Balls Out

2011-03-20T17:04:00.000-07:00

Short, very short story, based on a dream my sister Kelley had. Creepy. Enjoy!

UNREST

She languished in her bed, restless. She had been having the dream again. Whispering, the sounds of rustling fabric. As soon as she opened her eyes, silence. Never before had a dream felt so real, sounded so life-like. The smell of moth balls and sour, decrepit linen had filled her nostrils. As she awoke with a jolt, the smell dissipated immediately, but the memory of it and the hushed voices haunted her. Yet in the dream she was blind. There were no visuals to match the strange sounds and smells.

As time went on she had the dream more frequently. It increased from rarely to nearly every night, to multiple times a night. When she awoke, it took her longer and longer to rid her eyes of the clouds. Rubbing them, she convinced herself that she was just exhausted, not losing her vision. Yet nearsightedness gave way to contacts, which gave way to coke bottle glasses that still left her squinting to read street signs, books, food labels. After close to a year she conceded it was no longer safe to drive.

The declining vision was not the only effect of the dreams. Her weight dropped, her clothes sliding off her shrunken hips. Her once lovely hair, the color of a shiny penny, fell out in handfuls. Her alabaster skin took on a greyish hue. The blue eyes were now clouded over like a much older woman, revealing their loss of vision as a white film muddied them.

She underwent tests- tests for poisoning, cancer, allergies...but found no explanation for her decline. She had her house checked for mold, gas leaks, anything that could explain her ill health. No longer able to work, she lay in bed most days, trying to sleep without having the dream, which seemed to occupy all of her dream space.

It was then that the boundary between waking and sleeping broke down. She could no longer tell when she was awake or asleep. The whispering was constant, the smells overpowering. And when they came to tell her what was the cause, she had lost her capacity to reason.

It’s the people in the closet, she heard them say. They’ve been living in there for over a year. They used to be dancers, but after they lost their music they crawled up onto the shelf and began to decompose. They were quiet at first, careful, but as time drew on and no one seemed to notice, their whispers became more audible, their poorly preserved costumes shredding into powder, flaking into the air. As their bodies rotted they shifted uncomfortably, emitting the smells of decay. By the time they had been found they were merely dust, fine particles floating in the half light, unaware of their deadly influence.

After she had been moved out of her house, and it had been quarantined, her physical health returned. Unfortunately she had gone mad. Muttering about arabesques, concertos and plies, she remained in an institution, unable to perform the simplest tasks. When she passed the room smelled of moth balls and sour fabric, and by the time the coroner arrived she was nothing but dust.

Or:

After she had been moved out of her house, her health and sanity slowly returned. However she had no recollection of that year, the dream, or anything having to do with the illness she had suffered. Her hair grew back in a shiny silver, and her blue eyes had turned steel grey.

I need to write

2010-08-10T12:51:00.001-07:00

I admit it. It's been....9, 10 months since I've written? And since the onset of FB Scrabble, I've barely read any books. Busy, busy, busy...writing and reading have been low priority. But lately I've been getting subtle messages that I need to get my ya-yas out...in any creative outlet. I've thought about painting again, but I know I need to flex my writing muscles soon or any of the progress I made in the last 3 years of writing will slip farther away.
My mom sent me an article by Ann Lamott, a favorite author of ours, about making time to write. That people have the absolute best intentions. That they have ideas churning and burning in their heads, just waiting to be released. But the busy-busy-business always comes first. She said you have to decide on something busy and give it up, or you will never get to the writing.
I read this article and thought, yes, yes, that's me, I'm always making excuses....
This year has been even busier. I've spent oodles of time and money on my health. Losing weight, balancing hormones, detoxing, yogaing, making smoothies, packing a days worth of food to cart around on my busy day...even watching Big Love on the treadmill takes 53 minutes. Plus taking car of kids, dog, the yard.... no wonder at the end of the day all I want to do is play Scrabble on fB.
But enough.
I have been feeling a void. Or a surplus. It's my creativity. It's starting to back up...I need a creative outlet...soon.
But what to give up? I only sleep about 6 hours as it is.
Oh, I get it...it's doing this, blogging at the car wash in 45 minutes. It starts here. Because the more I say, the more I have to say :)

Say Anything

2010-01-19T10:17:00.001-08:00

Last night Ryan and I watched "Say Anything." Let me clarify- we watched my 22 year old VHS tape of "Say Anything". I wondered, as it crackled, if it would explode right there in the VCR, but it chugged along through a preview of "War of the Roses" and into the most influential movie of my teenage years.

Much like my junior high viewing of "Labyrinth" sparked a lifelong obsession with David Bowie (if you've seen it, all I have to say is David in grey tights, either you love it or it grosses you out!) this movie was my high school relationship model. Shockingly, with Lloyd Dobler as my standard , I barely dated in high school. I crushed from afar on the unavailable types- the drama nerds, the preppy religious types who I shared honors English with, the bad boys, most of whom did not know I existed or wouldn't have given me a second thought if they did. The one semi-boyfriend I had turned out to be gay...which explains why all we ever did was play tennis! I wanted a guy like Lloyd...basic, as Diane calls him in the movie, trustworthy, sensitive, goofy. The climatic scene where Diane and Lloyd make love in his car on the beach...sigh. I rewound and rewatched that scene hundreds of times, thirsting for a boy who would cradle my chin in his big, strong hands as he kisses me and shake because he's happy. I would get a bursting, ecstatic feeling in my chest, (where I now know the heart chakra exists) a feeling I thought I would experience with the right lover.

I held this as my ideal for decades...wondering why I hadn't found that one yet, even as I married and had children. I married out of familiarity instead of passion. I had still not experienced that ecstasy, that overwhelming, all encompassing feeling of safety, excitement and satisfaction that I yearned for yet had pushed to the back of my heart, doubting its' existence. It was frustrating and sad.

And then I met Ryan.

As we watched the movie, I told him all of this.

"The world is full of guys...be a man!" Lloyd's girl friends tell him.

"That's you! That's you! You're a man in a world of guys!" I tell Ryan.

"Am I basic?" he hesitantly asks, not sure if that is a good or a bad thing.

"Yes" I answer. It is a good thing.

Basic is good, he's simple and uncomplicated. Basic doesn't try to be something he's not and he loves you for who you are. He soothes your fears and loves you even when you are mean and crazy, and makes you feel safe and beautiful, always.

He holds your face in his hands and makes your heart giddy.

I will never, ever break up with him by giving him a pen and telling him to write me.

Blowing Toads

2009-10-25T15:35:00.000-07:00

Today, I blew toads. Yes, literally. I was in my front yard, attempting to clear the dumping of leaves and small branches from my fenced off flower area. I seldom use the leaf blower, but having totally jacked up my left arm and shoulder painting the entire hallway in an hour on Friday, I was trying to keep a low profile and resist putting in more steps or painting.

