Grill Zombie and other adventures in the suburbs

Marge is here


Have I mentioned how much I dislike cooking? I would rather scrub a toilet than cook. I’m not sure why I have such a strong emotion about cooking and blame my lazy nature. But really, cooking doesn’t interest me all that much. Food interests me. There are a few things I can make well but we can eat them every day. What I like to cook is old fashioned heavy sauces with lots of cream and butter. But like I said yesterday--

--Moo.

The Exploding Cheese Incident this week brought to light just how much I hate to cook. I was completely distracted by the pork in the oven which wasn’t cooking but was drying out and turning into something more suited for footwear. It was my self-inflicted ire which distracted me and made me forget the rule about hot glass and cold metal. And I was right about those pork chops: dry and tough. But everyone ate them out of fear.

And don’t tell me: “Oh honey, bless your heart you just need to learn how to cook and then you would enjoy it.” And I would say: “Oh honey, I know how to cook. I just don’t enjoy it.”

In fact, I used to lie and tell people I didn’t know how to cook. It worked on TG for almost six years until a few weeks ago we were at our second favorite French restaurant and the vichyssoise was like sipping clotted cream with a spoon. I was terribly disappointed and all the sudden the martini started talking: “This is awful; I can do so much better than this! This soup needs leeks and dill to finish it off.” My proclamation was met with raised eyebrows.

“You have a vichyssoise recipe?”
“Uh huh”
“Is it as good as your quiche?”
“Probably”
“You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?”
“Um, I guess so. Just because I can do it doesn’t mean I like to do it.”

The gig is up and I’ve been outed as someone who cooks. Not only have I been outed as someone who cooks but the responsibility is now more or less mine most nights as TG’s hours have changed.

Oh. The. Horror.

You see, if it were just me, I would be happy with grapes and microwave popcorn on the rare nights I didn’t go out or have left overs from going out.

I can readily admit I enjoy cooking winter types of food. I don’t mind putting a very large piece of meat in the crock pot with vegetables and calling it soup or stew. I like to make chili and soup. My roasted chicken is always good, too. But summer cooking calls on a more imaginative cook to avoid heating up the kitchen thus the house. “So grill, June. Grill.” Was the girl’s remark to me the other night. And I had to explain to her

Why June Doesn’t Grill

Because I am afraid. Very very afraid.

Not the meat part. I do know people who are squeebed out by raw meat and can’t touch it or cook it. But, hello? I’m a nurse? It’s the lighting of the grill. Now before all my kind readers take up a collection to buy June and TG a nice self-igniting gas grill, put your checkbooks away and log off paypal because we have one. My fear is so deep set; I’m even tripped out about turning the switch on this one. Rationally, I know it’s probably safer than any of the gas ranges in any of the crappy rent houses I lived in during and just after college.



When I was a little girl, me, my sister and mom watched Marcus Welby, MD, religiously every Sunday night. I enjoyed the medical stuff and my sister enjoyed it because of this guy. ------------------>

the original Dr. McDreamy found here

And well…duh…James Brolin was so hot on that motorcycle, a new breed of doctor, with his sideburns, bell bottoms and his blatant 60’s prime time style sexuality.

Anyhow, there was an episode in the 70’s (it was in color so it was definitely the 70‘s) and a woman was hostessing a BBQ. It must have been a particularly festive party, too. My mom wore shorts or slacks when we had people in for grilled meat. This woman had on her 100% petroleum based polyester maxi dress with long flowing sleeves and to complete her groovy ensemble she had her hair (or a wig) stacked way way way wayway way up on her head secured--no doubt--with two or three cans of Aqua Net. Mrs. Maxi Dress is prancing around the kitchen and she goes into the backyard with her big tray of steaks or what have you and tries to light the grill. And tries again. She even leans her face down to see if something is the matter and can’t see anything so she puts more lighter fluid on the charcoal, steps back and throws a lit match and

POOF!!!!!

Up in flames, burnt beyond recognition. The end. Her life is over. Bye bye.

It could happen to anyone, especially me because I always cook dinner in long flowing maxi dresses with drapy sleeves made by our friends at the DuPont Corporation and my hair saturated with highly flammable hair spray.

And because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like a mummy with gauze wrapped around my face and hands, struggling to talk; I won’t grill.

