An eye for an eye.

So, I could NOT have been more excited for my deep-water aerobics class last night. I laid out my clothes, collected the requisite articles; a towel, extra underwear, flip-flops, etc. And I dreamt about splashing around with those adorable blue-hairs and hopefully being adopted by a sweet little knitter with a penchant for cats (ideally mine, since they are wearing out their welcome here, but that is another story).

I light of my impending health and well being, not to mention “me time”, I was giddy and evidently somewhat annoying to my children. Phoebe, especially, was having none of it. She made it clear that she needed my complete and total attention and energy. She was unhappy with her snack which landed smack on the floor, disappointed with her jumpy-jump (her all-time favorite pastime), she couldn’t stand the sight of Elmo. I couldn’t please her.

It seemed the only thing, which would appease her was a front-row seat on my hip. She adores being a little side-car charlie, a remora, a barnacle, a massive giggling tumor on my waist (I will give her credit for being the only thing attached to my waist that is detachable—the blubber absolutely will not go down for a nap!). It is her birthright, she seems to believe or demand. Should this mission not to be accepted, there will be consequences.

Tonight, the penalty—Mommy gets bitch slapped. That’s right, a single open-handed blow to the eye, which caused immediate nausea and wooziness. You know something is bad when your first reaction is to vomit. After the initial shock, I realized she tore the white of my left eye. I was absolutely stunned and honestly, a little scared.

In a great deal of pain, I struggled to get the kids dinner. One-eyed and one-handed as I needed to hold a ice pack on the wounded orb. I kept muttering, “What the hell?” under my breathe. Gabriel kept asking if he could touch it. Sure! What’s another poke in the eye between family? Give it your best shot, preferably with a finger that has a nice sharp nail sticking out of it.

NO! You may not touch my throbbing eyeball!?!

Well, needless to say, there was no deep-water aerobics for me. I sulked partly for the loss of independent, healthful, playtime and partly for the loss of my vision. Dave was supportive and said I must feel like the world is against me. Which is sweet, but not completely true, I just feel like my children are against me.

Truth be told, we may be at an impasse. I figure the slap to my face was a reaction to my preoccupation with waterworld/nirvana and possibly a sixth-sense about my “Yen for Yesterday” blog. (They are eerily attuned, those little ankle-biters.) Now, I don’t plan to fight dirty and get physical—that is just immature and childish. No, I am going to be thoughtful, methodical and imaginative about my approach. But first, I am going to cry.


Ps. My eye is fine. I woke this morning to nearly perfect vision. My doctor said it should be good in a few days.

Yen for Yesterday

Having kids pretty much means full-time children and microscopic-time adult. Now, I know some parents make a good deal of space for themselves and their interests. I’ve got nothing but respect for those folks. Here’s to them! I admire their dedication to their own well being. Unfortunately, I am not one of those parents.

I should be, I get the concept and appreciate its value. I know the parent-as-an-independent-thinking-adult-live-your-life-crusaders will wag their perfectly manicured fingers in my direction. But honestly, I am truly beat when it comes to creating a life of my own. Even if I carve out some precious “me time” (an effort suspiciously similar to creating a diamonds from coal). I pathetically drag my sorry ass through it, with toothpicks holding open my eyelids and knuckles scraping on the ground, like a narcoleptic ape. It isn’t pretty, and makes me seriously concerned about condition of the “me” in “me time”.

(Solution: I suspect—more “me time!” How’s that for irony?)

Today, I am especially simian-like in my posture and attitude. And I can’t help but be envious of all the twenty-something’s having coffee, the couples leisurely eating in restaurants, the joggers gorgeously sweating on the sidewalk, the teenagers making bad decisions resulting in traffic jams, the actors acting in sit-coms, the chefs on the food network…just about every being I witness without a drooling baby and maniacal preschooler in tow makes my jealousy rage.

I am a big, green-eyed, beast with opposable thumbs.

I want to be them today, because if they do have kids, they seem to have escaped the life-sucking vacuum that drains me of my very essence on this day. I really want a vacation or a stay at a clinic. Maybe the plane flight to Oakland was too tempting, I had a tiny taste of freedom and I got greedy. Maybe I am so deep in the trenches of diapers and apple juice I just can’t see the light, a light with a freakish similarity to a flame under a bubbling pot of fondue. Maybe it is just human nature to want what you don’t have. Although I can truthfully report that I don’t remember envying any families of four at the mall in all of my previous, earlier, lives.