So I got the leaf blower out. Meanwhile, after the storm that caused the tree to go through the roof, zillions of teeny toads emerged, somehow triggered by the first rain of the season. They gather near the house, particularly in the garage at night, causing me to park the car in the driveway, get out and shoo the toads out of my path before pulling in.

So when I started blowing the leaves, hidden toads began wafting about in the jetstream. It was quite a sight and I admit it reminded me of my childhood days, when I burned ants with a magnifying glass, held grasshoppers by the legs and fed them to my cats, and poured salt on snails and slugs to watch them sizzle. Being mostly vegetarian, a spokeperson for animal kindness and a pacifist; surprisingly yes, animal torture resides in my past. I am not sure what motivated it, but I felt a sense of God-like power knowing the little creatures lives depended on my whim.

This little guy was plastered on the brick, unable to go up or down. As soon as I realized what was happening I redirected the air and released the toad to continue to his destination, somewhat disturbed , likely confused, but not harmed.

I know how he feels!

Now, on with life.....

Under Construction

2009-10-24T22:21:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me, as I followed the "Follow me" truck through the construction zone on highway 49 tonight, that would be a good name for my book. Our house has been under construction since we moved (back) up to Ryan's house 20 months ago. This road has been under MAJOR construction since about June. Our relationship is under construction. The ongoing battle within my head..a Winchester-house kind of construction. Doubts, fears, responsibilities, anger, guilt, sadness...building and tearing down, rebuilding, stepping back , re-assessing. There are doors to nowhere, with locks and no keys. There are landings with no stairs. The spectacular garden is visible from every window, but there are days I cannot find my way outside.

It also occurred to me that when i feel overwhelmed, and helpless, and angry, I have nothing to find solace in. That is the time religious people "turn it over to God." I held that thought for second and realized I truly have no faith. I don't trust anyone or anything to take care of me. It is all up to me. It is both empowering and terrifying.

Today I awoke, opened the door to a brick wall and walked smack into it. Tomorrow, I hope to reach the garden.

For PG

2009-10-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

it's dark

and

i'm worn

and I don't

want anything

i hear

nothing

there is

no one

to say come back

but then i remember

how much

i am loved

i sigh and

pull the curtain back

slowly

it's raining.

should

2009-10-09T10:15:00.000-07:00

I have to be careful of the mornings. After the alarm, the morning cuddle and denial of said alarm, the waking of the children, the scurry for cereal and lunch money and shoes, and onemorehugiloveyou, there is silence. There is me and the dog and the cats and my pajamas and the coffee is cold and I should eat breakfast but I’m not hungry. There is the computer to check up on the world and the weather and who’s butt was showing on the red carpet and balance the checkbook and will it get warmer later and confirm work for tomorrow and then I realize its time to do something, or admit defeat. Husband calls to say kids are dropped off and something funny happened in the car and I miss you.

I go to the kitchen to find something to eat and what I really want is some cheese and wine and crackers but it’s only 9:30 so I eat reheated garlic bread instead. If my mouth tastes like dinner maybe I can pretend its evening.

The dog by now is on the driveway soaking up the sun and the cats are bored.

Here is where I should do something like shower or exercise or climb back into bed because today is too much, all those hours stretched in front of me is just too much, so much I could get done and say, I did this this and this aren’t I good?

Lighthouses Rule!

2009-10-09T08:57:00.000-07:00

If you haven't seen this viral video yet...enjoy.

Supposedly this guy Dan Deacon was on hallucinogenic drugs in a closet and someone recorded it, and put animation to it. I read elsewhere that he was just watching TV, flipping through the channels, commenting. I like the first scenario better :) Either way, its fantastic and quotable :)

The Birth

2009-09-07T17:31:00.000-07:00

Thank you Aimee Bender, who showed me I’m not the only one who thinks crazy shit and needs to write it down. That a story doesn’t have to follow traditional rules. It only has to make you feel something, anything.

Thank you Haven Kimmel for showing me you can write essays, that turn into a memoir, and then write fiction.

Thank you David Sedaris for writing about competely mundane shit that captivates. How do you do that?

On the day she went into labor, she cleaned her house. It was unexpected; she had known it was coming for some time, but clearly today was the day. She had been carrying the story inside her for months, unsure of what it would look or sound like, but excited as she felt it growing and kicking inside her gut.

Some knew she was expecting, and would inquire, has it come yet? Do you know what you are having? It’s a surprise, she would smile, you’ll have to wait as well.

To those who did not notice she was carrying, she seemed average, inconsequential. A regular girl going about her business. She liked the secrecy, the double life. The story’s cells were dividing, multiplying, flowering within her, with no external evidence of the birth to come.

The conception time was vague. In a way she had felt it growing for years, but it did not become evident until recently. She had been so busy during the gestation that it had been easy to forget about, until a gentle internal nudge would remind her to begin preparation.

The seed had come from many, many sources. Each event in her life, each writer that had inspired her, each book that had touched her soul contributed to its genetics.

When she realized what was upon her, her fears arose in an an army. What would people think when they saw it? Would they judge her? Would they be surprised, yet pleased as she was? Would they doubt her ability to nurture it, and advise her to give it up for practical reasons?

As she felt the labor pains, she nested. When she felt she could wait no longer, she sat in her recliner with a glass of wine. The dog and cats sat near, supportive but not intrusive.

And the story was born.

It was smaller than she had anticipated, but fiercely beautiful. It had her eyes, and her heart. The wisdom in its eyes was balanced with a clever smirk.

It gasped for air as it left the womb, out of the safety of her mind into the glare, the cool air giving it goosebumps. She quickly clutched it to her, and as it nursed, it reached out a tiny hand to touch her face.

Mother, it said.

She knew it would not be her last.

Thank you Emily Pearson...and Samwell!

2009-08-10T21:52:00.000-07:00

Seeing this led me to explore the "What What" part the dudes were grooving to...which led to....

You know you can't stop singing it....

Ow

2009-07-11T17:52:00.000-07:00

I did something to my left shoulder. I was painting the kids' bathroom yesterday, and afterwards, my collarbone started to ache. It got worse and worse until I realized, I fucked something up. I iced it and rested it but it felt kinked, like it was out of socket. It hurt like crazy all night and I couldn't sleep on that side. Luckily I have a massage and adjustment scheduled Monday. I had so much more I wanted to do this weekend, but at least we can get the bathroom totally done together.

I've put my heat pack on it most of the day today, which feels a lot better. I edged the bathroom and Ryan put on the second coat of the most brilliant ocean wave blue ever. Now he is putting in the new toilet on top of the new linoleum and the bathroom is going to look amazing!

The best part is, we are watching Bridget Jones Diary. Which he chose.

God I love my husband!

BROG

2009-05-30T23:41:00.000-07:00

OMFG

www.engrish.com

priceless.