So what’s for dinner?

Probably mac and cheese if they are lucky.

C8H10N4O2

Yesterday morning we cruised across town to my favorite coffee place in our favorite neighborhood before the monthly trip to Really Big Store Where You Can Buy A Case Of Tylenol Or Diamonds. I hate going to this place and I avoid it as carefully as I avoid cooking and balancing my checkbook. Everything is just so darn oversized and big! Even the shopping carts are oversized. And of course they are because a regular cart wouldn’t hold the 2000 pack of toilet paper.

The Girl was well caffeinated and five minutes before the store opened she had lined up the cart in front of the door and was rolling it back and forth, leaning into it like a contestant for one of those shoppers’ sweepstakes; the type where you run into a store and have five minutes to fill your cart. Girl was super charged and revving up her cart. I swear I heard her make car noises.

I was a little concerned about TG yesterday, too because when we walked into the warehouse I asked if we had won the lottery the night before, because if we did, I was buying diamonds. You must know TG is very sensible about money so I was gobsmacked when she remarked: “If we won the lottery we are NOT buying diamonds here. We are chartering an airplane and going to Tiffany’s in New York for our diamonds.” I just stopped and stared at her like she had three heads.

“You can’t seriously mean that? That would be a stupid waste of money when there is a perfectly good Tiffany’s just down the street from here!”

Sister girl needs to watch the coffee intake; it’s impairing her judgment.

The Cadillac Of Mini Vans

image found here

Last January, after 19.5 years of motherhood I started driving a van. I had resisted up until this year because I didn’t like them and didn’t have kids who were apt to need rides with eighty pounds of equipment and four of their team members. In fact, I distained mini vans. I thought they were the ugliest cliché of a post modern suburban life style. The ultimate sign you had sold your life out to The Children. I’ll never forget the day we found The Fabulous House in the Suburbs because as we were leaving Stepford Knolls, I noticed every vehicle whizzing by us was a mini van. I looked at Ward and said: “For the love of God don’t let me buy a mini van.” Nope, no mini van for me. No SUV for me, either. I drove a station wagon. Until the Mitsubishi that Wally killed, it was my favorite car. It was fast, easy to maneuver and I could get three extra kids in it if the “way back” seat was flipped up. So barely I slid around the cliché. Only one other housewife in Stepford Knolls drove a station wagon and it was an awesome retro Mercedes touring wagon. Being van free gave me rebel cred.

One of the most foolish things I ever did was giving up the station wagon during the divorce. Ward insisted he have custody of the boys and so I was the Disneyland Mommy and really didn’t need a big ole car! Nope, I took the two door convertible because he needed the station wagon for “his“ sons. [insert face palm here] The two door thing lasted about six months before I traded it for my beloved gas hog SUV.

I didn’t have to drive my mom’s van. I could have traded it in or sold it. But the appeal of not having a car payment--something I’ve enjoyed for about six years--was more appealing than satisfying my vanity. Whoa back up the bus! Something more important than my over inflated ego? Fancy that. Despite the pining, dreaming, lusting, and sighing over a British racing car green over green MINI Cooper S hardtop with both winter and premium packages for about 3 years, I resisted. Hence the van is now referred to as the MINI van. (You say “MINI“loud and whisper “van“) I still sigh over them when I see them in traffic, they are just the most adorable cars, like puppies that never loose the fluffy sweet puppy look. Besides, me and TG would look cute in a MINI.

This isn’t saying we don’t look hot in the MINI van. Especially with Dad’s “Bass Master” sticker picturing a leaping fish in the back window, it just adds to the irony of it all. I keep threatening to get some of those stupid family decals, too. Two women: one shorter with curly hair, one taller with straight hair, two very tall and skinny male figures in baggy pants and caps plus a decrepit and scruffy looking dog with a blank stare and a big tongue hanging out of his mouth. To add to the confusion: my bumper would feature a Darwin fish on one side of the license and a bumper sticker about What Would Jesus Do on the other. Realistically, I’m reluctant to put anything about Jesus on my bumper because then I can’t yell at cars because that behavior would leave no doubt the depth of my hypocrisy on any given day. Without the Jesus bumper sticker people just think I’m a godless heathen with an anger management problem and they pray for my soul after I‘ve yelled at them so it‘s a win-win situation: I get to yell at cars and get bonus prayers for my soul, too.

