers.

Now, there are very few children that I have met who couldn’t be classified as “advanced”. I think often times one talent is recognized and another ignored, or just seen as commonplace by the dazed, sleep-deprived, person witnessing daily. Take my friend Julie, she was always telling me that Gabriel was advanced because he strung words together early. But I watched her twin boys scale her mantel and damn-near repel off the thing, while my boy couldn’t handle a Jumpy-Jump, without a spotter and head-gear. Those guys amazed me. And that kind of physical prowess cannot be overshadowed by language. We can all order fries with a burger, but few of us can master a Tomahawk-360-slam-dunk like Jordan? It is different, special, and cool.

So, upon hearing that Phoebe was gifted, I was anxious to know how she expressed her brilliance for the world to see. “That’s great. What did she do?”

Evidently, she pulled apart her peanut-butter sandwich and smashed the legume-smeared bread in her little face. Genius! I mean, clearly.

Seriously, a kid on a low-carb diet warrants a “really bright” label?

I guess I was looking for something a bit more…theory of relativity. But if dietary penchants qualify for IQ then the paste-eaters in my day probably went on to do great things. I am sure we owe the popularity of the iPod to a very special chalk-board licker.

Truth be told, you can’t tell me enough great things about my kids. I am the ultimate audience for their compliments and random observations, good and bad. I am obsessed with those two short people. And for better or worse, I will love them until I can no longer dodge Phoebe’s misguided advances.

They are the peanut-butter holding this wedge of soggy wheat-bread together.

That sweet, sweet smell...

If you ever have the desire to stop time, I have a suggestion. It involves The Four Seasons, a pot of tea, and a sister or a friend—preferably both. You can go, sit, and drink in a drop of civilized recreation. It is a rare and wonderful treat that warrants the extra effort to make it happen.

Note: Taking advice on relaxing, pampering, or just savoring a moment, from me isn’t at all prudent. I feel, I have to be honest---I am way too high-strung and anxious to give you a reliable suggestion in this department. I would liken it to handing a slab of filet mignon to a vegan for grilling. If there is anything left that is semi-edible, you can chalk it up to luck and proof that God is a carnivore. So, call it dumb luck or a loophole in the system, or maybe God is a closet-Darjeeling-freak, but I promise you, that this minor intermission in the comedy of life is worth your while.

As a committed control freak and someone who fully understands that I have little capacity for creative decadence or indulgence---I leave it to the experts. This is where the good people at the Four Seasons come into play, because even at your ugliest---they are true professionals. They will guide you toward your higher diva.

This begins my adventure with Anita.

We decided to go for our annual pot of tea talk at the Four Seasons. One, I knew they had tea---every Wednesday through Sunday until 4pm. Two, even if you miss the scheduled event, they habitually put it in pots. So, when you order tea for two, you experience time travel to a place where gloves and hats were customary and real honey makes everything a little sweeter. This small detail is crucial to a proper tea time and will make or break the ease and flow of the conversation. To the Four Seasons we go.

Anita came to the house, and I put on my over-priced black boots, which have been worn two times and removed within minutes of each showing. But I figured, I just had to drive, walk to the lounge and sit—the boots could come. And it would make me feel like an adult, an adult without children.

As I opened the doors to my stylin’ mini-van, I was accosted by a putrid wave of poopy-diaper-stench, which nearly knocked me and my fancy boots to the ground. Oh No! Oh, yes. I forgot to take Gabriel’s full Pull-Up out of the car on the way back from lunch. Crap! Crap! Literally, crap.

I removed the offensive item, but found that it had already left its calling card. But there was tea to be drank and a world removed from diapers, just moments away. We had to keep moving. I drove with my window down and said a small prayer that we could forgo valet. The poop-mobile was not user-friendly, especially to those in command of all five of their senses.

I drove in my psycho-stabbing heels toward nirvana and trying hard to outrun the fog of preschooler excrement. I am pretty sure we were trailing a smoky green fog from the rear. Anita was co-pilot and quickly learned that I have no idea of my left from my right. And, in the time it takes to conjure one of those clever, helpful tricks—we passed every turn. Thankfully, her quick adaptation to the “My side!” “Your side!” method got us there in no time.

We turned into the impeccably groomed hedges and picture-perfect lawns. As we followed the signs, I was beginning to have a sinking feeling in my stomach. Each sign directed us toward VALET and there were no welcoming little arrows toward general PARKING. I started to panic, as I assessed the poop-mobile. Not only did it reek of unmentionables, it was covered in crumbs, knee deep in sticky old apple juice boxes, rich with half-eaten sunflower seeds and popcorn bags, a veritable gold-mine of recycling with a dozen or so water bottles, and many a clean and dirty sweatshirt, sweater and changing square tucked in every corner.

