VeryDistortney

Break on Through to the Other Side

2009-12-06T08:07:00.000-08:00

Come visit me at my now one and only blog Row Away From The Rocks.

My Fear of Self-Loathing

2009-11-17T05:46:00.001-08:00

Self-Loathing is not fashionable. It's never in style no matter what era.

After my oldest daughter Holly was born, I went on Zoloft and gained a lot of weight. One of my friends said that Zoloft had numbed her fears so much that she just didn't care anymore, about anything.

I told the doc what happened after Holly was born (GI problems, single kidney, hole in her heart) and he said, "Geez, no wonder you're on Zoloft. I made the same gesture the delivery guy in Christmas Story did when Ralphie's dad says, "What's in the box? Fra-gee-lee! That must be Italian!"

Because of not caring about anything, I didn't lose any baby weight until Holly was 3 years old. In fact I still wore maternity clothes until then. People kept asking me when I was due. I kept saying, "Um, 3 years ago?"

I really hated myself then from all the mind-numbing. I thought I let Holly be born that way. Even when everyone around me told me not to blame myself, I still did. So I took weight gain upon myself as sort of a self-mutilation. Some girls cut themselves, (like Lindsay Lohan) starve themselves (like Lindsay Lohan), or do drugs (like Lindsay Lohan). Instead I put on weight from pure hate.

In 2002 I switched to Paxil and lost weight right away. But it wasn't really the anti-depressant that made it work (in fact, if you ever miss a dose, watch out! It'll feel like your lips are falling off). Then I ate better, exercised more and finally took off weight. What a concept!

I remember crossing the street at an intersection pushing Holly in a stroller, and some guys in a car yelled, "Hey, want a donut?" It was right after I lost my first 10 pounds. Come to think of it, I wasn't wearing the most flattering clothes - a frumpy T-shirt and light blue maternity biker shorts. Ladies, if you have any issues with your thighs at all, do NOT wear light blue. Imagine cumulonimbus clouds brewing on a sunny sky-blue day. And then add cellulite.

I may not be down to my vegetarian body from my twenties and I don't expect it (bacon just tastes WAY too good). In fact, I went into a dressing room this weekend for the first time in years. I hated those flourescent lights on my legs. This time, I looked at my imperfect self and said, "Whatever!" and tried on a pair of Vera Wang jeans. And I loved them.

I love Vera Wang because a) she has a line at Kohls and b) she's not only a designer to the stars but to little ol' mommy bloggers like me. Now, I no longer fear self-loathing.

Crap, is it THAT Time Already?

2009-11-07T06:02:00.000-08:00

Image via Wikipedia

My 10-year-old wants to know about the birds and the bees. Yippee. She didn't know boys had different body parts until we got a boy dog. She asked, "What's that?"

I said, "That's where the dog pees. Human boys have the same thing."

Or maybe I said "Thingies."

I am so bad at this.

What makes her inquisitive are the Viagra commercials playing on TV in the background. She asks, "What does it mean to be healthy enough for sex?" Then she tacks on an "Eww."

Yep, it's time.

Viagra commercials are akin to those tampon commercials we watched in the 80s while our boyfriends sat on the couch eating popcorn and wondering when they could put their arms around us.

As soon as we heard the phrase "Now available with WINGS," we hit the mute button and say, "Hey how 'bout those Packers or Brewers or Cubs or (insert any random sports team)?"

Just to turn the subject away from feminine hygiene products. It was too late because those poor guys already lost their appetite. But that's a whole, though related, different topic which will garner more "Ewws."

The terms for "thingies" at my daughter's school these days are Australia for boy parts and Africa for girl parts. Perhaps I can work in a geography lesson along with the sex talk. I wonder how I'll work in the plate tectonic theory.

One of my Facebook friends (Eric) said explain it to her like this: "Daddy pulls his train into Mommy's train station. If Mommy's lucky then Daddy's train stays on the track for more than 3 minutes. On second thought, leave off that last part."

BOOM! Bra Vo!

2009-11-04T05:19:00.000-08:00

Image by RW PhotoBug via Flickr

Yesterday Holly asked me if she needs to drink milk in order to grow breasts. I said drinking milk is to build better bones but you don't need it for breasts.

She thought the milk went from her stomach to her chest. April asked, "Do I have breasts?"

I said "Yes and they'll get bigger with milk after you have a baby. Breasts are for feeding babies and that's how I fed you."

Her reply: AHHHHHHHHHH!

Just a few more years before breast size obsession. Yippee, can't wait. When I was in 6th grade my mom said I needed a training bra. I thought they came with wheels like bikes and when I grew breasts I took the wheels off.

Before I started a new school in 8th grade, I bra shopped with my sister. One bra had little sponges in the cups. I thought, well, that's convenient in case I spill my milk in the cafeteria I can whip out these thingies and viola! Crisis averted. Or if I got wet? BOOM! Instant Dolly Parton!

My sister said the sponges were to make your boobs look bigger. Even then I didn't believe in false advertising so I passed. I settled for the training bra, wondering when I could take off the wheels and go for a ride on my own.

Good thing I didn't buy the sponge bra because 8th grade was full of girls whispering who stuffed. I thought girls naturally kept their Kleenexes in there because we cried so much. Did I have a lot to learn!

I don't know what made us so impatient for big boobs. They grew into their own in high school, college, marriage, pregnancy and BOOM there they are. Serving a purpose.

Now in our forties we struggle to keep them off our belt loops. Maybe I'll go out tomorrow and try to find that sponge bra again. And recite my own version of the Serenity Prayer:

God grant me the serenity

To accept my breasts I cannot change

Courage to change the breasts I can without plastic surgery

And the wisdom to know the difference.

Chivalry is Freakin' Dead

2009-11-03T19:32:00.000-08:00

Image via Wikipedia

Remember when gentlemen gave up their seats for ladies on a crowded buses, subways, or waiting rooms?

Forget it, it never happens anymore. The last time a man ever gave up his seat for me was when I was pregnant. And that was only because I was about to pop and he didn't want to see my water break right on the floor.

Today I took my daughter to one of her many, many doctor appointments. The waiting room was crowded and I looked around and saw many seats occupied by small children who were not sitting in their seats all the time.

When my kids were little in crowded waiting rooms, I sat them on my lap so adults wouldn't have to stand.

Today, I sunk down to the floor having an incredible time doing so since I proudly own titanium rods in my back, along with almost 30 screws and bolts. I saw a chair open so I struggled to get up and walked over to the seat.

Two parents stared at me. I said, "I have a really hard time sitting on the floor." I didn't go into my rigamarole of back surgery because I don't like to tell strangers my life story right off the bat. Surely, I thought, these parents saw me struggle getting up and down on the floor.

The dad said, "You just took my son's seat. If you're okay with that, then..." I saw the 4-year-old boy and said, "I'm sorry, sweetie, do you want to sit here?" I got up and walked to a wall, struggling to get down on my knee and sit upright. The little boy just kept walking around, staring at Spongebob on television.

Then a mom with a leg brace came in and she also sat down on the floor because no man in that waiting room cared to give up his seat, or even tell their wee tiny children to give up their seats.

Finally one dad came up to both of us and said, "There's two seats available." Leg Brace Lady said, "No, I won't be able to get back up." I saw that the two seats were next to Rude Dad with a son who still wasn't sitting in his seat. I said, "No thanks, I'd rather wait."

I said nothing because I knew karma would bite Rude Dad right in the butt soon. Like me writing about him in this blog. And I left in a good mood because my daughter's doctor looked and sounded like Rowan Atkinson's Mr. Bean.

Why I Don't CyberStalk

2009-11-03T19:27:00.000-08:00

Image by Laughing Squid via Flickr

In a world of the interwebs where anyone can contact anyone instantly, be it a friend from grade school or a celeb you adored in the 80s when you wore matching neon socks and sweaters, one has to wonder when do you draw the line between e-mail frenzy and cyberstalking?

There has to be a light that goes off that says, "Danger, Will Robinson, that person on the internet who IMs you every time you're on Facebook needs a hobby!"

Unfortunately, that light switch never seems to waver from the OFF position.

For me, I don't have time to cyberstalk. One of my Facebook buddies from high school, Eric Hoegsted, put it best:

"I work 24/7 so I'd have to be like okay, I can stalk you in 6 weeks at 2
o'clock but only for 18 minutes because I have to make my delivery on time or
I'll be late."

I'm getting off this computer right now. As soon as I check my e-mail because AOL just pinged me.

I Want to Hate

2009-11-02T07:42:00.000-08:00

"I want to hate but I have no room for it in my heart."

This is what my pastor Ron Armstrong said as he sat in court fifteen away from the three men who murdered his son the day after Christmas last year.

I can imagine struggling with forgiveness. I understand staring at the men who took your oldest child away and think, no way are these men going to the same place my son is right now after they leave this earth.

Imagine the strength you need to fill up your heart with hate. It's easy to hate, don't you think? It isn't. It takes more strength to hate and it exhausts you more quickly. It takes more passion to despise and it envelops you more.

Having no room for the people who most deserve hate is a strength most of us will never achieve.

