Trojan Dog.

She has infiltrated.

Her suspicious absence lulled me into a false sense of security. I thought she might have given up, set her targets on the new neighbors down the street, or maybe just gone on vacation (she is a travel agent after all). But that sly old lady was waiting for just the right opportunity. Now I am really frightened, because not only is she tenacious, she is patient.

It came wrapped in a black, plastic, garbage bag with a blue ribbon. In the spectrum of curious gifts, it was right at the top. Measuring about 3 1/2 feet wide by 5 feet long. Dick brought it over, clever, huh? It was a birthday gift for Gabriel. (I wasn’t aware that we were on gifting-terms with each other? Or that you knew his birthday?)

He waited at the door while we tore at the massive prune of a gift. I suspect under strict orders. Underneath the shiny black plastic poked the head of the largest German Shepard dog that I have ever seen. The rest of the furry canine went on forever. Gabriel was astonished. I was concerned.

Dick made his exit. Gabriel struggled to drag the dog into his room for a “puppy ride” while we read naptime stories. I wouldn’t touch it. As I read, I noticed the eyes. Were they following me? I read more quietly. Did I hear electronics straining to record? Was there static coming from his belly? No! That is crazy. The dog is stuffed. But stuffed with what I wondered?

While Gabriel slept, I inspected him—no ticking, soft to the touch, no obvious foreign materials. Apparently, she wants us alive. I threw a towel over his head until I could calculate my next steps.

I don’t trust that beast, anymore than I trust MaryEllen. She is in my home now, closer than she has ever been before, definitely too close for comfort. I have a sinking feeling that this dog is loyal to one master, and it is not Gabriel. I am keeping my distance for the moment.

But next week, I will be helping Gabriel make “Lost Dog” posters for the neighborhood.

Stop, Drop and Run.

It’s lucky there is a year between children’s birthdays. I need a year to prepare for the next one. Even then, I honestly don’t know if I will be ready. I don’t know if I am up to the challenge. I don’t know if I have the mommy-moxi required for the task. And I can’t be certain that I will have recovered from the disaster that was Gabriel’s third birthday party.

I am embarrassed to admit, I fled the scene. I hit a wall of total and complete frustration while opening gifts, and I actually left my son’s own birthday party. And graciously gave the duties of gift opening/delegating/negotiating to the unsuspecting guests upon my exit.

I didn’t go far, but clearly I am not qualified for the United Nations level of compromise and spontaneous action/solution decision-making, which seem to be required. I am no Kofi Annan of toddler festivities. Next year, I may leave the country. Perhaps a brief visit to Switzerland.

I am sure my inadequacy starts with the packages. I don’t like opening packages, gifts, boxes—you name it. It is a bizarre phobia, but as real as fearing heights or dogs in my world. I have anxiety and feel pressure in my chest when faced with a wrapped and disguised articles that warrant action on my part. I feel the package has a distinct advantage over me. It is in charge and I must comply, I must relinquish my control to it. I must open, and smile and be pleased with whatsoever awaits me. I don’t claim that it is normal, it is anything but. Everyone I know, who knows me, knows I have a serious box opening issue. So, a pile of gifts and an eager audience is about as appealing as a colonoscopy.

Let’s open gifts!

Okay, the 4-year-old jumps in and starts us off. She is a pro. She has years of experience. Way more experience than me in the children’s birthday party realm. But I think leaving the responsibility on her shoulders might be a bit awkward. And I am afraid that anyone under 18 might get drunk with power in the face of all those presents. No, I have to be in charge—Annabelle cannot be saddled with my responsibilities. I have to face my fears.

Present one: Toolbox. “Open it!!!” “Open it!!!” okay, okay. Rip, tear…and in dive a million hands pulling out tools and bits and screws and wood in every direction. I thought there were only four children here? Where did all of those fingers come from? What transformed those sweet, beguiling youngsters? When did they become unwieldy creatures with tentacles, multiple arms, high-pitched screams and all lack of reason or fairness. I felt myself drowning in a pool of miniature, hungry octopi.

“Open another one!” “YES! Another!”

Now? Already? What, no time to recover? Isn’t one enough? Haven’t we learned our lesson? “Oh no, Brayton don’t bang your head with the hammer!” That is my job. (As a rule, when a 2-year-old is acting the way I am feeling, I think it wise to abort and change direction.) But Pandora’s pile of goodies beckoned, and who am I to stop such “good” times?