Very Busy People by The Limousines

2009-05-26T23:37:00.000-07:00

we'll end up numb
from playing video games
and we'll get sick
of having sex

and we'll get fat
from eating candy
as we drink ourselves
to death,

we'll stay up late
making mix tapes
photoshopping pictures
of ourselves

while we masturbate
to these pixelated
videos of strangers
fucking themselves

we are very busy people
we are very busy people

there's crusty socks
and stacks of pizza boxes
making trails straight
to the bed

and when we're done
sleeping we'll stay busy
dreaming of the things
we don't have yet

well there's a long
long list of chores
and shit to do before
we play, oh let's just
piss away the day

crank call the cops
down at the station
just for friendly
conversation requesting
songs they never play

let's hear the one
that goes like
we are very busy people
but we've always got
time for new friends

so come on over and
knock on our door
it's open, what's ya
waiting for

we might be spawled
out on the floor
but we still make
lovely company

pull up a chair
i'll pour some tea
we'll shoot the shit
'bout everything
til you get sick
of politics and
flip on the tv screen
we stare at the tv screen

that donnie darko DVD
has been repeating for
a week and we know every
single word

i've got an ipod
like a pirate ship
i'll sail the seas
with fifty thousand
songs i've never heard
all the best of them
go fa la la la la la la la...

Camping

2009-05-26T19:57:00.000-07:00

Confession: My name is Christy, and I hate camping.

I know, camping is supposed to be fun. Everyone loves camping! Everyone is supposed to have great childhood memories about yearly camp trips in which they sing traditional songs and eat s'mores.

Personally, I sing at the drop of a hat and I do love me some s'mores. However, let me elaborate why I do not love camping.

I came across this handy definition. Perhaps when I agreed to camp, I forgot to emphasize I require the esp. kind of campground.

campground |ˈkampˌground|nouna place used for camping, esp. one equipped with cooking grills, water, and bathrooms.

*Camping where there are no bathrooms.

Having a small bladder, I am no stranger to peeing outside. In a park or other nature area, or even on the side of the road, I have a lifetime of experience dropping trou. HOWEVER. Allow me to enlighten the non-bathroom challenged male gender to experience outdoor toileting from a female perspective.

1. Women have to pee more frequently than men, and I pee more frequently than most women.

2. We cannot just whip it out and point at the nearest tree. Pulling our pants ALL the way down and squatting to the ground is the only way to avoid peeing on ourselves, and even that gives no guarantee. When one is peeing that close to the ground, splashing on the ankles often occurs, and that is if you have managed not to soak your shoe. Imagine, as a man, you must lay on your back on the ground, making your junk completely visible and vulnerable. Then, pee as you lay on your back, allowing the pee to drip back onto your member and all over your balls. To dry yourself you shake your body feebly and then pull up your pants, absorbing the drips with your underwear, which are now shoved in your crack and soggy. Now repeat every 90 minutes. This is done with an understanding that you will not be showering during your camp trip and will most likely be sleeping in your crusty piss pants. Talk about a not so fresh feeling!

(At least taking a dump in a hole is an equally unpleasant experience for both genders.)

*Not showering.

I often shower twice a day. I don't mind getting dirty in the yard or garden, but it is done with the understanding that I can shower at will. I also have problem skin which causes a massive outbreak if I don't wash and exfoliate twice a day. Also, see previous crusty piss pants reference. Not good.

*Sleeping.

I love to sleep. I never seem to get enough sleep on a regular basis. Fortunately at home I adore my bed and pillows, and when I am in bed I am in a blissful state of comfort. Did I mention I can nap at will? I hate to be cold when I am sleeping. Therefore, my worst nightmare is sleeping on the ground, on a tiny crappy pillow, trapped in a mummy bag, freezing my ass off in a tent.

Plus, I always have to pee in the night. So combine the uncomfortable sleep environment with needing the get up and out of the tent to pee in the pitch dark night. Yays. I love naps in hammocks, but to sleep on the ground, yeah....no. That is no vacation.

Frankly, I don't understand packing bedding to sleep outside. For me, one of my most memorable trips was staying at the Santa Rosa Hilton. It was there that I experienced the loveliest, most comfortable bed I have ever slept in. We promptly went home and bought a new bed as a result. This spring we took a weekend wine tasting and stayed one day at said Hilton so i could take a long, long nap there. True story.

And, I now LIVE in what many would consider a campground. One can see more animals per square foot on my acreage than in any campground.( Especially now that we have bats in our attic.)

*Food.

Generally, I have no problem with camping food (i.e.junk)However in my constant struggle to eat well, and eat enough fruits and vegetables, the presence of numerous bags of chips is not helpful. I cannot resist the chip.

I do not like to drink alcohol while camping. Refer to outdoor peeing issues.

Nuff said.

Update:

The friends we camped with last weekend informed me in no uncertain terms that I was no longer invited to camp with them, as I ruined their weekend.

So, have fun...I'll be at the Hilton!

A lovely Tuesday; or, girls and boys are different

2009-04-07T19:18:00.000-07:00

Thank Dog for my "Boots of Plenty." This is one of my nicknames for Skylar. Usually it's just Boots, but sometime, when I'm feeling particularly bravado, it's "Boots of Plentissimo." I hate it when parents brag that their kid is just like them. Naturally, I do it frequently. When your child resembles you it is a validation. A validation that you are awesome, and so is your child.

The comparisons between girls and boys began at about 11:30 am, before lunch. I had been chatting with Ryan, and helping him in his quest to deal with stress. Today, I dub his method "Emotional Ostrich" and immediately searched the Internet for a photo. Luckily, he is a good sport and saw the humor in it. Alex starts bringing various canned foods into the office, requesting them for lunch. The buzzards are circling. I tell Ryan I have to go feed the scavengers. Skylar reports a conflict with Hayden. I had heard her tell him not to be rude to her, and to treat others as he wants to be treated. I know she is yelling this in his face, but at least she is not slapping or pinching him. For a nearly 9 year old girl that is impressive restraint.

Hayden is the youngest child in both his homes, and this nether position causes him to constantly boss everyone around in an attempt to compensate for their tendency to ignore him.

"Cameron. Cameron. Cameron Cameron Cameron." Hayden rattles off.

I'm not sure if the name chanting came first, or the ignoring of it, but no one answers Hayden until the 5th time at least. (This happens in close proximity as well as far. Like when the 3 boys are strapped in with knees and elbows touching in the back of the clown car, the Matrix. Princess Skylar gets to ride in the front because she is the heaviest and the airbag is less dangerous to her, and she gets ferociously carsick in the back of my teeny car. These attributes guarantee her perpetual shotgun and radio D.J. status. I can imagine in 8 years 3 teenage boys, collectively 17 feet of boy, trying not to elbow their brothers, simultaneously annoying one and ignoring the other. I hope they make larger commuter cars by then. )

"What, Hayden." responds Cameron, tiredly.