To be honest, the MINI van is actually a very nice car with leather seats and electric everything. It’s the nicest car I’ve ever had and the price was just so right. I drive it thankfully and only curse it when I have to parallel park.

A couple of months ago we were going downtown to our favorite restaurant and I was riffing on the fact we were in a mini van, and how we were making mini van’s hip for the rest of the world. And weren’t we something else. . . And then I flashed on Get Shorty and how Chili confidently explained his odd car choice to Martin Weir as “The Cadillac of mini vans” and whaddya know the dark green vans started showing up all over Hollywood. Because Chili was just that cool. By this time we had pulled into our parking place and were getting out when I noticed the car pulling in next to us: a brand new black mini van. “See what did I say? We started a trend and all the cool lesbians will be driving mini vans!“ I was expecting a Mommy and Daddy to get out of their van but was amazed when two painfully fashionable and dapper young men emerged from the van.

Uh huh…told ya’ so. The MINI of mini vans is what I’m driving.

The Secret Life Of Mom

I found Lady GaGa here

Yesterday while I was having my hair color updated I text messaged TG a formal dinner invitation. I was so caught up in my own spontaneity that I forgot to check with Beav to see if he had made plans. That was stupid and almost led to a lot of disappointment on my part because he wanted to be at Young Life movie night (Zoolander! Yay! That's my boy!)and I wanted to be on the complete opposite side of town at a restaurant eating overpriced appetizers in a chi-chi room filled with The Incredibly Young And Hip. Because I'm not 100% selfish and TG is 100% understanding we took a rain check and Beav had a movie and poker night with his friends. (We'll discuss the movie and card game choice at another time)

On the way home from Stepford I played a especially chosen and burned CD for The Girl. I thought she was going to squeal (maybe she did?) when the opening strains of "Just Dance" came out of the speakers. Lady Gaga's song induces people, all sorts of people, including my very self-conscious older son, soldiers in Afghanistan and older women in Sephora stop whatever it is they are doing and dance. Because everyone needs a daily dance break. Ellen DeGeneres started this on her show and if you watch the audience, they anticipate it because the joy they feel and the unmitigated joy she exudes is infectious. I think it's vital for mental health. It doesn't matter if you can't keep the rhythm or you look like Paula Abdul. Just stop what you are doing and dance.

We car danced to Lady GaGa all the way home and when we made it home after our Lady GaGa break we rearranged the speakers for better surround sound and turned the music up very very very loud and danced to everything from Lady GaGa and Moby to Neko Case and Marc Anthony. It was about a million times more fun and fifty times more spontaneous than dinner out.

I missed Beav's phone call--made per my stern instruction--telling me what time to pick him up. Bad mom. And I heard about it when he called back, annoyed asking where I was. But hey, he didn't leave a message and I'm not telepathic. He calmed down in the twenty minutes it took to get to the Stepford Young Life house and then he asked the 365 thousand dollar question I was praying he would ask:

"So what did you and TG do tonight?"

"Nothing. Just hung out, watched a little television."

Deadpan. I should be in the cold. CIA. International woman of mystery. Boy doesn't know what he's missin' when's he not at home.

Three More Reasons I Stand Every Chance Of Not Being Mother Of The Year

Three Reasons Why June Will Not Be Mother Of The Year

2. Exactly two minutes after picking up one of Beav's friends whom I had never met I sarcastically referred to something as "fucking awsome". Luckily the kid laughed and didn't ask to be let out of the car so he could go home and pray for me.

1. My schtick is getting old and tired. I asked Beav on Friday if he wanted to go anywhere or did he just want to pick up his birthday "hookers and blow". His immediate response was: "Can we wait til next year?" After I laughed he gives me a cagey look and says: "I knew you were going to say something like that so I was thinking of something funny to say." Looks like June has jumped the shark with this kid.

3. Friday night, I text messaged Wally the following: "big rave on 7th and Santa Fe by the galleries, we were just there its free chek it out." I was inviting my 20 year old son to dance in the street with half naked women (and men) waving glow sticks and being tempted to take XTC cut with god knows what and drink so much water he becomes water intoxicated and ends up face down in an ED or worse face down on the street... (to clarify, Wally thinks drugs are a stupid waste of time so this was really the least of my worries) It turns out, they cruised by the dance and through the gallery district but couldn't find a place to park. Perhaps we should have coordinated better and saved our rock star parking place The Girl had scored when we arrived at the monthly Art Walk several hours before. By the time I thought to text him we were already raising a toast to Ms. A for a successful debut as a collage artist.