Present two: Cars “I want this one! I want that one! I get the red one! I get the blue one!” “Okay, wait a second, does anyone have scissors?” Oh my god, they tore it open with their teeth. They ripped it with their claws. They sawed through the plastic with their sharpened talons. They fashioned the gift No. 1 tools into tiny jaws-of-life to rescue more loot from it’s packaging. It was brilliant and frightening all at the same time.

After the cars made their debut. I needed another glass of wine. I needed to catch my breath. I needed a moment. And by the grace of God, there was a lull over the children they each had a car and a screwdriver, a nut, a bolt, or something else of interest.

I surveyed the situation and said, “Thanks for the gifts, I will send you notes later when we finish opening them.”

At that moment, the crowd turned on me. I looked to Brayton, my head-banging-buddy, he was occupied with a wrench.

WHAT!?! That just wouldn’t do. No! People had come from far and wide to give him presents. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right.

“No!” we had to press on. I know when I am up against a foe larger than me. I know when to wave the white flag. I know when to admit defeat. And the more I was encouraged to continue, the more my stomach turned and the blood drained from my face. Looking at the pile and the future, which I simply couldn’t face. This is where I made my pathetic exit.

I am not proud of my actions. I rather fancy myself a strong woman and relatively competent mother. But clearly, I am delusional, as well as weak.

(For those who have to know what happened next…my husband fetched me from the bedroom, and the party went on. We opened the handful of presents from those far and wide. And quickly, with almost surgical efficiency, managed the remainder of the paper-shredding frenzy by a committee of the committed.)

I have learned there is a divide. I see vividly the chasm where the world of parents splits in two. I have not crossed it. (I have been warned that I will.)

On the one side, I see a camp, which engages fully in the gifting process. They drag themselves out to the store, press their memories, cull their imagination and express their creativity in finding the perfect present. They shell out money, lovingly wrap, and schlep and wait at their turn at parties. Their efforts are not rewarded with “oohs” and “ahhs”.

No worries, they know better. They know the score. There is a measurement system that I was unfamiliar with until yesterday. For example; limb-threatening lunges in the direction of the gift are a sign they have done well, fistfuls of hair rate a “thumbs-up” approval, and the gift which spurs an actual blood-letting injury—to the giver goes the ultimate victory. It is brutal, but like they say, no good deed goes unpunished.

For those who shy away from the risk that their gift might only result in a stubbed toe, even worse, disinterest or the dreaded forced-smile, they stand with me. I am a coward. I fear that I stand alone, on my side of the gap. I stand silently hoping that next year, comes a goes with a freakish, national amnesia on July 18th. It is unlikely.

But in the event, you were planning to send me a gift on my birthday—I beseech you to skip it. And I promise, that I will pull-out my own hair in gratitude for sparing me another beautifully-wrapped time-bomb of generosity.

The Golden Rule

It is magnificent and utterly impossible. Could there be a more unreasonable request? One would think we like the feel of concrete against our raw foreheads. Mmmm…the beating, beating, beating.

Naturally, I want done unto myself only the best. But do I afford others the same luxury? Yes, you wish I did! I would do unto myself painless massages, full-time housekeepers, in-house chefs, and aroma-therapy (whatever that really is). Oh, to be so lucky.

I’ll be honest—I know that it is right and I know that it is just and I know it is important. I just don’t know how convincingly I can convey a principle, which constantly eludes me. I don’t know that I have complete control over my own base instinct to give what I get. It is second nature to react—an eye for an eye, and all that. Right?

But clearly, I embrace the policy…I have both of my eyes to prove it.

So imagine, Lynne (my dearest sister-in-law) and I trying to impart this truly high-minded, evolved, incredible, all-encompassing, ideal on our children. Our children who are; 0 (Annabelle’s age for babies). 2, 3, and 4-years-old. There is something ironic and hilarious as we repeat the message over and over. We re-iterate and demonstrate it’s practical applications in terms of wading pools, splashing, kicking and serious-day-time-drama-slaps to the face.