The situation is painful. I suspect the next concert I attend will have adults dressed as furry monsters and an encore involving the alphabet song, all brought to you by the number 4 and the letter M. The next movie is likely to be rated G and involve multiple musical acts without enormous hats and gay dancers to make it fun. The next vacation will inevitably have a screaming splash pad instead of a sexy hot tub. And hot chocolates will be served as a wholesome substitute to hot toddies. Most of time, I find it all charming, perhaps even delightful. I feel pride and happiness knowing that my kids are getting a better childhood than my own.

But someday, like today, I wish that chic gal sitting in the window of the 5-star restaurant without a care in the world except for the wine list would be me. I have been told that it will. It is hard to imagine. I know after children you can never truly be carefree again. When you cut the cord, you unknowingly severe all ties to the irresponsibility that was your past.

On a good day, I would tell the world that giving up my youth and carelessness for a family was a small price to pay, especially since the seem to expire regardless of your actions. But today, I feel like missing a time when all I had to look forward to was tomorrow.

I guess that would be…today.

Elated Client, Inflated Mama

Net results of my trip: I gained a pound and a half and a lucrative project.

I had been doing well, down 5.5 lbs. Yahoo. Do you think it could have been the paté? The triple-cream brie? The champagne? Who knew that some of the richest French foods on earth would do such damage? Okay, yeah…I blew it. And I don’t regret it. It was fun and indulgent. I can’t say that I was surprised. I mean, if you are going to do this whole weight-loss lifestyle thing, you gotta face facts. Big binge=Bigger butterball belly! And I have mine to prove it. Back on the wagon, little Miss Roly-poly.

Oddly, the richest indulgence was calorie-free, the solitary plane flight to and from Oakland. I think that if I ever find myself on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I am booking a flight. I will simply hop on and round-trip to anywhere. Take-off, land, and take-off again. (Like that wouldn’t get me arrested as a wanna-be terrorist.) It was in heaven. I did the crossword puzzle, I ordered a wine and actual had a chance to drink it! Normally, I have to toss it. I should just pay the flight attendant three bucks to show me a glass since that is typically what it amounts to, but not this time. I savored every drop. I closed my eyes and relaxed. No car seats, no children, no phone calls, no interruptions, no place to be, just buckled up bliss. Perhaps I was a pilot in another lifetime.

Aside from the peaceful plane ride, it was a rather stressful 24-hour trip. The printing press that I needed for my job broke down—cracked under the pressure, I guess. This would qualify as a major problem, since I flew all the way there for a bloody press check. And the client was waiting to go with me. I would have been furious, but you can’t blame humans for machinery that doesn’t want to cooperate. It wasn’t their fault and they did everything in their power to correct it. I did finally see something on press minutes before my return flight. Thank god my client has a good sense of humor. And recently came off of a seriously unfulfilling visit with another agency, so she wasn’t feeling too hot. I made her laugh by relying the detailed of my failed book-club-membership attempt and she thanked me for it. Maybe it was a lucky break after all. Who doesn’t need a laugh, especially in the face of a seeming disaster. Oh, and my return flight was cancelled. Which was more confusing than anything. I kept trying to check myself in at the auto-kiosk. And my name popped up, I clicked “Yes” and it kept telling me that it couldn’t help me. I finally asked a woman in uniform “What the heck is going on?” She gave me that look, like I am a complete and utter idiot and people with my lack of technical savvy and obvious mental deficit should NOT insist on bothering with self-service systems. But after seeing that this particular half-wit was not leaving without an explanation, she reluctantly checked the database and discovered the flight was cancelled. I was partly expecting an apology for her nasty attitude, but when it wasn’t forthcoming, I left. After all, I had a flight to not catch.

Well, here is the latest: I am hauling my paté-munching ass off to the YMCA today. It is time to join. Not just because I can actually see the cheese I ate on the back of my thighs and my love handles are flourishing after a chocolate-almond fertilization, but because they have arthritis swim classes. How cool is that? Clearly, a sign from above that my elephantine presence is required immediately, I am looking forward to splashing with the blue-hairs. I already know I will prefer them to Madame X.

Flying solo.