October 28, 1989

2009-10-27T19:46:00.000-07:00

20 years ago I met my husband the first time. I was studying for college mid-terms on a Saturday night before Halloween (yeah, I partied HARD back then). I needed a break, so I headed down to the Brat Stop on I-94 in Kenosha, WI for some ice cream.

The Brat Stop was a one-stop shop for cheese curds and beer and if you were in a dancing mood, you could enjoy live music in the bar.

I skimmed the shelves and to my surprise, no ice cream. How could a place that boasted of dairy products not have ice cream? Majorly bummed, I walked into the bar and ran into a friend who waitressed there. She told me to stay for the Halloween party. I wore no costume except for a cut off tie-dyed Jimi Hendrix T-shirt and those awful tapered pants that could make the skinnest girl look like she carried a hot air balloon for a butt.

The usual costumes walked by - a guy dressed as a devil, a woman dressed like a zebra, etc. Then I saw two men walk in. One guy was dressed normally except he held a small alien that smoked and held a beer. The other was a dude in Beetlejuice clothing with baby powder in his hair.

They stood next to me and I said hello. The guy dressed like the devil passed by. Beetlejuice said, "That guy can go to HELL." I laughed and he said, "Hey! Let's dance. Later." Then he walked away.

I didn't know if he meant that we should dance later or if that was his way of saying goodbye.

He came back and escorted me to the dance floor. The first song the band played was AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long." I remember almost slipping on the baby powder falling from his hair. Instead of enjoying a nice quiet introduction, we yelled each other's names. It went like this:

The Band: "Yeah YOU! Shook me ALL NIGHT LONG."

Me: "WHAT'S YOUR NAME?!?"

Him: "TIM!"

Me: "JIM?" I panicked because I broke up with my ex-loser of a fiancee of the same name.

Him: "NO! TIM! WHAT'S YOUR NAME?

Me: "TERRI!"

Him: "CARRIE?"

Me: "NO! TERRI!"

The Band: "And that was 'You Shook Me ALL Night Long!' And now here's a little country song called 'Rocky Top Tennessee'".

Him: NO WAY!

And we exited the floor and the rest is Great Pumpkin history.

Field Trips Galore!

2009-10-20T10:51:00.000-07:00

That's April getting attacked by alien killer pumpkins at Bates Nut Farm in Valley Center, CA. Holly composes a sonata with Beethoven at the Temecula Children's Museum.

Never Too Early for Christmas

2009-10-20T07:18:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

As I shopped this weekend for Halloween goodies, I noticed the Christmas decorations right next to the costumes at Target.

Although most everyone says it's way too early to think about Christmas in October, I was thankful because it reminded me of one of the best Christmases our family had in the year 2000.

In the ICU Children's Hospital of Los Angeles on an early December morning, Dr. Winfield Wells strolled into my daughter Holly's room.

His street clothes looked like Pat Boone circa 1962: polo shirt, plaid golf pants and white shoes. Holly's cardiologist said he was the best pediatric cardiac surgeon on the planet and I think he knew it.

His team of doctors clamored around him like an entourage with their clipboards and white coats. He said, "It looks like we don't need to put in a pacemaker after all!" A few days earlier he easily patched up Holly's 15-month-old heart with Dacron like a piece of fabric on a rag doll.

She was born with a large ventricular septal defect. After the surgery, it was doubtful Holly's heart would ever beat on its own hence the need for a pacemaker. I talked to God the night before and said if she needs a pacemaker then she needs one.

My husband Tim and I will deal with it. When Holly was born there was never any doubt that Holly wouldn't survive, she just needed extra care. My parents helped us out with that for the first 10 months of her life.

My mom said she would never leave me to take care of Holly by myself. And I think I knew why. My grandmother died from something similar - a leaky heart valve at age 39.

When I told Mom the news about Holly, she immediately put her hands over her face and wailed, no doubt remembering how she watched her young mother pass away.

It took Holly 15 months to gain enough weight for the operation. When she was ready, Dr. Wells said he could wait until after the holidays but we said no, we wanted it done right away.

If she was in the hospital on Christmas day then so be it. There will be more Christmases to celebrate the regular way if there is a such a thing. Most people find the antiseptic smell of hospital rooms annoying but to me it's comforting.

That smell reminds me that we are in the hands of God and that He sends us angels in the bodies of doctors and nurses clad in white to fix whatever needs fixing. The morning Holly went in, a tall nurse with perfect makeup and a bright smile with a Christmas bow on her surgical cap told us,

"Now is the time for hugs and kisses," right before they took her into OR. She gave Holly a teddy bear with a tiny green surgical mask.

When Holly came to, she was attached to tubes and wires when she opened her mouth to cry but no sound came out. My husband left the room but I stayed for her to hear my voice and feel my hand on hers. She had such a small soft hand which gripped my fingers, scarred from surgical tape and IV tubes. Holly was too little to understand the concept of Santa Claus.

I was glad I didn't have to explain that Santa also delivers gifts to hospitals on Christmas Eve. But I wrote her a letter on memo pad paper answering any questions if she was old enough to ask them.

She might ask, "If I'm not allowed to have a Christmas tree in ICU, where does Santa put the presents?" I'd say, "He delivers them to the doctors and nurses and mommies and daddies to bring them to you."

Or she might ask, "Hospitals don't have chimneys, how does he get in?" I'd say, "The nice workers let him in through the front doors."

But there was no need for explanation. The night before her scheduled second surgery to insert a pacemaker, her little heart started beating on her own.

The nurses checked and rechecked the long strips of paper that printed out the rhythm of her heart beats. Doctors upon doctors came into her room looking at the monitors, then at her, then at us. They all said the same thing: "We didn't expect this."

Within a day, Holly began sitting up, dancing in her seat to Disney cartoons. We left the hospital on Christmas Eve. I got to hold her while a nurse wheeled us out which I was robbed of after she was born since Holly had to stay in neonatal ICU.

When Holly saw the sunlight as the doors opened, she smiled, giggled and clapped at it like she just found her favorite toy. On the way home we stopped at McDonald's and tasted those salty and crispy French fries while she chomped away. No more baby hospital food!

There were dark circles under her eyes as we unwrapped presents by the tree that night. But her hazel eyes lit up as she saw the orange teddy bear named Ojo from the TV show Bear in the Big Blue House.

Today, as a ten-year-old, she wants nothing to do with that bear but I keep it up on my dresser, ready with a patch and thread if it ever needs them.

Class of '86

2009-10-11T17:19:00.000-07:00

*Hair courtesy of Dee Snider of Twisted Sister fame.

*Collar courtesy of one of Elvis's jumpsuits.

*Makeup courtesy of whatever was on sale at Walgreens.

My mission back then was to be deliriously happy because that's what Bruce Willis wrote in his high school yearbook. Who says dreams aren't achieved?

Resistance is Futile

2009-10-10T21:34:00.000-07:00

My parents celebrated their fifty-third anniversary last summer. They married after knowing each other only 10 days in Tupelo, Mississippi.

Mom was a waitress in Murray, Kentucky when she waited on my dad in 1956. Ten days later, my mother wore a blue print dress much like the one Sissy Spacek wore in her wedding scene in the movie Coal Miner's Daughter.

Reflecting on how long my parents stuck together, I discover how much I'm like them. After all, resistance is futile as the Borg says. Here are signs I've morphed a little into my mom:

*I limp softly and carry a big purse. My mom had knee surgeries, I had back surgeries, so we limp and lean on shopping carts. I also donated all my little purses to my daughters' dress-up trunk in favor of a huge purse so I can carry - get this - yarn and crochet hooks.

*I sneeze loudly. I jumped out of my pants each time my mom sneezed when I was little. Now when I sneeze, my girls yell, "BLESS YOU!"

*When I need a stress release, I indulge in retail therapy at Wal-Mart. Maybe it's the bright lights and brand new yellow asterisks. Plus I never have to dress up to go there. When I look around, everyone else has a "come as you are" look about them too. There are more pajamas on Wal-Mart shoppers than a pre-teen slumber party.

*I confuse my family members' names. I call my husband Honey, which sometimes comes out Holly. When I call Holly, I say April, and poor April gets the dog Fluffy.

And here are signs I've morphed a little into my dad:

*I look forward to a nap every day. You'd think my favorite time of the day would be reading, journaling, drawing or yarn work, but nope, it's that little bit of snooze time.

*While relaxing, I refuse to sit in nothing but my favorite easy chair, even though it's old and torn (like Frasier's dad's chair).

*I listen to blue grass music. I may not have been born a hick, but it's in my blood.

Take Your Lower Lip and Pull it Over Your Head

2009-10-06T17:08:00.001-07:00

Carol Burnett via last.fm

As a mother, I no longer dread mammograms, pap smears or spinal fusion. I look forward to them like spa treatments.

Major back surgery was painful, of course, but I got oodles of time to myself with a side of morphine. Carol Burnett once said that in order for men to understand childbirth, take your lower lip and pull it over your head.

Well, to understand spinal fusion, take your lower lip, pull it over your head, then pull it back to your neck.