We have definitely bitten off more than we can chew, definitely more than those little ones can possibly swallow. But could it pay off in the end? Could it be like the tiny Buddha starting his practice at infancy? Are we ultimately giving what we would have liked to be given ourselves? Are we imparting enlightenment and remarkably enlightening ourselves in the process? Maybe we are the town idiots, who accidentally change the world?

Doubtful. But you’ve got to admire the attempt. More likely, we are the Jamaican bobsledders of toddler unity and co-existence. There is no medal in our future. And if all four of our kids come away from this weekend with 20 digits, 4 extremities, and relatively unscarred torsos each, then Bravo to us. And I promise you, having long experienced the golden rule...I know better than to expect anything in return.

I want my Mommy!

My Mom (actually my stepmom, but she as real as it gets in my world) is out of town and I need her. I have house-guests, birthday parties, work, more work, children, food, aches, pains, and neurosis to attend to and I need someone to set me straight.

She is brilliant at cutting through my clutter and hearing the heart of the matter. She can see the big picture and hone in on the missing pieces. I am more of the throw the puzzle at the wall and hope that the lost pieces won’t be noticed type, perhaps even mistaken as art.

She knows exactly what I have to tackle no matter how much mess I hurl at her. I can talk endlessly about the kids, the house, the food, the floor, the lack of sleep, the people coming over, the stress, the unfairness of my condition and a price of gas. She will say, “So, you need to mop the floors before they arrive.”

And at that very moment, I can see everything in high definition. Yes, that is it. How simple? How brilliant? How utterly doable? How manageable and realistic? Just pick up a mop, fill a bucket and clean up my life. She is like a gentle rapping on the knuckles, which calls a die-hard catholic-guilt girl like me to action. I need her focus.

Everything is in order. We are ready, but I feel like I am forgetting something. I need that final advice, a piece of wisdom, a drop of knowledge or insight that remarkably fills my entire bucket. It could be as simple as “Did you pick up extra milk?” or perhaps after hearing all the preparations “How long has it been since you’ve seen them?” In order to get me thinking about them instead of me, and my crazy, for a whole nanosecond.

I need a hit. Something to put my mind at rest, something so sincerely loving that you know, if you forgot the milk, it would truly not be worth crying over.

Patience Grasshopper.

In my pursuit of the ideal education for my son, which of course, does not exist. I find my way to the Zen-master-of-all-things-Montessori, let’s call her Dr. M. Well, Dr. M has transformed her home into a oasis of learning. It is magnificent. It has animals like turtles and fish, plants are blooming everyway, bread for baking, tea for pouring, letters, numbers, fountains, yoga, courtyards, and the peace and quiet to enjoy them. This palace of learning had everything, but the one thing Dr. M. does not have is a tolerance for diapers.

When we were there, she showed us around and we were both awstruck. More importantly, Gabriel truly enjoyed himself. How could you not enjoy yourself? It is the spa of preschools. It reeks of serenity and enlightened minds. I was totally sucked in. I took off my shoes wanting to dip them into the pool of knowledge she had created for children ages 2-6. Well, not so fast Mrs. Fat-toes! (Oh yeah, did I mention she was a whisper of a person. She moved like a she floated on air and talked like a sweet, seductive breeze, you know the type—I felt extra large, clumsy and cumbersome next to her, so of course, my infatuation was complete.)

Yank those cellulite-insulated digits out of that fountain! There is a matter to discuss. The dreaded diaper, she was no fan. And while her website made mention of accepting those in training. She meant training, as in making any mistakes on their own time, not hers. I said we were working on it, which is true. But we aren’t making any real headway to speak of, so I didn’t want to make empty promises. She said, “It should only take a couple days. He will be ready by Fall.” I sort of didn’t know how to take that—was it a reassurance, or a directive, or something like an indictment. You really can’t get a read on a person like Dr. M. they seem to operate on another plane, one I don’t have access to. But I felt like it wasn’t a kindly response. I felt like I should have agreed and been quicker in my duties, but I will be the last human on earth to apologize for my son in that department. The boy is not even three yet. I mean, he will be in a heartbeat, but every heartbeat counts.

So, I bid farewell and told Dave about the good Dr. M and her home of perfection. And while he wasn’t a fan of a school without a jungle gym, sandbox, and basketball court, for reasons beyond my comprehension, he trusts me, and I told him I thought Gabriel would thrive there. Let’s sleep on it.