I'm hoping our quick trip to the Las Animas river will stuff the ballot box in my favor. Until Tuesday!

Killer Heels

I’ve been involved with The Girl for about six years now and was pretty sure she had heard all my “stories” at least twice and was past the point of feigning interest and was now at the point of holding her hand up and saying, “I’ve heard this before.” But the other night I surprised us both with a story she had never heard. And I thought my canon was exhausted half way through our second date. It all started when I was getting ready to go out with my crazy nurse friends and she noted I had on high heels.

“They aren’t that high”
“You never wear heels.”
“I know. I can’t.”
“You can’t? Why?”
“Well aside from the fact I look like a big drag queen in high heels. My left ankle is toast.”

She looked at me amazed, not knowing this about me so I launched into a long story about why I don’t wear high heels. When I was twenty I was on a date with a guy. He was a nice guy, uber Star Wars nerd, wicked smart so I wanted to impress this young man with my wit, good sense and grace. We went to the movies, Empire Strikes Back and immersed ourselves into the galaxy far far away. One of us was so immersed she didn’t notice her left foot had fallen asleep and when she got up from her chair she turned on her completely paralysed and numb left foot and crumbled on the floor like a Storm Trooper struck by a light saber. I’m groping around on the floor, trying to recover the contents of my purse and my dignity as he is helping me up. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of this and I remember he stifled a laugh and when I saw him laughing I decided to laugh it off, too. Of course, he asked what happened and if I was ok. “Just fine” I lied as I stepped on my left as my entire leg begged me for the love of the Empire just sit down, take those damn shoes off and hop to the car and home. Instead, I continued to walk up the steps to the exit and yes, I would love it if you pulled the car up to the front. Silently, I was sobbing in pain as I waited for him. A sensible girl would have said: “You know Gary, I’m such a klutz and I’m really hurt, can we call it a night, I need to ice my ankle.” Yeah but that girl wasn’t me. I was too self-conscious so I went along for the rest of the evening. Besides that we had reservations at my favorite restaurant: Jennivine. A lovely little room in an old house with a decently priced price fix menu. Frankly, I didn’t want to miss this meal because it was an expensive restaurant and I longed for the food they served. It was down the street from the restaurant I worked and we would trade food so I knew what I missing. I wish I could remember what we talked about and had for dinner. I probably drank several glasses of wine to blot out the eye bleeding pain rocketing up my leg . And then another couple glasses of wine to help me forget just how swollen my foot and leg was becoming. Fortunately, he didn’t ask me if I wanted to go dancing. I probably would have gone just to be polite. It’s so much important to be polite and not draw attention to yourself even if you’re going to be crippled and thirty years later blogging from a wheelchair. After dinner he drove me home and we said good night in front of my building. Sucking back tears, I merrily waved as he pulled away and then crept through the security door, sat on the bottom step to remove my shoes and take a look at my ankle. It wasn’t pretty, either. Swollen roughly three times the size of my right and with blue, black and red streaks climbing my leg. I couldn’t walk at this point and crawled, literally crawled up the stairs. My roommate was in her jammies ready for bed. I limped into the living room and burst into tears: “I think I broke my ankle!” (and I wonder where my kid gets the drama thing?) She took a look at it like she knew what she was looking at and I took a look at it like I knew what I was looking at and we came to the conclusion based on the late hour, the night of the week and appearance and lack of health insurance it wasn’t broken. Ah the resilence of the young. I was waiting tables the next afternoon and dancing a week or so later. Mind you I only wore three inch heels for the dancing. I never saw uber Luke Skywalker again. I’m not sure why. He probably liked his women able to stay upright when they were sober.

So this leaves me wondering what else TG doesn’t know about me. Poor thing is going to have to wade through a bunch of repeats to discover the new bits and pieces.