I am going on a trip for work tonight. It will be my first time away from both of the kids OVERNIGHT! That hasn’t happened, in I think…forever. I am so bloody excited. And I am excited for the simplest little things.

It isn’t because I don’t love ‘em—because I love them in a way that pains me sometimes, and it isn’t because I despise the diapers or short-order-cookery, and it isn’t because they don’t fill me with joy and disbelief and laughter and total, crazy-making frustration—like my first real love, it is something altogether simpler than all those tremendous emotions and serious responsibilities. They complete me to a degree, that I would like to have a night with the part of me that yearned to be finished in just that insane way.

I would like to have a drink with the woman, who made the hard decisions, which created the overwhelming life that requires every last shred of humanity and humor, and willingness to bring it to the table and serve it with a spicy marinara sauce. As I remember it, I liked that woman. She was a firecracker with a good heart and a quick wit.

I have a lot of affection for the old me. I worked hard to get what I thought I wanted, I was determined and dedicated. I reached some lofty external goals, then made a one hell of a mess of things, made them better, and decided there are only a few things truly worth compromising yourself for—one of them is love and the other is family. I admire that chick from the past, who knew that you’ve got to keep making edits, work through the changes and get the damn thing in operating order. Life is a work in progress—if nothing else.

I am looking forward to spending some alone time with her again.

Here is a list of the following things that I am yearning to do with unbridled enthusiasm:

1. Carrying a tiny, tiny, handbag
2. Doing a crossword puzzle on the plane
3. Reading a book that doesn’t rhyme
4. Specifically NOT responding to the word “Mommy!”
5. Wearing lipstick and daggling earrings
6. Traveling sans car seat, stroller, and diapers
7. Sporting a hairdo that doesn’t require an elastic
8. Eating paté and champagne
9. Not cutting anyone else’s meat
10. Sleeping soundly
11. Talking with adults, who value my expertise, not my juice pouring efficiency
12. Missing my family

I have filled up the refrigerator with enough food to start a small, Italian restaurant. I have made lists with schedules and meal suggestions. I have packed Gabriel’s lunch for school (minus the sandwich part—don’t forget Dave!). I have filled the laundry baskets with clean clothes and supplied enough diapers to get them through college. Barring some act of God, I think they are ready. And assuming I don’t implode before 6pm, I am ready too.

I am sure that I will be anxious, delighted, but anxious. I am going to savor the things that I can do without two little people and their myriad needs and relish the fact that it is only temporary. The silence will be strange and beautiful. I bet I crack at some point in the 24 hours. I can’t be trusted not to do something ridiculous. But the fun is in watching it all unfold. Wish me luck!

Color me stupid.

I am such a dope. Surprise!

My sister's website: paintinvisiblecolor.com

Check it out and thanks for your patience!

The Invisible Woman

There is nothing like a recent high school graduate, who decides to forego traveling Europe and spend their summer on philanthropic pursuits to make you hate yourself for the superficial slob that you are.

Thanks Anita, for saving the world and killing my buzz. If anyone will make you sober up and think about the big picture, it’ll be her.

Of course, I am being sarcastic. But the kid is just determined to be one of those people who make you say “What am I doing with my life?” And if there were a cause that collected dirty diapers or had, say…a floor-mopping/short-order-cook-a-thon, I would be on it like white on rice. So far, all I see are 3-day walk-a-thons. And while I would love to step out the door and just keep putting on foot in front of the other for days, it just doesn’t seem reasonable to make a 10-month old mix her own formula.

Well, enough about my own personal limitations. Let’s get back to that all-too-inspirational sibling of mine. Her cause is Invisible Children, perhaps you’ve heard of them? Her fundraiser is this amazing mural project where people buy a tile and paint it for $10 (not only is she altruistic, I think she is modest—I would have charged $20. But I digress.) Then she will take all of the painted tiles and put them together to create a giant mural, which creates a surprise image. There are color requirements for the tiles, so when it comes to together, I should make the image. There have been murmurs of doubt, but I know Anita and if she says it will work, it will work. Cool, huh?

She couldn’t just have a bake sale or wash cars. No, she is going to make a goddamned masterpiece! She kills me, she is so damned creative and good.