While I slept, Dr. M sent message after message with detailed information on how Gabriel would reach his full potential through Montessori. He would read and write by four. He would be doing algebra by five. He would be splitting atoms by kindergarten. And who would deny your son the opportunity to walk in the footsteps of Einstein?

Apparently, me.

While I felt a bit barraged by the materials, I liked her passion. I liked that she was a believer. I think kids need that kind of energy to sweep them up and carry them to places they couldn’t have imagined. So, I felt confident Dr. M. was working in my best interest. But the potty training thing still hung over my head. Every time I wiped that boy’s bottom, I thought of Dr. M. frowning at me. I felt her shaking her head and pursing her lips with that if-you-only-knew-look. And then I would shake my own head and say, “No, you fool! It’s not zen to judge, no judging!” Dr. M. would never pass such harsh criticism on such a natural and organic process.

So, given that this was the only small issue between Gabriel and the path to nirvana, I thought we might be able to reach a compromise. To be honest, I was ashamed each time I changed those dirty diapers after our visit, but I knew that you could only lead a horse to water, you could not make him drink. And for all that I would LOVE to scream from the rooftops, my BOY PEED IN THE POTTY! It is not going to happen by brut force (although I am sure Dick Cheney would have a differing opinion). I courageously wrote a letter to Dr. M. explaining that I really want to enroll Gabriel in her preschool, I think he would thrive there. But he is not potty trained and I can’t assure her that he will be in September. He is enthusiastic and willing to go through the motions, but he just can’t seem to close the deal. And after much deliberation and research, from experts locally and globally, I have decided that the added stress of an external deadline would not be healthy for either of us. If she were open to diapers, for the training process, I would send a check tomorrow. And she could send a letter of acceptance, instead of twenty-seven more articles.

It is clear that acceptance is the last thing that smug, skinny, little know-it-all will be sending me. Yes, she told me how much she liked Gabriel and wished he could join them, but it was important for his focus that he be toilet trained. Dr. M. said no, thank you. And just to be sure I knew what I was doing, because clearly I am not to be trusted—the bitch sent me a bloody encyclopedia’s worth of reading material on the subject! Oh, NO YOU DIDn’t!

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Serenity now…

Okay, so let’s say she does think I am some kind of idiot with an aversion to indoor plumbing. STILL! I don’t know anyone who doesn’t use a toilet eventually. Seriously, the box-of-rocks, who delivers my groceries, is probably an All-American on the john.

I don’t want or need her high & mighty advice on potty training. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t suggest that I am lost for ideas. I stated the facts and I stated my intention—patience. Good old fashion faith in humanity. Mark my words, It WILL happen! (maybe even by September) And she may be disappointed and tsk-tsking me, and my lack of pro-activity, but I would like to point out that my approach, however unimaginative, will eventually lead to success. While I don’t have a published article to back this up, I do have the overwhelming empirical data that every adult I know, walks upright (assuming there are no extenuating circumstances) and poops on the toilet (once again, assuming he is your average citizen with a normal fiber consumption). I suspect the same glorious activities to bless my children’s lives in the future.

Who is the Zen-master now? While I would never attempt to compete with her sea of serenity, I am proud to say that I am a patient woman when it comes to my kids. They will walk and talk when they are ready. I will be here. They can poop and pee where they are most comfortable, I will dutifully follow after with a plastic baggy. And I figure, by college, their preferred depository won’t be in a pair of Huggies. But even still, I know that I will accept their idiosyncrasies. I know how they have had to suffer through mine. So, the garden of peaceful bliss and certain genius will have to wait and while Gabriel finds his way through our garden of riot and mayhem to the blessed potty. And what I have learned from Dr. M. is that the path to enlightenment is not always a marked with a Koi pond. Sometimes it is just a puddle in a Pampers.