Then stretch it back to your spine down to your toes and put it under your heels. Strap on your best stillettos and dig your heels onto your lower lip. You might understand spinal fusion at least during the hospital stay. Recovery time? That's a different story.

Remove your lower lip from under your stillettos and pull it up to your belt buckle, tuck it into your pants, then snap it back into its original place. And then you get back to your job of mothering.

In my house, you must abide by three simple rules:

1. You must have fun making dinner with me. We made Boboli pizza the other night. The girls fought over who sprinkles the cheese on the sauce. April won because Holly did the sauce. But Holly didn't want too much cheese so she tells April how to do it. April growls.

April's latest thing is to act like an animal. If she ever takes acting lessons and does that embarassing exercise where she walks around a strip mall acting like an iguana or parrot, she's got it down.

Yelling ensues. I separate them into corners like Muhammad Ali and Leon Spinx for time outs. Then I march them back into the kitchen and order them like Louis Gossett Jr., "You two HAVE FUN if it's the LAST THING YOU DO!"

They crack up. I half expect April to do her best Richard Gere impression, "I got nowhere else to go!" Then bark like a dog.

2. If you are a children's author or illustrator, please have a name I can pronounce. When I read to my kids, I always read the author and illustrator's names out loud. Not only is it important to know who created this work, we find more books by these authors at the library.

But it's hard when you can't pronounce their names. I say, "Today we will read 'Jane Goes for a Walk" by Ziadna'en Aidezkyyoiuuon. Illustrated by Andiao;en;knaci Alidja;kanekngalkidu." I do my best but they laugh at me. So I advise if you go into this wonderful line of work, get a pen name.

3. Finally, no fighting until Mommy is at least in her underwear. Many times we get ready in a rush to go somewhere. I'm in a state of undress and I have to break up a screaming and growling fight. I rush out of my room, praying the blinds are closed, to find out what happened. But I can't discipline if I don't have my underwear on. How do you lay down the law when you're buck naked?

So, if these three simple rules cannot be obeyed, I will need a relaxing day to myself until they are. Which reminds me, I'm due for a root canal.

My Favorite Dads

2009-10-05T20:31:00.001-07:00

Waylon Jennings via last.fm

God loves fathers. He is one. ~Dr. James I. Lamb

*George Harrison - father of his look-alike son Dhani

*Waylon Jennings - father of Shooter who was the reason he quit cocaine. He also has a son named Buddy after Buddy Holly (And what a trip, my daughter's name is Holly).

*Hunter S. Thompson - father of Juan, who was at his house when Hunter shot himself.

*Orson Welles - father of Christopher, Rebecca, and Beatrice.

*Ray Bradbury - father of Susan, Ramona, Bettina, and Alexandra. Mr. Bradbury writes back to those who send him things via snail mail. He knew he had to pursue the creative life when he met Mr. Electrico.

And to my own celebrity dad, Bob Fortney who said this as we watched Donna Summer perform on TV one night: "Donna Summer? Isn't she on Three Different Strokes?"

October? Love it. February? Not so much.

2009-10-05T06:36:00.001-07:00

I don't know any other way to put it but October is awesome. The weather cools off for the first time here, the wind picks up and we get ready for the merry season of Halloween. But there's one month I prefer to wipe off the calendar: February.

Damn it, I hate February. In Wisconsin, it was the worst month EVER. That fat groundhog always pops up, sees his shadow and pisses on the snow.

The holidays are over. The snow and mud mix to an unpleasant sludge. And nobody bothers to scrape their car windows of snow. So they drive relying on their instruments only.

In February, football season is over. Those were the last words Hunter Thompson wrote before he killed himself - in February. So writes Douglas Brinkley for Rolling Stone:

February was always the cruelest month for Hunter S. Thompson. An avid NFL fan,
Hunter traditionally embraced the Super Bowl in January as the high-water mark
of his year. February, by contrast, was doldrums time. Nothing but monstrous
blizzards, bad colds and the lackluster Denver Nuggets.

Then there's Valentine's Day. Talk about pressure for the gentlemen. Guys buy last minute gifts enduring dirty looks from mall employees. If they buy chocolate, ladies cry because their New Year's resolution to lose weight is shot. Flowers are nice but they may cause allergic reactions. They die anyway. Usually in February.

So expensive gifts like jewelry and iPods are pushed by the free market but I wonder: when did Valentine's Day become Christmas? Is this what St. Valentine had in mind when he wed couples on the sly? Did he say, "You may now kiss the bride and for Valentine's Day you better spend no less than a thousand dollars or you get no nooky that night?"

Seriously, the main reason I hate February is because my brother suffered a brain aneurysm last year. My favorite memory of him was a simple ordinary night. We went to Wal-Mart. My youngest daughter, instead of holding my hand in the parking lot, ran and grabbed his hand instead of mine. Then he picked her up and pushed her around in the shopping cart.

Before we left the store, I spotted a sticker in a vending machine that read TATER TOTS RULE. My nickname as a baby was Tater. When I told my brother I was pregnant with my first child, he said, "You're gonna have a tater tot!" I put a quarter in the machine and by chance, luck, or fate, out popped the sticker.

I still have that sticker in my kitchen along with his memorial candle. As I write this, the weather cools off and I'm about to grab my jacket to take my girls and dog to the park to enjoy this awesome day in this wonderful month.

But if there's a new law to erase February from the calendar, I'm all for it.

Stay-At-Home Mom Schoolin'

2009-10-02T23:07:00.000-07:00

I've been a mom for almost 11 years. I count pregnancy because the moment I found out, I thought of nothing else.

If you Google the word "saint" my mom's picture pops up. My only regret: waiting until becoming a mother before I appreciated mine. This is what I learned since having kids. I call it my Stay-At-Home Mom Schoolin':

*You woe the day your daughter finds something wrong with her looks. Just when you, as a woman, stop obsessing about your appearance, she starts. Holly wishes to be as cute as her little sister. I said if she was any more cute she'd combust from spontaneous cuteness.

*The less words you use, the more they listen.

*They stop whatever they are doing, no matter what, to watch the Simpsons with you even if they don't understand all the jokes. Then you have to turn it off when Bart says, "Go to hell!" or "You suck!" Because they sure as hell don't hear that language from me. That would seriously suck.

*If your child is born with birth defects you never stop blaming yourself even if they're not your fault.

*Because of these defects, if they have a crappy first year of life, you spend a lifetime making it up.

*Never speak figuratively to a child. Like if you say, "I'm in so much pain I'm gonna die," they think you will.

*Any joke, bad or good, about any bodily function is HILARIOUS. And they laugh for hours.

Best.Note.From.Mom.Ever.

2009-10-01T21:05:00.000-07:00

Today we got a card from Mom. She kinda sorta forgot my daughter's tenth birthday. She more than made up for it by sending a check for Holly to buy a Webkinz.

I can totally understand the forgetting part. Just the other day a friend e-mailed me the story of Lucy from the song "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" passing away. I e-mailed her back and said, "I remember reading about her a while ago. Did you send me the article?" She wrote back, "Oh dear, you've forgotten already. YOU sent me the article." To which I replied, "Epic Alzheimers FAIL."

Mom keeps her sense of humor about memory as she writes in her best note ever:

Sorry I forgot :( to put this check in Holly's card. I'm so
forgetful. At least I haven't stuffed your dad in the clothes dryer
yet.

Elvis, Pineapples and Pizza

2009-09-28T19:57:00.000-07:00

In the book Pizza, Pigs and Poetry, Jack Prelutzky asks, "Have you ever written a poem about a pizza?" Well, no. But I can cook up some prose.

Here goes: It was January 8, 1999. While at work I ordered a pizza for lunch. A whole pizza. Just for me. It was Elvis' birthday so I thought I'd celebrate by eating pineapple on my pizza for the first time. A little Blue Hawaii flare.

Suprisingly, I ate the whole pizza by myself and didn't blow up like hot air balloon. Before I ordered a luau for lunch that day, I tried to lose a few but something didn't fit right. And it wasn't just my jeans. I mean, I was supposed to feel guilty for eating so much, right?

When I ate the juicy fibers of the pineapple with the cheesy saucy crust, I was happy. Little did I know I was pregnant with my first child. I didn't find that out until seventeen days later. That day I ate my pizza in utter bliss though I didn't know why I was so happy.

I was binging, after all. Ruining my figure. I took acting classes at the time and the camera already packed on pounds. My coach noticed and told me to drop a few. Maybe it was the rebel in me or the growing life inside of me that said, "Hey! What the heck is wrong with you? Since when do you let someone else's ideals tell you what to do?"

Since then it's hard for me to pack away a whole pizza in one sitting. I doubt that bliss will visit me again while eating. Instead it transferred into motherhood which I could never fit into a pie.

Questions I Can't Answer

2009-09-28T08:27:00.000-07:00

Holly turned 10 year old about 2 weeks ago. I found some questions I wrote down that she asked from 3 years old on. None of these I could answer for her then and I still can't now:

*Why isn't there a wall of space (as opposed to Phil Spector's Wall of Sound)?