So, the least I can do is let you know. My big mouth finally has something to shout about that is not totally self-absorbed and self-centered. What a relief! If you are interested in supporting these do-gooders, check out their website: paintinvisiblecolor.com

Please send her your support, if possible—because if it weren’t for people like my sister, Anita, I couldn’t just write checks to assuage my guilt and forget about the global mess we live in.

No invoice, no cry.

Exactly what do I look like to you? A fool? Wrong, not just a fool—a broke fool. A penny-less pawn in the high-stakes game of frozen snack treats and premium ice cream. Ben & Jerry would be absolutely disgusted, not to mention Haägen & Dazs.

Yes, a fool. A big fat fool, because I have just finished another project for the ice cream gurus and they seem to think I am a volunteer for their ice cream brigade. Do they honestly believe that I live to spread their ice cream propaganda? That it is my passion to work day and night selling their creamy-good deliciousness? They must believe that I love it, because they won’t pay me!

I have asked, I have begged, I have pleaded, I have compromised, I have believed the hype, I have drank the Kool-Aid and at the end of the day on the walk to the mailbox at the end of the cul-de-sac, I am met once again with an empty gray metal-box of disappointment and disgust.

How can they not pay me? I have to pay my bills. The phone company does not think that they should volunteer the lines to me and comp my dial tone. Even though, I truly do love their product (well, not the acutal product—that annoys the beejesus out of me. So, more accurately, I love what it facilitates), I love to talk and I love to dial and I even love to listen. And like clockwork, every month they send a bill and every month, and like a good citizen with a functioning conscience, I write a check.

Did they lose their checkbook? There will be no sympathy from me on that front. I live in a house where I had to dig up three wardrobe boxes and rummage through two Tupperware containers to find my body-sculpting black girdle to wear to a so-cal-deviant-soft-porn-party-slash-book-club. SO DIG FOR IT!!! You lazy, cheap, ice cream moguls! I have sweat through a t-shirt for less important things—hell, I have pulled a muscle for a stuffed carrot named "Thunder". I deserve it!

And just to add insult to injury, I have to see their damn trucks everywhere! And it is getting dangerous, because I am feeling border-line justified in hi-jacking one of those babies. Mama needs a new pair of shoes! (Well, actually baby needs an expensive preschool education, which requires a hefty college-sized tuition—but six in one, half-dozen in the other.) I am about to go postal on some poor popsicle peddler!

If I don’t get a check tomorrow, I am seriously calling The Mold Lady and teaming her up with MaryEllen to fill a tank-sized, carnival, stuffed donkey with mold spores and unleash it on their free-loading butts! (Not that I think a heavy dose of dementia is going to help my cause or expediting detailed paperwork, but at least they would realize that I am serious!)

Okay, deep breathe. And yes, duly noted that money is the root of all evil—I will be sure to mention that to the judge in my defense.

Beware the Mold.

“You attract the crazies!” this from my sister Kim when I relayed the details of our run-in with The Mold Lady. Dave and I were a little worried that there might be a lot more nuts in this area than Oakland. We were happy to hear that it’s not an especially high-concentration or a looney-bin annex—It’s just us. It’s our hormones, or phermones, or psychomones that makes them gravitate towards us. Dave actually said, “Well, that’s a relief, we thought it was the ocean.” (Seriously, he said that.)

“There is some sort of ‘vibe’ you send.” Kim again.

I don’t know what vibe I emit that would prompt an elderly woman to talk for 40 minutes about the mold that nearly killed her and maimed her husband. But my ‘vibe’ is deadly accurate in finding the MOST annoying people and dropping them at my feet, notebook and pen in hand, transcribing her thoughts.

She gave me the play-b-play of a 10-year drama starting with a headache and ending in lymphoma, which was eventually cured by moving to Michigan. She warned us against mold, obviously. But she didn’t stop there. She mentioned the rat infestation, the water, the mold again, the spiders, the odor, the moisture, the brain decay, the dementia. It was an all out litany of disease and deaths, which we were imminent and we should avoid at all costs. She finally gave me her name and number to call, should any or all of these plights strike us down.

Okay, yes. It’s clear that I give off a vibe. But when the nutbags arrive, I swear, I go into shock. I sink into a serious state of astonishment laced with utter confusion, and a sliver of the hope that I am truly being “Punked” (even though I am not a star and never will be). The vibe could be described as terror. My sister thinks I am too "friendly". Call it what you will, it needs to be destroyed, cleansed or dropped like a bad habit.