My Captive Audience, emphasis on “CAPTIVE”

My poor little sister, Anita—you really couldn’t ask for a cooler and sweeter little sister. I got her by bad marriage and good fortune. Bad marriage, being that my biological mother (I believe that is the PC term for those who were adopted, and/or those who were just screwed by reproduction) was a total crack-pot, and the excellent fortune that my Dad is a surprisingly fast-learner and married a truly great woman after the divorce (I will not question how the same individual could choose such extreme opposites—ultimately that would question my own existence and no good can come of that). The subsequent union resulted in three wonderful girls. Living proof that mistakes can be good things and maybe change is really the universe’s way of giving you a second chance. I don’t honestly know, but I can tell you with extreme confidence that the youngest of the brood is a super-cool kid. Of course, the rest pretty much rock, but this is about Anita. Anyway, she babysat for Dave and I last night so we could have a DATE!

It’s been a while since this has happened, so I had to get a new outfit (how totally LA)—new jeans and a new shirt. New flash: I have got knockers! I could work at Hooters, hell, I could manage Hooters. Can I tell you my breast seriously must have their own gravitational pull? They must be a planetary force because while just about every shirt on a rack (not mine) found their way into our cart. And very few, except the occasional mou-mou could cover the landmasses. I finally searched in maternity and found a very hip little number, which did it’s best to conceal the goods, while still remaining neutral in the hussy-arena.

I prepared for this date like my life depended on it. In every spare moment of time, (all of 18.7 minutes a day), I looked at possible accessory combinations, I researched restaurants, I calculated drive time, I practiced various conversations and, I am embarrassed to say—rehearsed poses! I may have been married for ten years, but I am still a dork and I still get nervous for a date. Especially since they are more rare know than in high school, and back then I almost collapsed from nerves before liftoff.

Ultimately, we went to a sushi bar in downtown Carlsbad. It was rich with tourists, who are my favorite folks to spy and make pretend things up that they are saying. Try it sometime. Instead of just looking at a really goofy dude, try to recreate his thoughts and his voice—come up with his unique catch phrase. It is addictive and terribly funny. Because you don’t have to be clever, the person is right there being the hilarious, all you have to do is fill in the bubble over their head. I really can’t recommend this past time enough. Mine would perhaps say, “I wish women could go topless since I can barely fit mine into a shirt.”

Okay, anyway—my husband will be so disappointed in me if I don’t totally ridicule him for the very first thing he said to the sushi chef after our 30 minute wait for the bar. “Hey, we just moved here. It looks like you are really putting out some MEAN sushi rolls.” Oh, no! I hang my head because I can’t remember a time when “mean”, meant anything but dork—seriously, was it ever cool to say that? Even in the 80’s when the term might have seen the light, it had to be by the tragically un-hip or perhaps the guys with those slivers of neckties that reminded me of nooses. Maybe it saw it’s heyday in Revenge of the Nerds, but I can’t be certain. All I know is that a 38-year-old with a middle-aged wife who, have been childless for all of 40 minutes, should not using those adjectives. I say stick to the basics—like “Yes, please.” “Thank you” and “Check” perhaps your rehearsed hand signal for “Is this seat taken?”

I think Dave was shooting for the stars with his MEAN sushi talk and thankfully, he stopped short of high fives, head butts, and face painting, with the sushi chefs. If you are wondering what he sushi-guy said, after a long pause and confused look, “Okay.”

So, we had a great time and while Dave said some questionable things to the general public, he said all the right things to me. We are flying high when we get home. And Anita is waiting for us. She has been watching tv and working on her computer. And then I start and when I am in that state of mind, I start and I can’t be stopped. I start telling her every excruciating detail of our date. I tell her every shred of gossip and every minute detail of information send in my way in the past week. I just can’t put on the breaks. And she listens and she laughs and she humors me, as she packs up her computer and tries to slyly head for the door. And bless her heart, she lets me keep on chewing off her bloody ear until she is in her car and driving down the street and my fingernails are fraying on the back bumper while I try to hold on for dear life and fit in one more story about…well, it could have been about the lint in my hairbrush for all that it mattered.

By a small miracle she escaped me before dawn. She is sweet, but she’s no sucker. Personally, I would have hung a meter on my chest and charged by the minute. (Note: this suggestion does not apply to current friends and family, only new customers.)