*Did God make Himself? (when I said God made everything)

*Will I need surgery to have breasts? Why does a woman want surgery to have bigger breasts? (after I explained what boob jobs are)

*How big is a cold? Because if it fits in my nose, it must be pretty small.

*Why on the TV show Dragon Tales do they say "the adventures never end" when they do?

My only response is to ask questions when I can't answer her, such as:

*Why do I bother to put a hamper in your bedroom when your dirty clothes are everywhere except in it?

*Can the theory of relativity be applied to the time in between picking up toys and throwing them on the floor?

*Why did your then two-year-old sister stare at her food on the table but didn't hesitate to eat it off the floor?

This is Funny Camp

2009-09-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

While homeschooling my almost 6-year-old, she requested her favorite set of flash cards: the U.S. Presidents. I thought they might be too hard for her but she took to them quickly.

I showed her a card of our 18th president, Ulysses Simpson Grant. She said, "Ulysses Simpson Graham Cracker."

Then came our 19th president, Rutherford Birchard Hayes. She called him, "Rutherford Birchard 'Horses Eat Hayes'."

Next up, the 20th president James Abram Garfield. She said, "James Abram Barf-field."

I asked her why the twist on names? She said, "This is Funny Camp. I learn to tell jokes." I said that's nice but sometimes we have to take our learning seriously.

So we went along with our serious faces learning the names of the presidents. Then I showed her Warren G. Harding.

Always closing, she said, "Warren G. Farting."

What a Wonderful World This Would Be

2009-09-25T21:07:00.000-07:00

List what your perfect world would be like:

Kids play outside by themselves and explore the countryside like I did as a child.

Poetry is never a turn-off.

Chocolate is a staple.

My dog never needs grooming and he trims his own nails.

I don't see a complete mirror of myself when I discipline.

Libraries never close.

Nobody worries about the mess when they paint.

Stamps stay the same price.

Naps are mandatory.

Proof exists that all good dogs go to heaven and they play with my big brother up there.

Not Your Usual To-Do Lists

2009-09-24T16:22:00.000-07:00

Thanks to listography, I now have purpose in my visits to Barnes & Noble. I order a grande mocha Frappucino (though it should be a tall but the darn barrista always convinces me to go grande). Then I sit and fill out my list journal with the built-in elastic band.

I don't know what it is about those elastic bands but I can't resist them. There's something so complete about closing up a journal with a colorful ribbon like I've accomplished something be it ever so small.

I also don't roam the Self-Improvement section looking for the next best-book-that-feeds-on-my-inferiority-complex anymore. I might book snack but I never finish. I prefer either a) picture books because I know I'll read them to my children or b) notebooks with elastic ribbons because they get used.

But I digress. Here's my current list of faves: List Your Favorite Things to Do in Your Free Time

Make lists at Barnes & Noble.

Listen in on cell conversations (because they're impossible to avoid).

Take water aerobics because I never get a lane at the gym to swim laps.

Choose pics from Flickr for my blogs. One night I skimmed for pics and found a wonderful story about a dog that ate 2 pounds of chocolate and almost died. Miraculously she recovered. She looks like my dog and bears the same name as my daughter so that drew me in. And I thought the site was just for downloading free pictures.

Teach a child something new. I taught a group of kindergarteners the 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 song from Sesame Street. Or was it The Electric Company? That's the way I learned my numbers when I was their age.

AND I showed a 4th grader how to write a haiku. Her assignment was to write a poem about Autumn. To be honest, the haiku is the shortest way to write a poem. But NOT the easiest because you have the least amount of words to convey your feelings.

E-mail Shepard Smith @ studiob@foxnews.com. My latest: One thing I learned about foreign leaders who hate America: they SUPER UGLY.

Finally, I read fantastic blogs such as:

Because I learned if you wanna be a good blogger, you gotta read great blogs.

Laughter Like a Phoenix

2009-09-23T16:03:00.000-07:00

Laughter rises out of tragedy, when you need it the most, and rewards you for your courage.

~ Erma Bombeck

This weekend is the 24th anniversary of a high school friend who committed suicide. One night, Jim, a curly-haired ear-pierced football player, came up and hugged me after a game.

It seemed odd because we weren't dating or even close friends, just acquaintances. He said nothing but I remember his letterman's jacket all warm and cozy. He looked crestfallen. A week later I realized it was his way of saying goodbye.

He committed suicide in his parent's bathroom with a hand gun, possibly foreseeing that clean-up would be easier in the bathroom rather than any other room in the house.

My classmates and I all sat together at the funeral watching the boys from my class who just seemed too young to be carrying this burden, his casket, down the aisle. The pastor blankly read his bio from the newspaper like he barely knew him.

Then we sang hymns. An older woman who sat behind us sang with a voice that boomed off-key and loud with a thick German accent. My friends and I looked at each other and giggled. I thought, oh my gosh, this is such a sad event with this young man cutting off his life so short and we can't stop laughing!

It was like his plea to us from the great beyond for someone, anyone, not to take this so seriously. I sense one who commits suicide immediately regrets it although they are not around to admit it to anyone. It's unforgivable. Not by God but by the family they leave behind.

God deals with those who take their lives in ways we'll never know. He doles out teaspoons of goodness to the survivors gradually. Teaspoons turn to cups that overflow. The good the family never thought imaginable turns into ten-fold, twenty-fold, and forty-fold until they can't contain it anymore.

It's God way of making up for losing a son, brother, sister, father, mother, or friend who chose to return His merchandise.

At the grave site, a spray of flowers adorned Jim's casket. Everyone walked by and took a flower from it. I walked towards it and slipped a little, catching myself on the casket. I thought, oh no, I'm gonna fall right down here six feet into this hole - and there's Jim, laughing his butt off.

Luckily I regained my footing and took the flower with me, quietly giggling to myself.

Animal Poets RROWWRR!

2009-09-22T16:17:00.000-07:00

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One night, my daughter got out of the bath smelling like mint and lavender. I said she smelled beautiful.

She asked, "Just like mint soup?"

"Yeah, like mint soup." I added she sounded like a poet.

"What's a poet?"

"It's when a writer uses words to make them sound pretty."

"I thought a poet was an animal," she said.

"Yeah, that too."

My Need for Donna Reed

2009-09-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

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Some days I strive to be just like Donna Reed in my quest for perfect motherhood. Other days I feel more like Sylvia Plath, who at least made her kids peanut butter sandwiches before she gassed herself to death.

When I found out my first child was a girl, I thought, oh how sweet, I'll have hours of enjoyment brushing her hair every night. Nope. She runs away screaming if I even come near her with a comb, brush, or even a plastic fork to get the knots out.

When my second daughter came along, I thought, oh how sweet, they'll have hours of enjoyment dressing up in fairy costumes and having tea parties. Nope. They'd rather wrap themselves up in towels, put their hair up in ponytails and play Sumo wrestlers.

Since Donna Reed kept a pristine House of Order, I first vow to keep on top of laundry. But my girls go through more wardrobe changes in a day than Cher, Madonna and Mariah Carey combined. Costumes are strewn all over the master bedroom. Wigs adorn lamp shades. The buffet table back stage serves only M&Ms and grape Popsicles.

You know the scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas where Raoul Duke wakes up in the hotel room wearing fisherman boots and a dinosaur tail? He wades in a foot of water and sighs, "Oh Debbie," to Debbie Reynold's shrine at the altar. That's what my living room looks like.

Most days I maintain a nurturing voice like Donna Reed, but I still lose my cool. I knew I had to stop cussing in front of my kids when my then 4-year-old asked me how to spell DAMMIT on the fridge with magnetic letters. Another time my older daughter said, "I'm so sick of this crap!" And I had a REALLY hard time explaining that crap isn't technically a bad word but used in that manner it is. Which really frustrates the crap out of me.

Regarding my appearance, I maintain a somewhat demure Donna Reed-like manner in my choice of fashion. But with some young women that my girls encounter, I can't cover their eyes quick enough.

One evening, I took my daughters to a restaurant called Texas Loosey's. I had "Kids Eat Free" coupons so silly me for thinking it might be family-friendly. Our waitress comes to the table. She's dressed in a bikini, leather chaps with the derriere hanging out, belly ring, and a cowboy hat (cover your head dear, Lord knows we don't want you to catch cold). My youngest took one look and said, "WHAAAAAT?"

When the day is over and we settle down, we do have those moments that probably would make great sappy television. We get together and I'll read a book like Nancy Tillman's On the Night You Were Born, or anything by Karma Wilson or Eric Carle.

We also have in-depth conversations on what it's like to be different ages. My oldest daughter asks me what age I'd like to be. Not to let on that I want to be anything different than I already am, I say, "I want to be 41." She, at age 9, replies, "I want to be 14." And my youngest, whom I dub "The Princess of Non-Sequitur," says, "I want to be a donut."

And then my need for Donna Reed subsides quicker than a commercial break.

Jackass's Guide to InterNetiquette

2009-09-19T20:48:00.000-07:00

I've been a member of various internet message boards for 15 years now. The best thing about the internet is that anybody can say anything they want to for the world to read.