In order to get lunch requests filled I tell Hayden to turn off the WII. Even though he has been told not to back talk, or question my order with "Why?" he does anyway. Three times. He is sent to his room for a 5 minute time out. He cries loudly as he goes down the hall. He slams the door and I hear a crash and breaking glass. I look in the bathroom. His slamming door knocked the clock off the wall, which broke a vase. Luckily it only broke into two pieces. I bring him in and show him what he has done, explaining in an emotionless tone. I am pissed but don't let it show. His timeout is now 10 minutes. I go make food for #'s 1,2, and 3, as we often refer to them when names are too complimentary for their behavior. I send them out to play and go see Hayden. He is crying on his bed. I lay down and hug him, and he clings to me.

" You should be mad at me." he states, his usual line when he is busted and knows it.

"It's over. I cleaned it up, you served your time. I'm over it." I say nonchalantly, meaning it. I can't stay mad at this little man with his arms draped around my neck.

"I am still mad at Skylar for the rest of my life." He insists.

"That will only affect you. Being mad at someone only hurts you, because they don't care. You are just wasting your energy." He ignores this insight.

After he eats his PB&J with the crusts cut off (Your mom lied. The crusts are not the most nutritious part! Think about it. They are made of the same damn dough the rest of the bread is! Unless your mom rolled the dough in vitamins or something at your house.) we go outside to catch up with the others. I tend to beat a dead horse with the kids, trying to teach them lessons they will not grasp until adulthood. Mid-thirties, like me, probably.

"I wish you could learn how to let go of being mad. I only learned that a few years ago."

"But you stayed mad when you were a kid?" He points out.
"Yes." I say, truthfully. I realize some lessons have to be learned over and over, and repeatedly analyzed in therapy before they sink in.

Skylar, on the other hand, takes my word as gospel. The "do unto others" speech that I drilled into her head stuck, as I heard her preach to her brother earlier through gritted teeth. Once I apologized for something I had said out of spite to hurt her feelings when she was annoying me. It was after the fact and she had forgotten it. I felt guilty and compelled to redeem myself. Ever the student teaching the teacher, Skylar not only accepted my apology but felt pity for the guilt I had experienced.

"It's OK Mom, I already forgot about that. Is that still bothering you? I feel bad for you!"

She is undoubtedly the quickest to forgive person I have ever known. I hope she can hold onto that. It will save her so much grief.

Later, I am working against the clock, trying to plant flowers in the front bed and set up a deer fence before the rain comes. Four hours of weeding, rock removal, planting and post digging and I am done. Skylar has helped me for nearly the entire time, turning the soil, spreading the fertilizer, and artistically arranging the rocks. She adopts a millipede and attends to it lovingly, placing it in a blue plastic bowl filled with dirt, leaves, and rocks "In case he gets bored." I tell her about the hummingbird that bathed in the hose water on the hill Sunday. I was running the hose to soften the ground where I will be planting. The hummingbird, unafraid of my presence, buzzed and bathed for a good five minutes while I watched, spellbound. I describe its iridescent green feathers in detail as she is captivated, squealing "Ooooooh!" I know it thrills her as much to hear about it as it did me to experience it. We listen to Beatles, Britney Spears and Veruca Salt, and talk about how when she was little she thought Veruca Salt was the actual girl from Willy Wonka. I admit I told her that it was. I tell her how glad I am that she likes to hang out with me and how much I appreciate it. She volunteers not for gain but because that is her nature. I remember a time I helped my mom prune the silk tree in our front yard. I drug the limbs around to the backyard. The longest ones I saved to build my teepee. She paid me after we were all done, even though I hadn't expected it. I pay Skylar $5 when we are done, and make it clear that it is only because she was not doing it for money that I gave her some. She beams. After I shower and she works on her fourth Powerpoint presentation (she does these for fun, mind you), we curl up in my bed with the cats and read, then nap. The boys have been playing WII the entire time, as boys will play video games until their fingers bleed. It is their nature.

I spoon my daughter in bed, smelling the sweet scent of her sleep; sweet sweat, shampoo, and popcorn. Her body is soft and strong. She is the size I was at age 11. I wonder how much longer she will allow me to curl around her before it weirds her out. I don't remember when cuddling with my mom faded away. Surely it devastated her, as it will me. I think of this day, this moment, and want to remember it. I get my laptop and begin to write.

After dinner Hayden runs out of his room butt naked, his favorite state of mind and body. He prefers to change into his jammies in full view, usually singing a penis themed medley.

I sigh, half smiling, and say,"Hayden, you are too old to change in the living room."

"Bunza Buns?" he sweetly questions, referring to our term for a gentle butt squeeze. He has the cutest skinny little butt, two perfect handfuls, and I can't resist as he backs up for a squeeze. "It feels good!" he announces. "Last time?" he asks, referring to continuing to dress in public. I nod. It will not be the last, far from it.

Meanwhile, Skylar and Cameron are wrestling. They are rarely opponents, and I watch with intrigue. Skylar is moaning about her sore tailbone, most likely earned from her dedication in the yard today. She cautions him to stay away from it, then performs a roundhouse kick to his groin.

"Watch the jewels, Skylar." I warn.

"Jewels? She repeats, liking this new term for the boys' most frequently targeted area.
"Dangly dangly jewels!" She laughs.

Ryan and I lock eyes and crack up.

She is so much like her mother.

Take Care

2009-03-07T07:17:00.000-08:00

Over the winter, I find it difficult to take care of myself. My goals fall by the wayside (see: lack of serious blog published since fall) I stop exercising in the typical mammal-hibernation fashion, and eat carelessly. Every year is the Winter of My Discontent, and when I talk to others, they feel the same. "I can't seem to get motivated," they say. "It's so cold and dark, all I want to do is sleep."

I jokingly call January my "Try not to Kill Myself Month." All I can do is the basics to survive day to day, and take care of my family.

However, this blog, surprisingly, is not about me. It's not about Seasonal Affective Disorder, (appropriately abbreviated SAD)

This blog is about the EARTH.

We are seriously killing it.

There is a "trash vortex" a collection of plastic rubbish, floating in the Pacific Ocean. This mass was discovered by Charles Moore, an heir to an oil fortune, on a sailing trip from Los Angeles to Hawaii. Upon this atrocious discovery, Mr. Moore sold his business interests and became an environmentalist. This collection of post consumer waste is nearly twice the size of the continental US, and if we as a whole do not stop carelessly using so called disposable plastic products, it will continue to grow at an alarming rate. The smallest particles of plastic DO NOT BREAK DOWN. EVER. They stay in the ocean, are absorbed by all the life there, poison the water, the fish we eat, and make their way back to land, where they are incorporated into everything we eat, drink, and consume.

http://www.independent.co.uk/environment/the-worlds-rubbish-dump-a-garbage-tip-that-stretches-from-hawaii-to-japan-778016.html

We, as Americans, are the ultimate consumers. We like convenience and quantity, and we don't want to think about the consequences of our love affair with plastic, styrofoam, and other products that never break down, or leach carcinogens into the environment, or even the food that we temporarily store in it.