Well, the next morning, I was so delighted that we had such a great date and my children survived. But I did have an ounce of regret, not that I drank too much sake, not that I wore a suspiciously tight pair of jeans at my age, not that I ate more sushi than Dave, who is twice my size. Nothing made me feel bad, except for holding Anita hostage. She was the real casualty of our dorky, over-zealous, friendliness, not the sushi guy—he got a thirty-dollar tip and swept us out with the chopstick wrappers,

That is how you thank family, isn’t it? They give an inch…blah, blah, blah. I didn’t shoo her out the door to save her own life—nope. Captive and supportive, and clearly our personal savior, she did double-duty for me, (and Dave, who didn’t have to listen anymore). Not only did she steer our children from inevitable death, she saved the questionable self-esteem of her much-older sister, barely escaping from death by boredom. She is not to be messed with. (Which I think that might fall into the questionable-phrase category. Did Mr. T say that? Who am I to mock anyone?)

I guess the bad marriage and good fortune is uniquely a blessing in my life, but her good turns are still to come. For now, I will relish the summer with her and inevitably abuse her good nature and generosity again and again. It is like putting a butterfly under glass with a pin in the thorax—sick and wrong but difficult not to inspect and be grateful that someone captured such a fleeting creature of beauty. Such is our summer with Anita.

The 411

I knew it was going to be a bad day when I woke up with a Cheerios stuck to my ass.

Today’s chore: New phone service.

What has improved about home phone service in the modern era? I don’t know why we can’t buy a phone that just works like the good old rotary monsters of yester-year. I can’t think of a time those phones failed me. I could talk to my boyfriend for hours on end and hear every breath of pre-verbal, adolescent, immature, hormonal.oh, is that Fantasy Island in the background…non-sense without interruption.

I currently own a phone that got decent reviews, which literally turns into a Jiffy Pop Popper every time the microwave turns on. Have the critics never nuked a cup of coffee while bitching to a sister? I guess there are other heating elements that I am not aware of to preserve telecommunications clarity.

While the actual devices suck, what sucks even more is setting up the service to provide utterly crucial connections to your loved ones and solicitors. It took me 30 minutes (and that is a rare underestimate) to get a phone number here. And that was the first phone oh-my-go-I-have-to-get-our-lives-in-order call because you can’t get garbage collected or turn on a gas burner without those precious digits.

The call was so agonizingly long; both of my youngsters abandoned lost all signs of sanity waiting for juice (when will they create an IV for that junkie?), diaper changes and general stimulation outside of Sesame Street. I had to hang up before we discussed the finer points of a modern phone’s features.

So, we currently have a phone that rings. That is it. It rings. There is no answering service, no call waiting, no caller ID. We have a phone that is likely supported by the last individual operator from the 1900’s. I am sure she lives in Vista with her fifteen cats. She will connect me to Dr. Smith at a moments notice, assuming he is not delivering a litter of kittens or tending to a bayonet wound. But she will not let me know that the Republicans are calling for my support.

(This is what my phone should look like based on it's single function.)

In light of the fact that nobody can leave a message, and I am often elbow deep in poop, pee or bathwater assuming either of those elements are bigger than a wet wipe can handle, I don’t always get to the phone. And my current solution of calling all 6 people who phone me regularly, and asking if they called is pretty much stupid and annoying to all of those innocents. The ironic, and moronic, part of this exercise is that any of those six people know me, and my life well enough to call again or try my cell. So, I am needlessly torturing my people.

Well, I have always wanted to try Vonage. Okay. I call. And they start with the yammering on about phone options and service packages. I said, “Listen, I can’t sit and talk for more than a few minutes. I have a credit card ready. Just sign me up!” And with those words, I embarked on another 45 minute odyssey of disclaimers, fine print and I am not sure, but I think my soul belongs to Satan, or if not mine, one of my children’s.

I agreed to everything in the queue, and between the “What? Yeah. Sure.” I was screaming “STOP IT!” to my son who was taunting Phoebe and telling me to “Go away!” (If only it were that simple.) And every time, the operator heard me scream “STOP” She said, “Shall I continue?” which seemed a little bitchy, condescending and obnoxious (truth be told, it made me nostalgic). I answered each faux-request with an exaggerated “Yes, PLEEZ!” And honestly, is she suggesting that she can’t discern the tone I use with a misbehaving toddler from the tone I use with a stranger I am growing to dislike immensely. I will have to work on that.