The worst thing about the internet is that anybody can say anything they want to for the world to read.

Hence, I created A Jackass's Guide to InterNetiquette

1. Don't namedrop. Why? Unless you have something unique and interesting to say about a celebrity, No.One.Cares.

Nobody really cares if you saw Mario Lopez at the gym, or Dean Cain at Venice Beach, or Elliot Gould at the post office (all of which happened to me by the way. See? See how annoying that is?) I'm all for hearing great stories about great people, though, so if you're going to say something, make it worth reading.

Here's an example from one of my internet friends Sam from Mayberry:

I actually got to meet Paul Stanley with my wife and kid at Wentworth Galleries a couple of years ago.

We bought a print of "Green Planet" and Paul was extra cool to my little girl, Kenzie.

She told him that she was just starting to play bass and he asked how old she was and she told him 11. He then said he had a son that was around the same age and that the two of them should get together and jam.

Without missing a beat Kenzie looks him dead in the eye and says, "Hey, sounds good. I'm always lookin' for people." To which he laughed heartily.

2. Think up comebacks quickly. You look like a loser if you wait more than 24 hours to say whatEVER to someone who typed an emoticon with rolling eyes.

3. Never say anything you wouldn't mind getting beat up for in public.

4. Don't make fun of what anybody does for a living, or what someone doesn't do for a living. Stay-at-home moms work harder than you ever will. So don't try to intimidate us with your nasty remarks from your big scary keyboard.

5. Never tell anyone they're wasting time on the internet and they should spend more time with real people. Because look around you. You aren't exactly the social butterfly yourself.

Follow these 5 simple rules and you'll be a well-rounded person in virtual AND real time.

Instead of These Comedians

2009-09-19T08:08:00.000-07:00

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"It's not just that you're never coming back to me, it's the bitter way that
I was told." -- Elvis
Costello, "The Comedians"

Elvis Costello sure got around in 1989. He had a great album called Spike, a hit song "Veronica," and wrote "My Brave Face"for Paul McCartney. But the one song I most remember Costello for, in spite of an illustrious songwriting career, is "The Comedians" for Roy Orbison's album, Mystery Girl.

All these songs were hits at the same time I dated my ex-boyfriend, fiancee, whatever you want to call him. Always a ring but never a date despite everyone asking us when the BIG DAY was.

He took me to a wedding in which he was a member of the party. I sat at my table fuming while watching him dance song after song with a beautiful brunette bridesmaid who sang at the wedding. He asked me, "Isn't she a wonderful singer?" This is where the phrase, "Dance with the girl you came with" found its literal meaning.

I watched them dance, and when I they stopped I thought, maybe, just maybe, he'd ask me to dance. Yet, DJ played another song and they kept dancing.

Before I sat down to watch these comedians, his brother helped me with my chair at our table. When he struggled with pushing me in, he said, "My brother's right, you have gained weight!"

Wow, how many blows can a gal take? The kicker was that I wasn't even fat, at least from my 41-year-old self today looking back 20 years . I just didn't fit into that skinny '80s aerobic biker short and leg warmer ideal.

It was after Marilyn Monroe but before J.Lo when curves were embraced; that horrible Jane Fonda-type era. Not only was Fonda Hanoi Hanna, she helped throw young girls into body obsession.

There were so many songs that year that helped me overcome this breakup. One was "I'll Feel a Whole Lot Better" by Tom Petty on Full Moon Fever. It's practically a copycat of Roger McGuinn's performance of the same song. No matter. All that really mattered were the lyrics:

Now I got to say
That it's not like before
And I'm not gonna play
Your game any more
After what you did
I can't stay on
And I'll probably feel a whole lot better
When you're gone

Like an Ice Cream Sundae

2009-09-17T20:53:00.000-07:00

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Holly came up with an astute analogy on writing the other day. She said it's like an ice cream sundae: writing is ice cream, people reading it is chocolate syrup, and getting paid is the cherry on top.

Think about it. You can enjoy the ice cream by itself by just writing. It's even better with the toppings. But you don't need the cherry to delight in the entire experience. I think, how does she do that? How is she on this earth for only ten years and come up with that? And why didn't I think of it first?

Maybe when I need to discipline her I take away her books. And for that I have to thank Paula Danziger and her Amber Brown series which got Holly to not only start reading but to enjoy it. She related to the second grade character whose best friend moved away which happened to Holly in second grade also. Amber grew up but didn't get past 4th grade because sadly Danziger passed away from a heart attack in 2004.

I mentioned to Holly that some day she could continue the Amber Brown series but she said no. Her current project is a comic book series called Die Barney, as in the purple dinosaur. I'm not sure whether to be proud or disturbed. I'm banking on pride.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Places

2009-09-16T07:13:00.000-07:00

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I helped out in my daughter's 4th grade writing class the other day. Their assignment was to write about their favorite place after listening to the teacher read Grandfather's Journey. My favorite place is of course my hometown of Kenosha, WI but I made a list of my favorite places I visited for a brief while.

These places are where I felt cool energies, a sense of belonging, and supernatural communication:

Beale Street, Memphis,TN: I was there on a summer night in 1985 with my cousins. I took a pic wearing a blank tank top dress, a bad perm and wayfarers by the statue of Elvis. We ate ice cream by BB King's blues bar. I was seventeen so I wasn't old enough to go in. We sat on a bench by a cobblestone road watching a raspy-voiced blues woman and a lanky dude with mirrored sunglasses who stepped in and played acoustic guitar. I felt like Elvis as a young kid watching them.

Forest Lawn Memorial, Los Angeles, CA: I loved this place in my twenties when I needed poetic inspiration. An inscription there reads not to consider this place a cemetary but a living memorial to those who passed. It's a place for artists to write, paint or just think. There is a replica here of the old Boston church where Paul Revere warned of the coming British. I also sat by Stan Laurel's grave many times. You think such a giant of old time comedy would have something elaborate but it's just a gravestone with a bench next to it. Stan and I had lots of conversations there.

Laguna Beach, CA: I drove the PCH here on August 27, 1998. An amazing sunset showed itself of orange, red and purple clouds. I remember the cliffs and waves while listening to "Frozen" by Madonna. Another day I got a toe ring and thought I saw Andy Warhol walking on the beach. I also spent the afternoon of New Years Eve 1999 with my best high school friend Tammy. We ate crab cakes at a seaside restaurant where she took a pic of the last sunset of the millenium. It was cold but she, also a Wisconsin native, refused to wear a jacket. She was determined to spend New Years Eve in a tank top and sandals.

Mission San Juan Capistrano, CA: The swallows return there each year on my birthday March 19 and the city celebrates. Cowboys stand in the street and shoot toy guns in the air. I'm not sure why but I'm sure it's historic. I visited there on my 31st birthday when I was 3 months pregnant. A friend and I walked through the little chapel with votive candles burning. There is something about Catholic churches with their stained glass and burning candles that create such a supernatural atmosphere. You can sense the priests that founded the mission in that chapel and understand their purpose.

Please leave comments on what your favorite places are and why. Supernatural or sentimental, places that are not of this world, anything. I'd love to read them.

Welcome Great Pumpkin!

2009-09-13T14:02:00.000-07:00

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Halloween is like Christmas to me. I await the Great Pumpkin on Halloween's Eve, waiting for him to drop down my chimney with his presents wrapped in gold Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and silver York Peppermint Patties.

I assign Halloween names to the members of my family. I become Scary Bones. My husband Tim is Grim Bones. Holly turns into Hollow Bones. And April finally transforms into October Bones.

Here are a few of my favorite Halloween things:

Reading Halloween books to my girls, like Here They Come and Goodnight Goon.

Making crafts with the nouveau riche Halloween colors: bright purple, neon green, and magenta. No more just black bats, orange pumpkins, and white ghosts. Crafts are now all about witches' striped stockings, pink and black skull and crossbones, and bedazzled goblins.

Halls Fast Relief Ginger Ale cough drops. I even look forward to colds because that means I get to soothe my cough with these and get in an extra nap. Or two.

Fun-sized candy. A comedian whose name escapes me asked, "Are these candy bars really the size of fun?" To me they are. Especially when we skip the regular size and buy the whole bag, knowing, like Lay's potato chips, we can't stop at just one.

Day after Halloween marked-down candy. It's like sugary irony to buy candy after our houses are filled to the crown moulding with lollipops, Snicker bars and that awful candy corn that I hate but my girls love. In fact, we walk down the aisles thinking if we see another Spongebob candy crabby patty, we're gonna puk....hey wait! Is that fun-size Nestle crunch bars 75% off? SCORE!

Going Back to Kindergarten

2009-09-11T11:34:00.000-07:00

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Kindergarten is not so much about academia. Students learn at different levels of their letters, sight words, numbers and math. Kindergarten is more learning how to get along with others. It's like social etiquette for kids before they lose themselves in online worlds and develop no techniques for when things don't always go our way.

This proves that All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten by Robert Fulghum is still true today:

Share everything.

Play fair.

Don't hit people.

Put things back where you found them.

Clean up your own mess.

Don't take things that aren't yours.

Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.