I learned the following from this encounter:
1. I am not the only one in need of friends here.
2. Home Depot sells a mold-testing kit for $10.
3. If it wasn’t for children’s melt-downs, I would still be discussing mold.
4. I can only exit a conversation by sawing off a limb.
5. Mold makes a person crazy, literally.
6. Never stop the stroller, no matter how cute they call your kids.
7. Bob and weave.
8. Or duck and cover.
9. Rats can seem like welcomed company compared to some people.
10. “Vibes” can be dangerous, perhaps even fatal.

Books Gone Wild!

When did raunchy get mistaken for "fun"?

I went to the book club meeting last, after fortifying myself with a couple of glasses of wine. I shut off my hypercritical mind, drove my mini-van to El Torito (after checking WW-online to see what the hell I could order in my current state of re-invention) and walked my courageous ass through the doors and to the table full of gals with the bookish-good looks.

Please sit down, no standing ovations…you’re embarrassing me!

Much as I would like to sit and tell you that it was mentally stimulating and emotionally fulfilling, it wasn’t. It might have done more damage than good.

The organizer, let’s call her Madame X is an attractive, middle-age woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Admittedly, of her own making. She is “possibly in the middle of a divorce (“Awwwh.” from the audience), but it is my own choice!” Just when I thought the book we chose was just a trashy summer-read for humor, I see that bad-decision making will be an ongoing theme.

Okay, I don’t even know what elective divorce while currently in a marriage means—so let’s focus on the superficial. She had a minor obsession with adjusting her breasts, which were desperately in need of restraints aside from the low-cut, floral tank that barely covered them. I suspect her endowment was a recent purchase. In addition to the knocker manhandling, her need to sweep the seriously frosty overblown bangs across her forehead was downright annoying, and led me to believe there were a few small things she could do to increase the quality of her daily living. Most obviously, she needed a bra and a barrette, and perhaps less apparent, a shrink.

Don’t get me wrong—I liked Madame X. She is exactly the type of woman that intrigues me and confuses me. It is like visiting a museum and trying to figure out my looking at the artifacts what life was like back then. She is someone who makes me want to visit her home and meet her family. She is undeniably interesting. And let’s not forget that she invited me to join her book group, making me an ingrate and rotten person, who should be ex-communicated.

The other members included, a truly, nuerotic New Yorker with an 18-month-old, which loosely-translated, means mother-gone-wild. (It is too easy to be child-absorbed with one. I realize with two, it dilutes the delirium that you have created the uber-child.) A scientist married to an orthodontist, who I liked a lot. She was quiet and smiley, and seemed to get the jokes, but didn’t feel the need to participate at every turn. She has potential for a friend, assuming I don’t post this blog.

I also like the woman sitting to my left, she is a computer engineer. She has been married for a year to what seems to be a great guy. She is happy and training for a half-marathon. You go girl! It was her second time and after the night ended, she asked me, “Will you be coming again?” It felt ominous.

Back to the raunch, now maybe it was the reading material. Or maybe it was the mid-life divorcees—there were at least three. But the conversation revolved around men, sex, men, genitalia, Nascar, men, rodeos, sex, dick, men, cats (I am not kidding), kids, men, book (there was a two-word conversation/response to the selected reading. Most replies involved either “Loved it!” or “Laughed out loud!”), finally tip & tax.

Okay, I’ll admit, I’m a prude. I mean, of course, I like sex. I like it a lot and on the rare, but wonderful occasion it happens, it’s inspired.

But even with my closest girlfriends, in my most intimate relationships, I prefer not go there. Not because it is wrong or gross, just because, for me, it feels private. And beyond that ridiculous sense of propriety, is there any possible conversation about sex that has true meaning? I haven’t seen anyone else have sex. I don’t know if they are greedy or loud, nasty or rough, timid or wild, giving or shy…I don’t know and I don’t want to know. So unless you want the play by play of a sex scene on video, I don’t actually have anything meaningful to offer.

It is just one of those roads, that I feel, we travel alone. And maybe along the way, you pick up a tip, you surprise your partner or yourself, you ask a guide or two, but otherwise it is good luck and hope you find the Big O. Much like raising kids in my opinion. The Big O being college. And sex talk being like diaper talk, it gets old almost instantly.