“Are we done yet?”
“No, just ten more minutes.”
“I don’t have 10 minutes, you have my credit card and mailing address, charge me, send the contract, and send the bill—can’t we be DONE!”
“No, just twelve more minutes.”
“WHAT!?! Are you kidding me? It was ten minutes just a second ago!”
“ That was before you interrupted me. This is being taped and it must be accurate.”

So, it’s all been caught on tape, recorded for posterity, and that is where our phone systems have evolved. That is the one little upgrade that seems to be working flawlessly.

Now, I don’t know about you, but if I were on the phone with me today—and I had to deal with my attitude, my ranting and my impatience—I would be playing that tape to my buddies, I would take it home to my husband to show what idiots I have to deal with, I would even play it for my nosey neighbor just to give her a fix.

Yup, Vonage and George W. are on the cutting edge of telephone communications and I am sitting on the other end, peeling Cheerios off my buttocks.

Go Fourth.

I am happy. I am happy because my kids saw some decent fireworks. Happy because on a moments notice we went to see fireworks. Happy because two sets of very close friends came to see us this weekend for fast, furious, fun-filled visits. Happy because my parents had us over for a spontaneous and delicious cookout. Happy because my husband giddily changed diapers on a lawn (and I find nothing sexier). Happy because every event and every companion this weekend filled me with joy. Happy to know that I am capable of such delight in the presence of humanity and even happy to be a part of humanity. Overall, my happiness equaled a life-affirming joy.

And while, I will probably never be a true-southern cal babe, I will never totally “fit” here, I realize, that I will find happiness here. And if ever a moment of independence were felt from an American, it would be mine. I feel a pounds lighter and a suspiciously optimistic.

It is odd though, and possibly certifiable. Because one of my best friends, Tonya was here and I was dumping my toxic wasteland of troubles on her unsuspecting ears, and she said, along with many positive things—”Honey, you need therapy.” My smile radiated from ear to ear. She just told it like it was…and I couldn’t have agreed more. The voices in my head are definitely beginning to shadow the voices of the people I adore. But let’s bear in mind that I left the people I adore at quite a distance. It would require more than a megaphone to compete.

What have I learned from such overwhelming bliss? Having your special people close to you makes you feel whole. It completes you. How cheesey, huh? How totally disgustingly sappy and grotesequely corny? I would dismiss it completely—if I weren’t so joyously satisfied following these encounters. I would find myself above all that ridiculousness, if I weren’t so damned and utterly thrilling to have my people finger my discontent and be willing to make posters for the local post office.

I trust them and when they look around and say, “Yes, you did it! ““You are growing up.” And I say, “you think?” And they say, “Are you nuts?” YES! YES! I am nuts! But “Yes, it seems that I am growing up.” “Ah, more wine? Hmmm, that’s just what Dave tells me all the time!?!”

So, I will keep muddling along and doing what, I hope, is best for my family. I think there is a whiff of destiny, and during the awkward silences, I will force myself to remember that there is a world of people behind me. And when I feel lost and alone, I will know that I have my people behind me, they are there for me—they believe in me. And if all else fails, they are willing to sign the papers to commit me. So, at least I don’t have to do that alone.

A life which requires less of me.

I feel fat. There are two reasons for this—One: I am stressed. Two: I am fat.

People here aside from being friendly, relaxed, and “helpful” are generally fit and thin. I really want to be thin, not just thin, you know…skinny-bitch thin. I think that would be great! I’ve always thought that losing 20 pounds would pretty much solve all of my problems—everything including our rotten plumbing, which caused a pipe to burst in our bedroom sink. That’s a story for another time. (Who, by the way, thought it was a brilliant idea to carpet bathrooms here?)

Yes, I feel confident that my weight loss could single-handedly right all wrongs. Silence neighbors, create a robot-army of deliverymen, and loosen the death-grip our landlady has on her purse-strings. It could solve world hunger and reverse global warming. There is pretty much nothing that my personal blubber-reduction could not set straight.

With all that riding on a simple commitment to diet and exercise, why wouldn’t I? The answer is simple. It’s never been a true priority. I never wanted it that badly, even with all the good it could cause.