Wash your hands before you eat.

Flush.

Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.

Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.

Take a nap every afternoon.

When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together.

Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.

Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die. So do we.

And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned - the biggest word of all - LOOK.

I volunteered for 2 weeks so far in my child's class. After homeschooling her prior to kindergarten, she learns now that she doesn't always come first. She's reminded to make good choices while playing with others and uses "I" messages. Instead of saying, "You cut in front of me," she says, "I feel sad that you cut in front of me." The other child then says, "I'm sorry."

Wouldn't it be awesome if adults did that too? Especially during rush hour?

I used to have a zillion dreams about going back to elementary school. And now I know why. Sitting in on the class and helping children learn teaches me also. In fact I think I'm learning more than teaching.

One such thing I found is to never give up on a kid who might be a troublemaker. They have gifts that haven't revealed themselves yet. One child I taught told me everything I needed to know about Leonardo da Vinci though his behavior skills need improvement. Another girl doesn't get along with the other kids but she's a gifted artist.

Social skills are learned. We aren't born with them. And change doesn't happen over night. Like any skill, it's a process that improves slowly with a little (or should I say a lot) of divine help.

A Not-So Summer's End

2009-09-07T11:08:00.001-07:00

We celebrated the not-so-official end of summer at Oceanside. The girls wonder why we can't go to the beach year-round. We can, of course, we can't just play in the ocean. The water gets cold and icy in the winter months and we freeze on our long walks back to the car. But they say that's okay, they still want to swim no matter how cold it gets.

And at that moment I realized we raised California girls. Not born in Wisconsin like my husband and I. This time of year Wisconsinites don their green and gold Packer parkas in time for football season. They buy fresh new ice scrapers for their car windows. They make sure the chains and anti-freeze are ready for the drive to work. There's none of this, "Boo-hoo, we can't go swimming in the ocean in January. Wah!"

But the best part of living in California, amidst the deep depths of the recession and high gas prices, is the view. We might pay sky-rocketing prices in mortgage but look! We have the ocean!

Volunteers of America

2009-09-03T17:48:00.000-07:00

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No matter how hard you work, if you don't get paid for it, it's not considered a job. Part time jobs are few and far between these days so instead I volunteer at my kids' school and my church. I do it because I love it not for monetary gain.

An unnamed loser on an internet message board once told me, "At least I have a job. Do you ever leave the house?" Hell hath no fury like a stay-at-home mom scorned. Instead of engaging in a flame war, I ignored him at the time. But then he insulted another member's daughter and let's just say that karma's bite in the butt is a little painful to say the least.

Truth is, I never put hardly any energy into any job that I was paid for. At least I didn't get a lot of enjoyment over it. But I get enjoyment out of the jobs for which I volunteer.

It was Ronald Reagan who spoke of the spirit of volunteering in Temecula. It must be contagious because I didn't get into the spirit until I moved here.

I help kindergarten kids learn their letters and numbers. I help elementary kids write compositions. I teach Sunday school to elementary kids and plan crafts to teach them about art through God. There's hardly any art classes in school anymore, so if there's the next Picasso it's my duty to find that talent and bring it out.

If I were paid for any of these things, I doubt I'd derive as much happiness as I do now. As a volunteer, none of this work is a chore. I do it out of the kindness of my heart. And to keep an eye on my kids. Over protective? Maybe. But never unhappy.

Love Letters on a Dot Matrix Printer

2009-09-03T16:12:00.000-07:00

It's 1990 and my hair piles high, full of Proforma hair spray. I wear those tapered sweat pants that make everybody's butt look so big even Orca gets worried.

I work at a circulation desk in the library at University of Wisconsin Parkside typing a love letter to my future husband. Probably not the best way to use library resources but nonetheless:

CIRCULATION SUBSYSTEM COMMAND: HI TIMOTHY, I THOUGHT I'D TYPE YOU A LETTER. I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH. I WOULDN'T TRADE YOU FOR THE WORLD. (You see already I don't fare well in my poetry writing class) I'M BESIDE MYSELF IN HAPPINESS (that should be with not in but who checks grammar when you're in love?)

YOU'RE A VERY TALENTED PERSON AND I HOPE THAT TALENT CAN SPILL OVER INTO MY LIFE (because it's all about me, you know). YOU KNOW THAT SAYING THAT OPPOSITES ATTRACT (cliche number 3)? I DON'T BELIEVE IN IT AT ALL. I DON'T THINK WE'RE OPPOSITE AT ALL (make it nice, say it twice.)

WE HAVE SO MUCH IN COMMON THAT I COULD JUST SPIT (how romantic!). WELL, NOT REALLY SPIT BUT IT'S A NICE FEELING ANYWAY TO BE LOVED. NOW ALL OF A SUDDEN IT SEEMS EVERYTHING FALLS IN PLACE (funny, that's exactly what I said to my previous boyfriend.)

BY THE TIME I GRADUATE, I'M SURE WE'LL ACCOMPLISH WHAT WE'VE SET OUT TO DO (it took a while after graduation day but yeah, we did it). AND WE'LL HAVE EVEN MORE TO ACCOMPLISH. IT'LL BE LIKE A NEW RENAISSANCE (that was the first big word I learned in college.) AND MAYBE WE'LL BE TRENDSETTERS, WHO KNOWS?

Have you died from insulin shock yet? No wonder my husband's diabetic.

Three Different Strokes

2009-09-02T18:11:00.000-07:00

My dear Dad is the King of Malaprops. He substitutes words for others that leave us scratching our heads so much we need dandruff shampoo.

For instance, I had a friend in high school who was extremely skinny. My dad asked, "Is she an aphrodisiac?" It took me a minute to realize he meant "anorexic." I couldn't really imagine my friend as an oyster or dark chocolate. Or eating them for that matter.

One night in the early 80s, we watched the Tonight Show. Donna Summer sang, "Hard for the Money." My dad looked up from the paper and said, "Isn't she on the show, Three Different Strokes?"

He confused Donna Summer with Suzanne Somers on Three's Company and Donna Summer's African-American heritage with Gary Coleman and Todd Bridges on Different Strokes. I think he set a record for reaching that night. I had to make a flow chart to follow that pattern of logic.

However, I'm not one to judge. Malapropism is definitely genetic. I suffer from the disease too. Shows like Cannon and Barnaby Jones always played on our TV in the seventies. Remember the Miranda rights they read on those shows? When I was little I thought the line, "Anything you say can and will be used against you," meant "Anything you say CANNON will be used against you."

So I envisioned criminals blown away by cannon balls if they said anything, anything at all. I imagined anyone charged with a crime lined up in a big courtyard in front of a cannon if they dared to speak.

Also, in the seventies there was a great song by Johnny Nash called, "I Can See Clearly Now." He sang, "I can see all the obstacles in my way." I thought he said "Popsicles" instead of obstacles. And I wondered where he could possibly get caught up in Popsicles and how fast could I get there?

Unfortunately, malapropism passes on to the youngest of generations. Fortunately, my daughter catches herself. One of her assignments for school was to create a diorama. She asked, "What if a diorama was called a diarrhea? I don't think they'd want me to bring it to school."

But it wouldn't be as funny as a diorama with a cannon and a line full of criminals afraid to talk.

I Forgot Our Kids Believe I Love You

2009-08-29T14:14:00.001-07:00

I picked up a box of magnetic poetry country love songs at Barnes & Noble. They have some good ones like, "She won't get under me until I get over you," and "If love were oil I'd be a quart low."

So I tried my own:

Damn your buns and black heart!

You stomped and tore out my heart.

I want your biscuits in the oven.

I'll marry you if you go away.

I love silver, just ask my mama.

Hell, my heart is plastic.

I miss the lips you kiss.

I forgot our kids believe I love you.

I miss you but now you won't leave me.

I get my redneck honeymoon every day.

You're the only pretty baby you'll know.

If there was a rodeo clown cemetery, would it be funny?

The Devil Part 2

2009-08-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

Sure it was sweet at first with its comfy seats and "rack and pinion steering" whatever that is. It sneered at me while spitting out exhaust. I swore I saw it stop and start by itself whenever I tried to get in.

One stone cold night after work, I sat at an intersection off the I - which was I-94 in Wisconsin but since it was the only interstate in WI we just called it the I. I innocently waited for the light to turn green just so I could get home and warm my frozen toes but it just sat there. It stalled and the steering wheel didn't work. Cars honked, people drove around. I cried and my tears froze right on my cheeks.

If I listened real hard I could hear Devil Car laughing, "Oh you're such a dumb twenty-year-old blond! It took you four years to get up enough courage to get your license. I'm your first car. I'm gonna have fun with YOU."

Devil Car turned over and over and just as I envisioned myself walking home in below zero weather, he finally started up. I drove with my head down in case anyone from high school recognized me on the I.

Another night, while driving home from my fiance's mom's house, I listened to Robin Gibb's version of "Oh Darlin'" on the tape deck. The car must have been a Beatles fan and hated Gibb's version because I hit a patch of ice, did a 360 and almost went down an embankment. Thankfully I stopped spinning before going over.