So back to Hustler Tex-Mex style, after an earful about being taken on the hood of a car and “not EVER getting the dent removed!” Personally, I would stick with the notches in the bedpost, but once again, I am a private chick. I got bored.

Then we had to list who we would like to F**K, all FIVE people. Okay, like I mentioned, sex is a rarity for me. So, while it is not meant to be romantic and sappy. Dave pretty much tops the list in the first four spots. I don’t need a fantasy screw—I would just love to do it with the dude assigned to the task. And he is willing and available!

Okay, my turn, I said, “Well, I would love to get Jon Stewart alone in a hotel room.” “What Rod Stewart?” “He’s gross!” –this from the New Yorker. “Yeah, Rod Stewart, any time, any place!” Where am I? Anyone who knows me, or Jon, knows my heart sunk at that very moment. Who doesn’t know Jon Stewart? Apparently, every gal at that table.

True to form, I confessed to Dave the whole thing, all guilty and hiding behind the thinly veiled “in a hotel room” instead of in bed. But it is still shady and slutty and evil. He wasn’t all too impressed with the conversation.

Okay, back to bored. Bored!!! I looked at my watch, I tried to order another drink, I wished for something to catch on fire. It was unfortunate. These were potentially great gals, fun too—just like the Meetup board had promised. The trouble is that we were there because of a book. That was the common denominator. And in my opinion, it was a good one. But when we didn’t share about the book, we went to the LEAST common denominator—our ____.

I think it is time to join a knitting club. At least Aunt Bess will make me feel young, happy and probably make me laugh instead of cringe. Ten to one, she wants to get Jon Stewart alone too!

Well, there it is. It was about sex. Not books. And yes, we’ve all done it, but I don’t want to drag myself to El Torito to sit with strangers and discuss my most guarded pastime. I don’t need a post-coital release group. I need friends. Friends with common interests. Friends with thoughts that don’t begin and end between the sheets. Friends who think that the sexiest thing on a guy is possibly, his sense of humor, not his ass. Friends who are vaguely familiar with popular culture and its icons.

I think I might like these women in other circumstances. I would love to see if we have more in common than the loss of our virginity and acquisition of dents on our car’s hood. But there won’t be that opportunity. I went home, felt dirty, confessed, took a shower, kissed my husband, and missed my girlfriends.

Dewey to the Rescue.

Reading for salvation. Isn’t that what prisoners in good-standing do? Oh, no…that’s right, they find god. Well, close enough. This qualifies as my first official attempt at finding my own god—a god walking among us in the form of a real-live girlfriend in this skinny-forsaken place.

I have joined a Book Club online. It is for “fun” gals, thirty-something (or younger). I don’t know if this is my true salvation. But a book, a laugh and a margarita at a bar without kids is about as near to heaven as I have been in a good, long time.

The book…The Bachelorette Party a novel by Karen McCullah Lutz. I know what you are thinking—can I possibly grasp it? Will it be too deep? Too dense? Too esoteric? Well, relax. Along with checking the book out of the library, I also picked up the Cliff Notes on the literary masterpiece. I don’t know that I will master the prose, but not to worry—I will not embarrass myself. If it weren’t for Pink Monkey, I might be too shy to show myself as a serious reader.

To be honest, the book choice was a bit of a relief. I only have 3 days to read it and I would rather not spend my Wed. night with a bunch of intellectuals who take themselves too seriously discussing the proper uses of punctuation. I think margaritas and a raunchy summer-reader might prove to be just what the doctor ordered. I am once again, optimistic, but we shall see.

I have to get back to reading, all the while boiling pasta and chasing down my “lost” ice cream invoice. The kids are being remarkably tolerant. Perhaps it's a sign. Tomorrow I make my debut at the booky, fun-gal, fest. Keep your fingers crossed. Hopefully, I will be the one dancing in the corner with a lamp-shade on my head and Melville Dewey at my side!

Get it?

I like to think I operate on a totally transparent level with the universe. I fantasize that my actions perfectly reflect my thoughts and values. I like to think I hold this principle among the highest.

It is the Mother-Teresa-method in action. She puts forth an altruistic agenda for the world to embrace. And the world responds accordingly. She is a chick you can really understand. Now, I don’t know about the follow part, but the general idea of her is pretty straightforward. Your standard saint, no tricks up her sleeve. Love her or leave her. Now, I am no MT. And consequently, it seems, I am totally fooling myself in regards to my public identity.