You have to wonder if the pot might have been projecting their own shortcomings on the kettle, when it bitched the other out for just a few million random plastic bags. I was in no position to judge anyone—this car was a one-mother-train-wreck. No time for regrets, I had a valet to outsmart.

Anita rolled down her window in silent agreement that the poop-mobile was soon to be boarded by an innocent. She slyly gave the van an once-over and with a shrug of the shoulders and a slight smile, released herself from responsibility.

I should have followed her lead; I should have let it go. I should have handed over the keys, and sang “These boots are made for walking” all the way to my Orange-scented herbal-tea-with-honey-happiness, but we all know me better.

The minute the man in the gray suit opened that door, I opened my mouth and I wouldn’t stop until he know every last detail of my son’s potty training and my personal penchant for popcorn since my drug treatment therapy and my inability to vacuum because of the children’s sensitivity to sound and my lack of a portable wet/dry vac. He graciously closed the door in my face and told me to have a good time.

Is there a tip big enough for that verbal diarrhea? I can assure you that my son’s handiwork paled in comparison to his mother’s load.

To his credit, he rolled down the window on the mime-act that is a frantic, embarrassed mother, and sincerely conveyed his understanding. He promised to park the van close by—should I need to make a quick exit and attend to the little ones.

Anita brilliantly scurried into the hotel before we could be readily identified as a pair.

Aside from my entrance, the tea was exceptional. I transcended the poop-mobile and Anita shared some stories from school and her life. And I had a chance to visit with her away from the diapers, the apple juice and the chaos. I listened, and I learned.

As we left, I felt connected and refreshed--and even happy to see my dear, old chariot of stink. I took the keys, and took ownership of it, no excuses. It was mine, complete with every flaw, offensive and otherwise. And as I put my boot to the pedal, I drew a deep breath, and knew that pungent perfume that filled my nostrils was the smell of my personal destiny, and in its own absurd way, my success.

The virtue of patience.

Phoebe has gone mad.

Her habitual placement on the hip of Mommy or Daddy has morphed into an all-out obsession with being carried, and demanding to “Go! Go! Go!” Dave and I have not only turned into walking, talking, motorcades for the wee princess. Apparently, we are also meant to be carnival rides. It is annoying.

Not only is her insistence on a sidecar view of the world exhausting, it is impossible. You simply can’t operate in this world with a 26-pound child hanging off of one side. (Note: a weight that bears little responsibility for its own security and welfare.) This tiny, or not so tiny, remora is starting to wear on my last functioning nerve.

I bear some responsibility for the disaster. She cries—I swoop. My hip is permanently jutted out at an angle that any human below four feet could readily jump onto. I am always at the ready to carry her adorable, ankle-biter-ness.

Yes, I am as available as a toll-taker on a Tuesday morning. She drives by with a whimper and we are up and away! It is wrong and I know that Super Nanny would absolutely slap my face, if she saw this infantile display of weakness.

Beyond the dishes and meals, which are single-handedly tossed together, there are greater costs to our daily dance. My sanity for example, I go to bed each night with high hopes of what I will accomplish the following day. I wake and realize that my wine-fueled dreams will amount to a sliver of my imagined glory. I feel a like a failure with a giant giggling tumor attached.

I don’t lack the motivation or resources. I lack independence, which it seems normal and adult life requires. I cannot even make a phone call without a greedy paw clawing for the receiver. “Hi DADA! Hi DADA”. I cannot sweep without a diapered ass sitting in the middle of the debris asking for a lift. This interference makes mountains of baking a cake or wrapping a gift. I need a pouch like a bloody kangaroo to get anything done around here. Things are bad when you envy Marsupials…Oh, to be a wombat.

I have goals, which won’t be realized until Phoebe is in college, perhaps.

I have tried to exercise extreme patience to make our co-existence a happy one. I have to let go of time-sensitive tasks and tried to embrace only that which can be done late at night or online. Christmas was a real bitch.

If only I could footnote all activities, chores, promises and ideas. “Redeemable in the next millennium.” “Best before the end of existence.” “Expires at the rapture.” I am trying not to get caught up in a Martha-esque world, where things are orderly, timely, well managed and perfect. I need a broader definition of personal success without a timeline for completion.

Ironically, my increasing need for patience seems to be lost on my little progeny. I have read that I should be the role model for a daughter, but I haven’t seen a glimmer of self-control or endurance while waiting for her desires to come to fruition. I haven’t noticed a compassionate pause for her yogurt to be opened while I peel Gabriel’s banana. She is a one-girl tirade of self-satisfaction. She lives in a world with no delay button. We are clearly not reading the same books.

She is my personal toddler-Martha-nista. Nothing is right, until she says it is right.

There is one chance that I could find peace—not in this world, but in Phoebe’s. I could throw myself hip-first into her demands. And perhaps, instead of the eternity-expiration date, on all of my goals, hopes and dreams, I will just attach a “Save the Date” notice. On her eighteenth birthday, I will return. Please be patient.