Personally, I feel guilt whenever I use a plastic bag for my kid's sandwich or lunch money, because I know this bag is never going away. I have just began researching corn plastic storage/garbage bags, and and hoping to find something the replace the Ziplocs I use all too often. I haven't used plastic water bottles in almost a year, instead using lightweight steel bottles.

(Don't even get me started on plastic water bottles! These are rarely recycled and have been shown to leach cancer-causing chemicals into the water we drink from them. The bottle caps are NOT recyclable, even if the bottles make it to a facility.)

I would love to end with a message of hope. People are more aware than ever of the state of our planet. There are more recycled/ recyclable materials available, more easily accessible recycling facilities, and more environmentally friendly packaging than ever before. But the bottom line is that we as a whole need to drastically change our ways. Reduce, reuse, recycle. There are so many other concerns and worries right now, but this is paramount. Our planet is SAD. Take care of our planet, because if we don't, it won't matter if the housing market is down, because our entire planet will have crashed.

It's been a while...

2009-02-13T19:07:00.000-08:00

Hayden's Holiday Philospohy

2008-12-25T14:42:00.000-08:00

Christmas Day, 2008. Hayden and Skylar are playing the WI, Ryan is doing a puzzle and I am making soup. Hayden says, "Mom, do you know what Christmas is REALLY about? Candy."

Skylar says, "Hayden, what about family? And spending time together."
I add, tongue in cheek to the child that asks if God has a brother, then proclaims that HE is God's brother, "Hayden, what about Jesus?"
"Well Mom, I like candy more than Jesus."

Hayden, i am gonna have to agree with you on that one.

Shoe shopping for Hayden and baby quotes

2008-11-20T18:24:00.000-08:00

Skylar, Hayden and I went shopping for shoes today. The quotes were endless. It began in Kohls with

"Skylar, if you were large, I would call you Skylarge."

Two ladies in the slipper department overheard and tittered. (and by overheard, I meant anyone in the store could hear him bellowing)

Next, it was "Mom, do you know that if you mix two babies together, it makes pie?"

Leaving Ross, the kids asked to run along the cement bridge that runs between Old Navy and Ross. It's about 3 feet high, and Hayden is hesitant to walk on it, instead choosing to crawl. They play on it for a few minutes, and Skylar becomes a human beatbox, balancing on one leg and chanting her trademark nightclub bass beat, which sounds something like "boo-tsy boo-tsy boo-tsy." A dad brings his toddler girl over and holds her and while she waddles on the wall.

"Ack! I'm allergic to babies!" Hayden cries. "He didn't mean it to be mean!" Skylar yells over her shoulder to the parents, who crack up.

On the way to the car, Hayden clarifies that he's only allergic to babies if he eats them. What a relief!

We head to Mimi's for dinner. Our waiter, Alberto, is a young Latino with a well groomed faux hawk and carefully shaped soul patch-goatee project. Hayden remarks that he "looks nice" but wonders if he is actually as nice as he looks. After examining the menu, Hayden announces that "Back in the 80's, they used to make that." When Alberto is nearly done taking our order, Hayden says to me "Can I tell you something after he leaves?" upon which he whispers in my ear, " I think babies are fat. Do you?"

Skylar, who is Hayden's biggest fan, is laughing hysterically the entire time. I tell Hayden he is on a roll tonight, to which he replies, "Good times, bayba, good times."

Oh, and he never got any new shoes, but Skylar and I did :)

Snapshot

2008-11-11T16:35:00.000-08:00

A snapshot in time, captured. I am laying in Skylar's bed, the farthest from the kids, in the quietest room in the house. I am reading my newest book, "Confessions of A Mommy Handler" which is about a gay man working in a prep school, managing the Mean Mommies who are the bane of his closeted existence. I've got the winter blues already, and it's not even Thanksgiving yet. My thoughts today have consisted of "What is the point" and "Why bother" and other uplifting gems. And then, out the window, I see my dear friend Jason pull up. And then I see Hayden, in his Batman underwear, run outside, up the steep slope of our driveway, to greet Jason with enthusiasm he reserves for the only male adult who is purely here to play with him. It is 55 degrees outside. I laugh, and get up to greet him, remembering, this is the point. This is why I bother. My friends and family are the reason. Good thing I took a nap :)

What 12 hours of sleep, a neti pot, and Tylenol Daytime Cold will do for you

2008-10-24T01:56:00.000-07:00

So, it's 2 am, and I am wide, wide awake. I have been suffering for the last week from some nasty allergies that simulate a cold. I actually went to the natural foods store yesterday and bought a neti pot, which I have renamed the snot pot. Apparently, congested yogis since the ancient times have been using this bad boy to cleanse the sinuses, and baffle Westerners, because who pours water UP their nose on purpose? I had heard from many that this was the way to beat congestion, allergies and general sinus malaise. Having been suffering for almost a week, I decided it was time to take the plunge, literally. I took the adorable petite teapot and shoved the spout up my left nostril, humming "I'm a little teapot" all the while. The lady in the diagram looked ecstatic as water dripped in a steady stream out of her opposing nostril, so I did my best to breathe and smile as the lukewarm saline water filled my sinus cavity and slowly made its way out the other side.

THAT WAS COOL. Like, the weirdest, yet not unpleasant feeling. Like laughing and snorting milk up your nose without the burn. It made me want to climb up inside my nose and watch how this miracle occurred. And then, I blew my nose. Aside from being lightheaded, it wasn't too impressive, but I was pretty sure it was helping. Last night I slept pretty well, and my head was less stuffy til morning, when I tried to repeat the nose douche. I learned that if you are totally stuffed up, it is NOT pleasant. You can actually fill your sinuses with a cup of water without anything coming back out. It was like my head was a fishbowl. I could feel the water behind my eyes and inside my ears, like swimmer's ear in reverse. What the hell did the yogis do when they were too congested for an olfactory enema? This question was left unanswered, for the time being.

About 4 pm I broke down and took Tylenol Daytime Cold medicine. This plus my ever present 800 Motrin began to make me feel human right about sunset. The combination of having spent the greater part of today dizzy and sleeping (with a 7 hour kid interval in the middle) and the drugs reviving me prompted me to paint the bathroom ceiling and trim from 10:30 pm to 12:30 am. Crazy but true. At 12:30 I attacked Ryan, which took another hour, and as usual, he fell immediately into a coma. I settled into the task of finishing the Chelsea Handler book. (Good sex always makes me wired, and I am usually resigned to read to wind down) Allow me to set the scene: I am sitting up in the bed, which has been moved from its previous position against the wall to a rather unique position up against the sliding glass window. This is because the wall the bed used to be against has been torn apart for the fireplace construction occurring on the other side, in the living room. The curtain is drawn so I can prop up my pillows for reading. My awesome Wal-Mart clip on lamp, which was previously attached to the headboard, is clinging onto Ryan's soccer cleat, placed some 10 inches from my head on the nightstand/dresser drawer that contains all of Ryan's underwear and socks.