I am not gotten. I am not understood. I am not easily readable. And why I think I am, or more importantly, why I think I should be “gotten’ is a small, meaningless mystery.

I suppose we all operate at some level of secrecy or personal encryption. I just read “Dear Pussycat” Gurley-Brown’s letters to the world. And in one of them she shamelessly begs for movie passes. I thought, “The nerve of her!” “What a scam!” But maybe I just don’t “get’ her. Maybe I envy her gall. Maybe I am embarrassed for her. Maybe I think she could afford a movie all by herself with her Cosmo-editor paycheck. As I read her letters, I thought, “Yes, it is noble to send such an impressive amount of correspondence.” But, I didn’t think the content was altogether inspiring. Maybe that is why “Dear Pussycat” is currently on sale at Barnes & Noble for $1.

And the odd part of my dislike of the letters, possibly the author, was that she is pretty much a privileged bitch. And at the end of the day, if anyone asked me—I would probably say a privileged bitch was exactly the company I would want for margaritas. She is the gal you would find me with at the mall. I don’t go to the mall, but that is how I imagine our first date. So, go figure.

I will also fess up that I am a little starry-eyed for all things fashion, so why don’t I gel with the queen of couture? I suppose we just don’t “get’ each other.

It’s a shame that one of people in the universe I really thought I would click with, seriously annoys me.

And I guess I am still trying to impress the cool kids at school by listening to their stories and pretending to feel the same way. That is not altogether saint-like, much less honest. So, if people don’t “get” me, I suppose the sad truth is that I have not introduced myself.

And realizing that I hate Gurley-Brown for being a snobby-upscale-cheap-movie-ticket-grubbing-bitch is probably a good start at knowing who I am. It is not always pretty to reveal the true you. A deep breath is required before an honest showing.

I admire G-H for exposing her true colors, I am not nearly so bold. And truth-be-told, I shudder to think that her courage was met with a big, red, ONE dollar sticker on the summer sale rack. I guess, I prefer to be un-gotten (and with that, I prefer to be free).

Let the shedding begin!

I joined Weight Watchers again. This is my first week. I am point tracking, calorie counting, recipe building, flex finagling, progress charting, and basically becoming a slave to my future fabulous self.

I am suspiciously optimistic of reaching my goal this time around. And frankly, it frightens me. Because if I lose 23.5 lbs. of pure, cellulite security, then who will I be? Well, let’s cross that bridge when (and if) we get there, right?

Okay, the best advice at this point is to review my goals for weight reduction.
Here they are:

1. Ability to outrun MaryEllen
2. Leap nimbly over the damn toys
3. Slide between the minivan seats without bruising my belly retrieving old juice boxes and stray animal crackers
4. Give my mirror a well-deserved break
5. Justify a new wardrobe with a size ? body (I am not being coy, I actually don’t know what size negative 23.5 lbs is!)
6. Make my husband drool over me (why should it always be Phoebe’s job?)
7. Reverse Global Warming (unlikely, but initially the two endeavors seem on par)
8. Catch the eye of someone younger than me, who is not currently attending preschool
9. Shock and awe myself
10. Move on to other more lofty goals

There it is, just some of the myriad of reasons for beginning this courageous journey to the other side of chubby. It is going to be a long road, so I will be needing recruits for my journey. I have already enlisted Lynne and Tonya. And a host of others will be drafted involuntarily and forced at butter-knife point to listen to every excruciating detail of my new leaner life.

Bring on the scales! Time to face fat!

Toy Story

Woody's revenge.

My house currently looks like the set of Married with Children, only all the brown, orange, mustard yellow and avocado green accessories have been swapped out with red, blue and yellow bright, shiny, plastic toys, a menagerie of primary-colored weapons. And all of them talk, squeak, rattle, honk, scream, "sing" or have insanely sharp edges that dig into the bottom of my oh-so-tender feet.

When I look around, I can just see them conspiring to get underfoot. The legos and matchbox cars seem to have a particular hatred for my pedal welfare.