I felt like Job being tested by God. Well, maybe not that severe but still. Finally I said, "That's IT!" My relationship with this car mirrored the relationship with my fiance. Whenever he made a crack about my big butt, Devil Car chuckled. Whenever he told me to do something with my flat hair (because all girls had ocean wave hair back then) Devil Car guffawed.

I called off the engagement but he said keep the car and the engagement ring. No way. I traded the ring for my sister's winter coat and traded in the car for a little slightly-used 1987 Sundance. I spotted Sunny with a For Sale sign in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. It had a smiley face for a grill and it was painted in a delightful shade of candy apple red.

It was like a little puppy pawing at me behind a glass cage at a pet store. "C'mon in," it said with its driver's door open wide, "the seats are fine!"

And I did, never to see the Devil again.

Step on a Crack

2009-08-29T07:18:00.001-07:00

This is why you wear a back brace as a kid if a doctor says so. The X-ray on the left is from when my back curved 80 degrees from scoliosis over four years ago.

2 rods, 25 screws, 2 pelvic bolts and 16 total hours of back surgeries later and viola! An almost straight spine and 3 more inches of height.

My surgery was done when I was 36. The poor girl in the story below suffered from the same affliction at only 11 years old.

She was teased and called "Hunchback of Notre Dame" from the way she walked. Kids are cruel, that's true, but at least she can now stand up to them.

Presidential FAIL

2009-08-29T06:44:00.000-07:00

Last year my daughter had to choose a president for an oral report. I suggested Richard Nixon as an excuse to visit his library in Yorba Linda. I got a little too into it because I tried to get her to use my limerick as an added bonus:

Richard Nixon was the president
Of the White House he was a resident

He got a lot of hate
Because of Watergate

And for quitting he set a precedent.

Luckily she didn't use it and still earned a good grade.

The Devil Part 1

2009-08-28T17:52:00.001-07:00

I came home from work at the nursing home scumming in white clothes that night. The garage door opened to reveal the Devil. You know how they say the Devil will never look like what you expect with horns, hooves and pitchfork? He'll be smooth, slick and handsome. That was my new black 1989 Buick Skylark bought by my soon-to-be ex-fiance.

My fiance wiped it down with my mom's good towel - the first one he saw hanging in the bathroom for guests as he heard the garage door go up. I eked out a "Wow." Maybe he thought I'd jump up and down like on The Price is Right when Rod Roddy screamed, "A NEW CAR!" But I was tired of wiping up bodily fluids from old people and wanted to just soak in a bath.

"So, whaddya think?" he said, building up dirt and grime on a towel my mom might cry about later. Not wanting to disappoint, I sat down in its plush seats and they felt good. It was much better than my parents' car I previously drove - a 1984 Renault Alliance affectionately called "Appliance." Everyone in Kenosha owned one since we manufactured them there.

In contrast, my new Buick was sleek, shiny and...well, new. New is good, right? I thought. He was a little hard to steer and harder to park, but my fiance surprised me with it so I decided to like it. I drove it to work and showed it off to my co-workers. "Look what my fiance bought for me," I'd say. But I smelled trouble like a dog sniffing the DNA of a criminal on the lam.

One day, I pulled out during a funeral procession because I was late for work and wasn't sure what I was supposed to do. A man got out of the car and told me, "You don't pull out during a funeral procession!" I said red-faced, "I just got my license, sorry." Devil Car gritted its teeth at me through the grill.

These Are a Few of My Favorite Books

2009-08-28T17:45:00.001-07:00

Cover of On the Night You Were Born

I’m jealous of my 10-year-old daughter. I take her to the library and book store and she knows exactly what she wants to read. She goes straight to the paperback section and picks out the Dear Dumb Diary series, goes home and reads a book in one afternoon.

I remember when I did the same thing. I’d load up on books by Beverly Cleary, a pile so high I couldn’t see where I walked, and camp out in my room and read after a day of swimming in the summer, pleasantly tired of watching reruns of Happy Days.

This makes me long for days of picture books and junior novels. I read to my almost 6-year-old joyfully because turning the pages of a picture book is like walking through an art gallery.

One such book I love is Nancy Tillman’s On the Night You Were Born. It starts out at night time with a baby looking at a smiling moon. My daughter says, “That’s Baby April,” and we imitate the drawn animals saying her name: squeaks for ladybugs, ribbits for frogs, and growls for polar bears.

The days of reading to my girls will not last forever, so I need rediscover my joy. I think I found it. While perusing the children’s library section, I found some great historical accounts of America for each decade. What intrigues me the most was the Roaring Twenties - the period of prosperity after World War 1 and before the Great Depression. Women bared their ankles and knees in flapper dresses and bobbed their hair, and the author that captured it all was F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I searched for his most notable novel, The Great Gatsby, because I studied it as a junior in high school. I say study and not read because back then I could care less. Great literature is wasted on youth.

That’s why I applaud the Dear America series because there’s nothing like reading fictional diaries of young people in historical eras. They make you want to read more of the classics. I read the Dear America series of World War 2 which made me read The Diary of Anne Frank which launched my interest in reading more about World War 2.

Back in high school, I stared at the back of my classmates' heads during history class. I still long for the day where I can read a book in a day. It will happen soon enough.

I'm on the Road to Shambala

2009-08-28T17:09:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

I am almost 41 and a half. Half birthdays are not just for kids anymore.

I celebrated my 41st birthday on 3/19/09. I tried to find a number 41 reference to tie into this entry but came up empty-handed until my husband said, "Ben-Hur was number 41!"

And I thought, there ya go. I'm number 41. My shout-out to Charlton Heston. My day started out meeting my daughter's then third-grade teacher. She had a glowing report on Holly's progress.

Then we came home and I announced, "Let's go to the beach!" We packed up a lunch and towels and I burned a CD for the drive out there. I call it "On the Road to Shambala." I employed the use of my genius playlist on iTunes to pick songs similar to Three Dog Night's "Shambala."

I'm not sure who or what Shambala is and I don't really care. It was a song I heard when I was 5 years old and at that age all you care to do is dance and sing along. "Shambala" was used last year in an episode of Lost that symbolized Hurley achieving a goal through fixing a Volkswagen bus. So as far as I'm concerned, Shambala is about getting things done.

Coming home from the beach is when the party started. I read Carrie Fisher's Wishful Drinking in peaceful solitude while my daughters decorated the kitchen with toilet paper as streamers. They wrote "Happy Birthday" all over them. They set out ice cubes made of Coke Zero (my lifeblood) and Jello pudding cups. Then they cut squares of sandwich bread with icing and lemon drops. THAT was a culinary delight.

Finally, they drew pictures of me enjoying my treats and wrote, "41 - not old yet!" Definitely. I love being number 41. And a half.

Boo-Boo and Uno

2009-08-28T12:49:00.000-07:00

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

From Compassionate Friends.org:

"It is said that when your parents die, you lose your past; when your spouse
dies, you lose your present; and when your child dies, you lose your future.
However, when your sibling dies, you lose your past, your present, and your
future. After all, the relationship between siblings is potentially the longest
of their lives."

The last conversation I had with my brother was, oddly enough, about a blog I kept called Astrophysicist Barbie's Microscope (Yes, I know the name was too long hence the change). I wanted him and my family to check out what I've been posting for two years. He died of a brain aneurysm on Wednesday, February 13, 2008 at the age of 46.

He was brain dead before he got to the hospital, but they kept a breathing tube on him until his organs were harvested. He may not have donated a heart on Valentine's Day, but he was able to give away his corneas, kidneys, liver and pancreas. He still gave the gift of life on a day we celebrate love.

One thing I remember as a child is him always bringing home a dog, be it a labrador or cocker spaniel. On that Wednesday, I suddenly had an urge to get a dog. Maybe it was that lovely beagle Uno who won Best in Show that year, and his charismatic appearance on Studio B with Shepard Smith.

Later that week we got a male Maltese puppy which Holly named Fluffy.

My nickname for my big brother was Boo-Boo, because I couldn't pronounce "Bruce" as a toddler. My nick name was Tater, after the baby in the comic strip Barney Google and Snuffy Smith.

And that's what he always called me, until the last time I spoke with him. Here's to Boo-Boo. May you rest in peace.

True Beauty

2009-08-26T22:15:00.001-07:00

"If real beauty comes from within, why don't fashion models just show us their X-rays?" ~Holly

Artie the Smartie

2009-08-26T20:05:00.000-07:00

"That's all he knows? Is he stupid?"

~My daughter's remark while listening to Art Garfunkel's "All I Know."

Solitude is the Best Companion (Maybe)

2009-08-21T06:31:00.000-07:00

10 years in the making. 10 years of raising children, schooling, feeding and reading to them. For the first time in a decade starting Monday, I will have 3 hours - 3 WHOLE HOURS - to myself each day 4 times a week. It's like what Henry David Thoreau said of Walden Pond:

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

Except I substitute "mall" for "woods."

Things to do while the kids are in school:

*Take water aerobics classes and remember to yell "Whoo! Yeah baby!" during the tough parts.

*Go to dog park (and remember to bring the dog).