(I have concluded that all men have a dresser such as this that they have had since childhood, and are greatly attached to. It was usually constructed by a family member, previously teamed with a waterbed, and it is the man's last vestige of his childhood furniture.)

I am not sure how my head ended up by his dresser, which is now piled with his shoes, since we currently have no closet ( the closet space is now the fireplace area, hence the wall issues) However, I made the most of it and since the soccer cleats have been unused for some time, seemed like the safest place to attach my very necessary lamp.

Anyway, I am reading the last chapter of the book, which is quite funny, but something else keeps popping in my head. It is, of course, something Hayden said after soccer practice tonight. Hayden frequently has comfort issues with the velcro straps of his shin guards, and they are a source of great contention. He spends a good deal of energy adjusting them and freaking out if they shift. Tonight, I suggested he wear them outside his socks, eliminating the dreaded skin/velcro contact.

"Hayden, do you want to try wearing your shinguard ON TOP of your socks? I saw one of your team mates wearing his like that."
"Who was it?"
"I don't know."
"Was it Shrivka?"
"I don't know. I was looking at his legs."
"Did he have a small head?"
I start laughing.

Chelsea Handler is describing the agony of traveling to Costa Rica with her 75 year old father, whom she calls "Bitch Tits," and I am laughing because Hayden identifies his teammate Shrivka by the minute size of his melon. This, somehow, is funnier. I am laughing out loud, which of course does not wake Ryan because of his ability to skip REM sleep and dive immediately into deep sleep. I only know he is alive because of his soft snore, which would take an entire blog to imitate.

This train of thought continues to the other funny things Hayden said tonight, when I was giving Skylar her practice spelling test. These words are included in sentences I create like:

"WRING." " I am going to wring your neck if you don't be quiet while I am giving your sister her practice test."
To which Hayden replies, with the exact same enunciation and emphasis as I used, "CHINESE. My mom speaks Chinese when she's happy."
"CROUCH." Do not crouch on the couch." (me)
"Crotch. I will kick you in the crotch when you are happy."(Hayden)

And that is why i had to get up at 2 am, and write this down, because in the morning, after my 3 and a half hours of sleep, not only will I have forgotten all of this, I will be so goddamned tired it won't seem funny.

I had to get up and pee, anyway.

Renovate or Separate (or, who the hell comes up with paint names?)

2008-10-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

The title of this blog is courtesy of our good friend "Obamaman." I have yet to clear "Obamaman's" permission to use his real name in my blog, so, until I do so, he shall be known as such. Anywho, Obamaman came up with the idea that Ryan and I need a reality show to document the hilarity and drama that occurs daily on our homestead. The hilarity is mostly due to my quick wit and iron fist, Ryan's compulsion to placate me, and the roadrunner-like activities of our children. (meep meep) The drama is due to the economy, basilisks, and the exes, also known as "frexemies."Frexemies is a word I created to describe our baby-mamas and baby-daddies, due to their ever-changing status of exes, friends, and enemies. Sienna the cat is also responsible for a great deal of the events of this household, as she secretly controls the entire scenario.

The latest development in the renovating of "The House on Ry's Hill" (also coined by Obamaman) is the attempted selection of a color to paint the entry to the kitchen from the garage, and the main entry and hall. The consensus was a "warm-cool brown" as defined by Ryan, supported by his explicit knowledge of the color wheel, complementary colors, and his Prismatic pencil set that was used as evidence that there are warm grays and cool grays, and apparently brown is a warm gray. Uh Hum. So, my job was to go forth to Blowes, Homey D's, and Osh Kosh B'Gosh hardware stores to find the perfect shade of tan.

The first gallon can was called "New Penny." Unfortunately, it should have been called "Tan in the store, pink at home." The next try, I got smart and purchased one quart each of "Rolling Hills" and "Old Cedar." On the wall, these were identified as "Diarrhea" and "Explosive Diarrhea." Not exactly the best color for the walls between the bathroom and kitchen. My quest to find the color that I sought led me to create my own paint names. "Skidmark," Turkey Dung," and "Shower Mildew" references only caused confusion and smirks from paint center employees, proving to me that those who can actually identify paint colors are surely not those who name them.

Because when you see my kitchen, do you see "Caramel Dream," or "Construction Zone Ahead?"

Luckily, we like bright orange, and this is only the beginning of the journey we are undertaking to make this space our sanctuary. So, honestly, either name applies.

Peanut Butter Jelly Time, or, an oldie but goodie

2008-10-05T13:29:00.000-07:00

My unsupervised time, or, why it is a good thing I don't live alone

2008-10-02T20:15:00.000-07:00

I am eating chocolate cake and strawberries for dinner, because no one is home and I can do whatever the Hay-ell I want.

Ryan is at his yearly hot wheel convention (yes, there are enough collectors to fill an entire convention center and hotel!) Being the loving wife that I am, and knowing he had to blow his carefully saved hot wheel money on a speeding ticket and new tires, I slipped a hundred in his wallet before he left. This gift was accompanied by a note that said "Know how I know you're gay? You go to hot wheel conventions and share hotel beds with 5 other hairy men." I was going to stop at "you go to hot wheel conventions" but I have it on good authority that gay men wouldn't be caught dead there. Thank you 40 year old virgin.

Some women are afraid to be home alone. I truly enjoy it. I think I used up all my fear as a child, when the Green Goo would attack me in the car, the monsters under the bed would attempt to grab me unless I leaped from the doorway to the bed, and something living in the toilet was going to attack my butt. I have my bevy of critters who stay within a 13.5 inch radius of me at all times.

I am simultaneously banking, myspacing, facebooking, illegally downloading music, and eating a quesadilla. Who knew Christina Aguilera and Cake makes a pretty cool mash-up? I have hat hair from wearing my Disneyland elf cap earlier to Skylar's game, and the bangs are too short, my bad. Kind of a Scott Baio look. However, the back looks cute. My stylist told me the back of the A-line style is called a stack. I said, "So I'm stacked in the front AND back? Sweet!"

My wild single night ended at 10:30 pm (yawn) and I popped out of bed at 7:30 am, knowing that if I went back to sleep, I could kiss goodbye any productivity today. Besides, this means I can nap as early as 10 am! The new Beck cd and a cup of coffee keep me company. Yesterday at Trader's I found some healthy looking creamer boasting creamy vanilla flavor, no trans or hydrogenated fats, no hormones, blah blah. Turns out, it tastes like non fat milk with sugar! Sucker. I should have stuck to the creamer otherwise known as crack. Vanilla coffee mate, if it weren't for you, I wouldn't even drink coffee. This shit should be classified as an addictive controlled substance. Even Ryan, who drank his coffee black with sugar before he met me and my morning meth, refuses to drink his coffee without it. (Apparently coffee that wasn't black was girly. Seriously, he thought this was a man card violation. Need I mention his other violations?) And coffee is not like sex, where even bad sex is better than none. If you've recently had coffee with vanilla crack in it, trust me, you'd rather do without than drink the shit I am forcing down.