If I did not wake up everyday and look a my extra belly roll, if I didn’t examine the baggage hanging off of my arms with a loving little flick, if I couldn’t pinch my sides and know there was plenty more of me than I, or my husband needed, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

Until now, after a shower, I could slip into something cozy (read: tent-ish), which covered most of my flaws and at least sheltered the rest from the naked eye. The flaws were just mine (and the unfortunate mirror’s). Obviously, it is no secret from society that I am not a size 6. But somehow, I felt that undercover of sweaters, long-sleeves, and fleece the exact magnitude of me could be disguised. Fashion which gives new meaning to security blanket.

Here everyone is out in the open. Everyone, every flaw, is exposed. It is so damn sunny and it is so damn hot and it is so damn NOT a place for sleeves. You would think with all the sweating, I might have lost a pound or two. But the more places I go and the more people I see, I feel myself growing. I feel fat rolls tumbling down my back and cellulite flopping between my toes. I am experiencing chubby armpits and chunky knuckles. My neck is bulging. Everything keeps expanding. The more, slight, waify, bronze, blond beauties I witness, the larger the girth of my being compounds. It is no longer my little secret tucked into stretch-denim capris, it is beyond forgiving cuts and support-fabrics—I am Mount Mickimoto.

I don’t know when I will begin the trek to conquer this mountain. I need guides, and gear, and I suspect, a donkey. You don’t find a sherpa for this adventure in the phonebook. It is going to take time. But time is on my side, because either I change my priorities or Fall changes the weather. Either way, you’ll be seeing less of me in the future.

Exile Island

In an attempt to keep my neighbor out of my hair and off the back of a milk carton, I have decided to order my groceries online. The plan is also to keep my distance from the helpful checkers at Von’s offering alternative children’s cartoon networks and asking if I like the particular scent of my panty-liners. Once again, I wonder where the boundaries lie with some people. With my luck, one of them will turn out to be my neighbor on the other side.

When in crisis we gravitate toward the familiar, cookies & milk, Ben & Jerry’s, crack & heroine. Just kidding. I am not that kind of gal. I’m a big, tacky sissy in the vice department. I prefer white wine, I like it very cold, often with a couple of ice cubes to dilute the alcohol, provide hydration, and basically make me feel a little less like a big old drunk. Of course, I love a great red, but that is for birthdays, company, and anniversaries.

Aside from liquid comfort, I can always count on my computer. It makes me feel in control. I type, it writes, I order, it delivers. It never wonders how I cook tofu or asks what I do with wheat gluten. Nope. It cares not for me, and my interests, and for that, I love it. I am at home in a land of sterile interactions producing predictable results minus human contact. Yes, all my groceries delivered to my door in seclusion, without another living soul around for yards.

That is, unless you forget to include the deliveryman, the idiot, idiot, idiot delivery man. Trust me, when I tell you that this fool made me want to call MaryEllen to make a date for lemonade and bridge. There is someone upstairs with a sick sense of humor, who sent that man to me and he/she is laughing milk out his/her nose right now. I am being taunted.

I cannot go into the details of our conversation without once again risking some sort of psychotic break. Here are just some of the highlights: aside from being two hours late, he tells me HE is having a bad day, (oh, sorry to hear that, me too.) he is getting a divorce, he doesn’t know how to be “civil” per court order (What a coincidence, I am forgetting how to be civil too), he hates her (I can see that), he knows she changed the code on this phone, he is moving to Oklahoma (poor Oklahoma), he needs a change (try silence), he informs me that Oakland is the hood (his expert opinion is based on the comedy of Carlos Mencia—which he recited in front of the children), he is going to quit his job (first brilliant thing, he has said), he called and entered his code at least a hundred times (seems to be a slow learner), so he knows the code is changed, his wife is a code-changing bitch (I hope she changed the code on her security alarm too), his friends are getting upset about missed calls, he is going to a Fourth of July party, but not on the actual Fourth, When is the Fourth? Yes, he asked me when the FOURTH of JULY is! (Answer: the 4th of July.)

Obviously, I am not friendly to him. I am not amused, I am not nice, but the beauty of this guy is that he has no idea. It is so dark and vacuous in that empty head of his that no light, no noise, no sensory triggers of any kind can reach him. He is an island. And I envy that, because I cannot seem to escape the people that are populating mine.

On a lighter note, I will be testifying on behalf of his wife during divorce proceedings. Clearly, she has been through mental anguish and should be compensated for her suffering. The rest of us, will just have to wait and hope that he resigns and moves to Oklahoma.