*Scrub those baseboards (HA! Just kidding!)

*Resist the urge to post embarassing pictures of my almost 10-year-old. It must be rough to be a daughter of a momblogger. My other kid? No problem.

*Volunteer at my kids' school and address their teachers, "Hey girlfriends!" Even the male ones.

*Knit a sweater for my dog that says "Bad to the Bone."

*Try out new recipes like this one. Yeah, they'll love me for that!

*Call into radio shows and try out my new catch phrase: THAT is so JUNGLE!

*Learn a new yoga pose like this one.

And finally the number one thing I'll do while the kids are in school:

Run for the President of the United States with the slogan: "I'm a blogger. I know everything."

Momness is Terminal

2009-08-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

"Once you're infected with the Momness disease, there is no cure."

That's what my daughter said as we folded towels. Momness, a disease sweeping the globe since Eve laid eyes on Adam.

Back then, moms had spic-n-span homes because we knew all the kids in the neighborhood. We rode bikes and skateboards. We walked to the neighborhood candy store with a friend down a busy road and walked back and ate our candy outside while our moms mopped the floors.

Now, moms do everything with their kids. We take them to the pool, the park and the megastore because there are no neighborhood candy stores anymore. We're lucky if we even know our neighbors. If they have kids the same age playing outside, which is rare, we feel like we're intruding on their quality family time since the parents are right out there with them.

So our houses aren't as clean as our moms' abodes because our kids don't get outside. We can't zone in and focus on what needs to be done that day. The floor goes without mopping and the furniture goes without dusting.

Public schools are not up to par, so we choose charter schools or homeschooling so we take responsiblity for our kids' education in addition to supervising them at all times.

TV ads tell us to be petrified of intruders bursting into our homes in the middle of the day if we don't have a security system. So our doors are never open. Our kids stay inside and play video games while we finish our tasks, and even then we can't allow them too much of that lest they roll down Obese Lane.

As weird as this may seem, I wouldn't have it either way. As Billy Joel sang, "The good ol' days weren't all that good and tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems." I know where my kids are, what they're studying and how precious are those rare moments! Stuff like reading a book with them in the middle of the day or watching an age-appropriate news program and discussing what we've seen.

Momness, there really is no cure.

Dig Up Your Treasure Chest

2009-08-16T08:03:00.000-07:00

I heard the Parable of Talents as a child, but it didn't sink in until I was a teenager. I made a vow to use 5 talents: singing, dancing, art, writing and acting. I pursued all of those while in college because I had the youthful energy for them. I sang in my school choir, co-captained the pom pon squad, drew portraits, was editor of the school newspaper, and acted in school plays.

But when I reached adulthood, I lost my energy because I refused to search for outlets to use the talents God gave me. It was like I buried them like the jealous servant who was given only one talent because he was ticked off at the two servants who were given more. The only talent I kept at for the past 20+ years is writing, and even that I buried.

It didn't dawn on me until recently that I'm putting all talents to use in church by helping out with children's ministries. I volunteered for the ministries because I wanted my kids to participate. When they asked for help, I said "Yes!" right away not knowing if I still had the talents or the energy to employ them. I recalled from acting classes that talent is not nearly as important as energy. You have energy first and then earn the talent.

So, like a servant who learned her lesson, I'm digging up this one talent so that I may go out and earn the rest back. If anyone has lost their energy for doing what they love, then I suggest grabbing a shovel and dig up what you've buried in the back yard.

My Turn in the Peanut Gallery

2009-08-11T12:14:00.000-07:00

I have jury duty the same day my kids start school on August 24. I tried to get out of it and was de-NIED. Apparently, "I have no one to take my kids to school, no one to pick them up, no one to watch them after school, and no one to homeschool them on Fridays," is not a good enough reason for the courts.

Don't get me wrong, I'd love to serve on a trial but perhaps when my kids are older, out of the house, and don't need to learn their alphabet or multiplication tables.

So, a good online friend named Jen gave me some advice: "You could try telling them you're a Republican. That would instantly categorize you as an un-American racist...at least if the DA is a fan of Nancy Pelosi."

I like that. It's as un-American as my apple pie and I can't find my sickle to slice it.

Here's another response from another online friend named John: "If you're on the jury for a murder trial, there are sets of questions for prospective jurors. One is 'Do you favor the death penalty?' Instead of checking yes or no, I write in 'Regular' or 'Extra crispy' and check the latter." He also adds, "It's amazing that 'civic duty' is never calendar-friendly."

So I think I'll try John's advice, which oddly puts me in the mood for KFC.

UPDATE: I finally got through to a live person and postponed my service until a school vacation. Fantastic. Funny thing is, though, when I had a desk job and no kids I simply claimed "financial hardship" and got out, no questions asked. Now that I have kids and no job, I report. I have a feeling karma will catch up with the court system. They will babysit my kids while I'm in court. They will send me home in no time flat.

This is Why I'm So Dang Happy

2009-08-08T20:57:00.000-07:00

Behold, before your eyes I present to you the meaning of happiness:

My husband gets an e-mail from someone at work who scored front row center seats to a Jonas Brothers concert. His co-worker said anyone who wants them, they can have them for free. He asks my 9-year-old daughter if she wants to go.

Her response?

Wait for it.

Wait for it some more.

Are you ready?

Her response:

NO!

Yes, my friends, the definition of happiness is watching your daughter turn down an opportunity her friends would die for. Why? BECAUSE SHE HAS NO FRIGGIN' IDEA WHO THE JONAS BROTHERS ARE!

Why? Because the music she listens to is good, like the Beatles, Beach Boys, Bon Jovi and...okay...a little "Barbie Girl" thrown in there for good measure.

Hey, happiness doesn't mean perfection.

A Mona Lisa Smirk with a Tattoo

2009-08-08T06:46:00.000-07:00

Art history rocks. I wish I knew that in college. The semester I took Ancient Art to Pre-Renaissance, it was epic FAIL. The following semester I earned an A in Renaissance to Modern Art. Why? I stayed awake by color-coding index cards and strapping an IV of Diet Coke to my arm during the slide show presentations. College is definitely wasted on the young because I rediscovered my love of art history through coloring books.

My daughters, aged 5 and 9, are already computer savvy. I have to drag them away kicking and screaming from their monitors to discover a world out there, something I'm learning as well. One frustrated afternoon I got out the markers, pencils and Spongebob Squarepants coloring books using techniques I learned in art class. They sat there a little while humoring me but then asked to go back on Webkinz.com. I lingered, cross-hatching Spongebob a nice shade of ochre.

Then I took a trip to Barnes and Noble and found a plethora of coloring books for grown-ups. Or at least semi grown-ups. I found books with geometric patterns, Amish quilts, Victorian houses and my favorite, masterpieces. The masterpiece book gives a page of history of each painting, and a page to color the masterpiece your way. I gave the Mona Lisa purple hair, goth make-up and a tattoo. I learned how to pronounced French names the right way. I wondered why there are so many famous paintings with naked women but none of naked men.

So I propose a new teaching method to budding art students who'd rather text in the dark than watch slide shows: give them a coloring book. Let them pencil, mark or crayon their take on the masters. And draw a few naked guys once in a while to even out the score.

House Pride Cometh Before the Fall

2009-08-07T17:50:00.000-07:00

Back in the Victorian ages, parents wanted their daughters to play with dolls and dollhouses in order to learn house pride. I had Barbies and a Barbie Townhouse with an elevator equipped with a pulley which I thought was the coolest invention ever. Instead of learning house pride, I imagined Ken as Shaun Cassidy and me as Barbie and we drove around in our plastic convertible listening to Larry Lujack on WLS AM Radio play "Da Doo Ron Ron."

Mopping the floors and dusting furniture was not in my daily schedule at the Barbie Townhouse. My only agenda was surfing by day and dancing in discotheques by night in our matching polyester pant suits I found in JCPenney catalog.

So late (or should I say later) in life I learned house pride.

I scrubbed the kitchen floor today and it felt like I did 100 pushups. That alone inspired me to consider housecleaning a workout. Last week I dusted furniture after staring at it for months, reveling in the smell of orange oil. I dusted all the places I could reach using a step ladder. But as I climbed the stairs I noticed dust on top of our ceiling fan. I was entranced at the thickness of the dust layer as I recalled one of my mom's questions as she cleaned the house when I was a budding pre-teen planning my pool party with Ken/Shaun Cassidy:

"Did someone die under your bed?" she asked.

Looking up from my Tiger Beat magazine with the pic of an open-shirted and floppy-haired Shaun, I said, "No, why?"

"When you die, don't you turn to dust?"

I looked under my bed and sure enough, dust bunnies multiplied faster than the future Octomom's spawn.

Had Mom not pointed it out the dust to me, I would have never known. Now as a mom myself, I look at my ceiling fan and decide if there is dust where I don't see it, it does not exist. Sort of like a tree making a sound while falling in the woods. It does but if no one's around, does anyone care if it makes a sound as long as it doesn't kill anything?

So the dust on the ceiling fan will stay right where it is. Until Mom visits and asks if someone died on my ceiling fan.