My current method of brainstorming consists of this: write down every stupid thing I do, think or say that I think is funny, in no particular order. Edit, edit, edit. Remove cat from desk. Get yogurt. Listen to recorded messages I left myself on cell phone of things that seemed so funny I might forget them if they weren't documented immediately. Erase all but one. Protect yogurt from dairy-obsessed cat. Chew fingers. Go to the bathroom. Become completely distracted by examining pores in mirror. Stay in bathroom long enough to finish Chelsea Handler book.

* Can I just say, I heart Chelsea? She is totally my new role model.*

Realize I left yogurt defenseless on desk. Return to find cat with head stuck in Trader Joe's Organic Lowfat Strawberry container. Restart Beck cd because somehow it ended already. Pay Pg & E bill. Move plant to other side of desk shelf so cat does not decimate it jumping from the windowsill. Take yogurt cup to sink as cat tries to trip me in an effort to acquire yogurt cup. End up letting her lick it because she is so chubby and cute. Because who can resist a cat who watches the toilet flush and actually moves her head in a circle? Wow, is that cd over already? Again?

9:21. Naptime!

After a grueling 3 hour nap, I am awoken by Ryan's call, telling me he is heading home. I spring into action. This action consists of sitting on the couch for the next 2-3 hours watching Chelsea Lately and the Colbert report. Eventually I realize I am in great danger of pissing the entire day away, and go shower. This is followed by: more examining of pores, blowdrying my hair upside down just to see what it looks like, (think:upsidedown Scott Baio in the front, party in the back) trying on bras I never wear and checking myself out, and realizing I'm hungry.

God, I love Sundays!

Dilemma, or, honesty and skull f*cking

2008-09-30T10:01:00.000-07:00

I sit here at my desk, alternating lunges, chatting with Ryan, deer watching and frequent

potty breaks due to my massive coffee consumption. What can I say, I have a short attention span.

Before I attempted anything productive today (interpret that any way you want) I felt it was necessary to change my default myspace photo. I vacillated between a picture of my 4 kids in their soccer uniforms and a great X Ray of a skull fuck I found a few weeks ago (that story to be explained later). This was provoked by a desire to impress one of my favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, when I left a comment on her myspace blog. I had taken a few pictures of stacks of books I have read, aspire to read, and am in the middle of, that I intended to put as my default picture until I realized how boring that was. I got distracted uploading those and decided to add the aforementioned two pics.

Unfortunately the skull fuck picture was not in a format known to myspace, and I was too lazy to reformat it, so I chose the soccer pic. Then it occurred to me how representational this situation is of my writing dilemma. I have yet to decide what persona to expose in my writing. Like the Chelsea Handler book " My Horizontal Life" that is currently my bathroom reading, I can be vulgar, honest, lewd, and mean. I love to tease and mock others behind their backs. No one, including spouse, children, and strangers, are safe. On the other hand, I am a mom who is terrified my children will read what I write, be ashamed of me, furious because I have published the funny things they do and say ( I asked them both if that would be ok...Skylar said NO and Hayden said, yeah, baby! Typical)

Part of my hesitation to write about my life is wondering if total honesty would be more harmful than fictionalizing my life. I have dirt on people that would cause them not only to alienate me, but possibly put a hit out on me as well. Parents, siblings, exes, and kids- my urge to utilize their lives for my entertainment and hopefully profit seems to be a bad idea as I examine it further. So, my options are these:

A)Write a memoir that mostly reveals only MY OWN personal follies (and Ryan's, he has no shame, naturally, look who he married) with vague references to family and friends. This is the safest approach. However, this would cut out approximately 90% of my funny material. 89% of which can be attributed to things Hayden says and does.

* I am serious. I could write an entire book of his quotes, dances and songs, including " I am God's brother" and the hit song "Chubby boobs, chubby boobs, I want to ride your chubby boobs". This book would be entitled "Was Your Penis Made in Heaven?"

I do not want to be responsible for his future institutionalization for which he would undoubtedly blame on me.*

B) Fictionalize my life and use aliases, which would fool no one. Everyone would know which character was theirs and hold that against me.

C) Write a complete work of fiction, using bits and pieces of my life as thinly disguised filler. Readers would not know what is drawn from my life and what I fabricate. Denial that the work is about the people in my life would be a reasonable defense, like singers that write about cheating and then tell their spouses, " It's just a song!"

So that is what I currently ponder.

Oh, the skull fuck thing...that was pretty awesome. It began after we got notice from our car insurance that Ryan's Camry had been deleted from the policy. WHAT THE FUCK. I called them, and the nice lady on the phone informed me that because he had added his company as additional insured, and answered a few questions like "Do you occasionally carry product in your car, or transport clients?" To which he INCORRECTLY answered "Occasionally" (never admit anything to your insurance company EVER!) he was now told he needed commercial insurance to the tune of 2 grand a year. After going round and round with the lady, her calling Ryan, and him calling HR and telling them thanks a lot for fucking up my car insurance and I'll be goddamned before I pay for commercial insurance, he finally got it straightened out. I wasted 3 hours that morning between Geico and Ryan and we were both enraged and freaked out. I declared that I was going to head over to their office and skull fuck them all. This lead to an internet image search for skull fuck, which resulted in a rather graphic, albeit doctored photo that greatly entertained me.

The skull fucking theme was continued in a recent conversation we had about the weasly guy at the fireplace store. The fireplace was installed last week, but the blower and doors were missing. I went to the shop to pay for the fireplace and inquire as to when they would be installed. The weasly guy, let's call him Dick, said to call them when we had done the finish work on the fireplace and then they would come out and install the blower.

I said, "Since my husband has to hook up the electrical for the blower, and this is located behind the fireplace, don't we need the blower before we enclose and sheet rock the area?"
Dick replied," Well, that way it will be all nice and neat."
I looked at him with puzzlement and said, "I don't see how that is possible. *Clearly you are an idiot.* Just tell them to install it as soon as they can."

"Ok" said Dick, *looking dazed because I had just bitched slapped him.*

This is how I relayed the conversation to Ryan, who is a pro at distinguishing what actually happens and what I want to do or say, but don't because I am clearly a lady.

Then Ryan tentatively asked, "Did you skull fuck him?"
To which I laughed my ass off and said "Of course!'

ps. look! I wrote dialogue! One of my obstacles... sorry about the indent even after the dialogue. The blog format won't let me go back to regular spacing. More learning to do...

Roadkill

2008-09-22T21:44:00.000-07:00

Went to SF with Mom and Mija today and saw the Frida Kahlo exhibit. Mom drove and played a live reading by Billy Collins, poet laureate.