It is not that I don’t blame the children. I most certainly do—had they not graced my life with their presence, I would be surrounded by McCoy, Frankoma, and noisy, domestic short-hairs. (Okay, that description paints a very sad picture when I read it back. Thank god, they arrived before my house was covered in afghans.)

But let’s be honest, the children did not buy the toys, they have zero purchasing power…I did. I got myself into this mess, this jungle of miniature enemy forces. Well, me and a generous bunch of well wishers, and let’s not forget, MaryEllen. She brought in the big guns! But, the majority of the responsibility falls on me. I invited them in.

When I look at all the toys, toys under the bed, in the toilet, run through the laundry (some survive, others perish), I wonder why they hate me. Why they insist on being in my way and hampering my progress.

Is it because they are being tortured? Do they not enjoy the grips of death, the battery of abuses, the drooly teethy-bites? Are they upset having been ripped from their hermetically sealed boxes, and flung onto our dusty, crusty, cat-hair carpet? I can’t imagine what would bother them in such a privileged existence?

I don’t know why they annoy me to the degree that they do. I promise you, they are not like Woody and Buzz in the movies. They don’t engage in delightful dramas, which occupy the children for hours. They don’t find there way home from the pizza parlor. Or rescue nasty children from their own devious nature.

No, they find there way under the bathmat, so I trip in a slippery heap and stub my last usable toe. They are without question, in every way, unhelpful.

Do you think if I put out a suggestion box they would tell me what the hell makes them so utterly intolerable? If I met their FisherPrice demands would they make their way into the thousands of dollars worth of Martha-esque labelled Tupperware bins I own. Would they seal themselves back into the airtight enclosures they arrived in? I doubt it.

It is obvious, they aren’t happy. And anything or anyone unhappy is not motivated to work well with others. I can only hope they are in that state because they have given every ounce of their happiness away. They have emptied their giddy reserves. Not on me —obviously, but the kids. They have sacrificed their joy for those little monster’s merriment.

In the end, I hope it is worth every bandage and yelp for mercy. From what I can tell we move swiftly from plastic fruit to slamming doors. I suppose it is better to be sharing my space with an inanimate action figure than an indigent teenager.

I will try to shut up, lick my wounds and capture those renegade toys. Because truthfully, I can snatch them up and snap a lid on them and keep them forever as they are, if I try hard enough, but the children…not so much.

Dodgeball

Long time, no write.

I was at a family reunion in Tahoe. In a word, it was awkward.

Our family is going through a change. We have lost my Grandfather and this is the first major event without him. We are changing. I am not a huge fan of change, especially in the throws of one of my personal biggest. Much like acne, change seems to pop up when you want it least.

I handle change with the same grace that I handled Phys. Ed. I show up in an ill-fitting uniform consumed by total dread, which I try to pathetically disguise in a willing grin. I am awkward and uncoordinated. But I dutifully go through the motions hoping nobody will laugh or call the authorities for public indecency. I can’t wait for it to end, I can’t believe I keep moving, but it is required—isn’t it?

So this week, I climbed up the endless, knotted rope (while I felt the boys glaring at my shorts). I struggled to execute a pull-up, but honestly only strained my neck and dislocated my jaw faking it. I attempted a cartwheel that looked more like a vertical somersault and tai chi salutation. I seriously hope nobody noticed.

At the point when I thought that I might die of embarrassment, I heard laughter. Not at me, but with me. There was the mutual appreciation, commiseration and even a hint of unexpected joy.

I still intend to drop the class.

But I couldn’t help but be proud afterward. I gently washed away my fears and wrapped myself in warm, thirsty pride. Because change can’t be dropping like fifth period. It can’t be avoided. It can’t be mastered. Even the basketball star has to attend the ballroom-dance portion of the semester. So eventually, we are all screwed. You gotta pat yourself on the back for not calling in sick or hiding out under the bleachers.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my family. Because while I still hate the cut of the shorts, they always make me feel like a million bucks. And I definitely throw like a girl, but they will run a mile to catch whatever I throw at them and go so far as to flip me “What-an-arm!” thumbs-up gesture. We are all in this together. And if we are going to make it to the showers, we are going to have to come with our courage and a bench-full of support.

Yes, we are changing. And we all struggle. We all have our moments of grace and our disastrous falls. Since the obstacle course can’t be avoided, it is good to have a helpful, encouraging hand (or entire arm) throwing your cellulite butt over the wall.