Inspired by Billy Collins, who writes simple yet clever poems about everyday observations. His poem "The Revenant" follows mine, to give you an idea of his style.

PS it's ok to laugh at this. It's off the cuff :P

“Roadkill”

Part of country life

Is dodging roadkill.

A lump of fur

Followed by red asphalt.

Squirrels, skunks, raccoons

For every deer I see on the road,

Four visit my yard each day to see what greenery

Creeps out of its prison to be sampled.

They stare at me, coal black noses glistening

Ribs showing like Frida’s tiny dogs

Just a yard from my window

And I think, you want fries with that?

Bring your spotted baby for a drink from my pond

But I draw the line when you eat my water lilies.

The road claims the occasional dog or cat.

It’s the cats that really affect me.

I think

Of my sweet silly girls

The ginger one

Chews plastic and mews like her heart is broken

The sienna one

Grabs my arm to lick it hungrily and lovingly

Then thunders off

Throwing a clattering necklace in the air

Like a pudgy monkey.

When I see a cat

I think

Of how

She must have rubbed on her person’s leg that morning

Before mewing to be let out.

So far

I’ve hit a bird (so sorry)

A rattler (not sorry)

I saw a deer with no head today

Maybe I don’t have to get a pet mountain lion after all.

I bet my guru from Iowa

Sees the squirrels and thinks of his childhood hunts

A wasted meal, instead of a tragedy.

The Revenant by Billy Collins

I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you--not one bit.

When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.

I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair and eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.

I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and--greatest of insults--shake hands without a hand.

I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.

You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reason to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.

The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.

While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all my strength
not to raise my head and howl.

Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place

except what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner--
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and the others in prose.

Top 10 reasons to write at home

2008-09-18T11:05:00.000-07:00

10. Piles of dogs and cats at my feet, adoring me, and following me around the house.

9. Snack breaks.

8. Reading for pleasure has become "research."

7. Great benefits, employee discount, flexible hours (wait, that was if I worked for Target. Nevermind.) Ok...flexible hours still applies.

6. Extra opportunities to tidy the house (HAHAHAHA that was funny. I said tidy!)

5. Productivity is relative. For instance, if this top 10 is all I get done in 5 hours, I can still claim to have been productive today! Because in the other 4 hours and 45 minutes, i was doing "research."

4. Saving money on gas and lunches out. So what if that means I live on cereal? I'm conserving!

3. www.icanhascheezburger.com. Priceless.

2. Taking pictures of deer in my yard while naked. Yes, I can do that in the country! (ok, so I'm in my house and they're outside, but still...)

1. Save money on psychotherapy, because writing a memoir is the cheapest form of self analysis.

I'd get more done if I had less time...

2008-09-15T15:46:00.000-07:00

So here we are, almost one week later. Shit, with all the notecards I've scribbled on, freelance writer's sites I've visited, craiglist writing ads I've perused, (somehow I ended up on a page with a picture of Barack Obama on the beach juxtaposed with a picture of a kidney in a request for tickets to his speech...explain that one!) you'd think I would have written SOMETHING by now, and possibly made some money... so not the case. Besides 2 pages of binder paper I filled during Hayden's soccer practice, I've avoided being even remotely productive. My schedule was conveniently WIDE OPEN last week, which reminded me- I am deadline motivated. That is how I made my way through college in a mere seven years! I had assignments. I had due dates. I did NOT, however, have so many distractions. Celebrity gossip websites call to me. Anti-Sarah Palin e mails beckon to me to check out their verity. Myspace and Fecebook (haha that was seriously an honest typo...I mean Facebook) prove to me that resistance is futile. How do people with desk jobs EVER get their work done? And all I want to do when I sit down here is snack. Can I write while on the treadmill? If not, I am going to have a new career as a food critic.

I have a gift. This gift comes in two parts. The first is procrastination, the ability to move about the house for hours yet accomplish nothing visible. The second is rationalization, also known as making up excuses or lying to oneself. I am frequently seven minutes late leaving the house. This is a result of screwing around until the last minute then deciding I MUST accomplish something before I leave, like doing the dishes or shaving my legs. Once I am out of the house, I can on time, even early. I bust out to-do lists. But originating motivation is not my forte. Especially with a tub of really, really stale red vines to fuel me, and piles of dogs and cats at my feet. (Seriously- I'm like the Pied Piper!)

So I intend to keep up with the blog, but who am I kidding. I found freelance copywriting jobs available at .05 a word, telecommuting jobs organizing material for textbooks, ( experience needed!) and what exactly is entailed in the job of Latino Divorce Blogger? Hmm. My best bet is to hunker down, write my book, harrass publishers, and get it made into a movie. But first, let me check thesuperficial.com :)

Balls out Bitches!!

2008-09-09T10:26:00.000-07:00

So, as some of you know, I have been making a bit of noise lately about writing a book. Why in the world would I do such a thing, you may ask. Well, simply put, my life is quite entertaining, particularly the last 4 years. MOST particularly the last year. "You should write a book" I hear all the time, mostly from friends and clients to whom I regale my adventures with husband, kids, exes, wild animals...and finally I have admitted I should.

*stops to put on inspirational music, i.e. Fiona Apple*

My hesitations have been: who the hell would be interested in my life, I haven't written anything since college, I am a 4 fingered typist who seldom capitalizes my i's, no one will read what I write, everyone I know will read what I write and shun me...the list goes on. All valid reasons. However, as I live, I find myself actually narrating. At this point I know it is time to document. Fuck my fears. I am annoying myself by NOT writing. Better to satisfy myself and annoy others. And possible make you laugh, feel better about yourselves, be critical, be sympathetic, or lull you to sleep. Whatever works.

Writing is like going to the grocery store naked. I will be seen by strangers, by neighbors, by critics, by fans. They will see my tattoos and stretchmarks and breast implants and judge me. Sometimes they will admire me, sometimes they will go home feeling better about themselves by comparison. They will wonder, " What the hell does she do with all those bananas?" My desire is that they understand my perspective, and feel a connection with me. I've got friends and family that know everything about me, and some that know only what I think they can handle. So to the conservatives, the right wing Republicans, the Mormons, I love and respect you. You have every right to live your life as you see fit, as do I. If you can't handle my truth, do us both a favor and don't read it.

I've been known to be honest to a fault.... to tell people more than they need to know. I can be blunt, insensitive, and indiscreet. I say "fuck" a lot. A LOT. When Ryan and I got married the vow we repeated, so cleverly chosen by our Reverend Court, was "I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, even if the other person can't handle it." So here is my truth, for everyone else. This blog is a test. Can I finish what I aspire to start? Can I expose my truth? Can I make you laugh, and understand a modicum of what it's like to be me? Could I get carried away, and actually write a book? Or five?

So this is how I begin. Cautiously, with spellcheck, because frankly it's been a while.

Balls out, bitches.