I love the 'net these are almost the same killer heels

Once upon a time, there was a white dog, a washing machine and an elephant named Freckles

Yesterday was one of those days that felt like three days. And not because it was boring, either. To begin with I had only a short predawn nap and had accomplished a few things over night. I did some housekeeping, balanced the checkbook (ouch! June stay away from the mall already!) I also watched a movie from start to finish without interruption commercial or otherwise. Too bad it wasn’t an entirely relaxing movie experience because it’s two in the morning and the film had a wonky soundtrack to it that meant the dialogue was very soft and quiet and the music WAS VERY LOUD so I was constantly moving the volume around, rewinding so I could hear and jamming my finger over the minus button so I didn’t wake up The Girl. At least, I got my exercise and a few adrenaline jolts, right?

You know about breakfast and moon pies. I didn’t mention while we were at breakfast we again discussed the feasibility of moving to Texas after Beav graduates from high school. We did come to the conclusion if we do move it will be problematic to our travel bugs to actually have goats, chickens or a yard cow. The Girl sagely suggested the only wise solution to this was a Yard Elephant. Which would be made of awesome and no one would venture down our road unannounced. Keeping Freckles (I’ve already named him) out of the pool will be problematic so he will need a pond to call his own. I’m guessing elephants can fend for themselves while people are away. It’s not like a chicken hawk or fox or javalina pig would carry off our yard elephant like they would chickens. Thank goodness we got that settled over breakfast, right?

Wally decided yesterday was the day to do laundry because the Army wasn’t calling him back (grrrr…don’t make my kids promises and then fail to keep them…that’s my job!) and the washing machine just sort of whirled down to a complete stop and was making an ominous loud buzzing noise.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank The Girl’s Papa for noting her ken mechanical sensibilities and helping her develop gifts because three hours later she was finished fixing it and we were not six hundred bucks poorer and still had time to go out for dinner per our original plan. Had I been alone with Wally we would have called Sears and The Girl would have returned from work to find me weeping over a bill. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In the midst of a mini flood in the laundry room I had to prove the towel I grabbed wasn’t a “good” towel. My line of logic was any towel was a perfect towel for the job in the face of a big gush of water issuing forth from the bottom of the washing machine. (Yes Dad, the breaker was off and the machine unplugged before the bottom was opened) It took about 15 seconds and free flowing water for her to see the bleach stain on the towel and agree it was just fine to put it on the floor. After many failed diagnosis TG found the reason for the clogged drain. Jesus smiled on us because it wasn’t the drain leading out of the house but rather a bunch of left over goodies from our pockets in the washing machine drain. Mostly my leftover work goodies like IV line caps, needle caps, alcohol wipes and empty pill packages.

Meanwhile, TG is almost finished with her repair job and discovers the back yard gate is open. She was on her way to the breaker box to restart the washer to check the integrity of her genius. (Yes Dad, the floor was completely dry and the wires were even dried off with a towel but not a good towel because that would be a crime against towels and womankind everywhere) She sticks her head back into the house and asks my least favorite question:

“Is the dog with you?”

Fuckity. The dog escaped from the backyard. My family has become a well oiled machine when we have a breach in the back yard dog compound. It’s like someone hollers: “Dog Escape!!” and everyone knows their position. TG took one bike in one direction, Wally takes the other bike the opposite direction and I run down the path towards the park, staying close to the house and MINI van so I can pick up the dog we apparently are holding prisoner in a grassy backyard . All of us are armed with cell phones.

Kip hadn’t been gone very long because fifteen minutes before the alarm was sounded, I had heard him yelping at a passing dog. He is a lot slower than he once was and is really supposed to be dead so I was guessing he wasn’t a mile away at the golf course like last year. After about five minutes of panting through the park I got the much hoped for phone call: “Do you have a white dog?” My first inclination is to ask: “Is he dead?” But I always hold back because most people wouldn’t think it was funny unless you knew Kipper or me and my gallows humor.

“I do, is he fluffy, friendly and named Kipper?

“He is”

“Oh thank you! Thank you! He’s old and not terribly healthy. Does he seem ok?”

“He …I thought it was a ‘she’ because of the pink toe nails…but yeah, he seems ok.”

“So where are you?” (Another dreaded question because God knows where he is: Limon? Watkins? Downtown? Cheyenne Mountain?)

The dog wasn’t very far away and I knew either Wally or TG would be passing the bridge at any minute because we have Operation Save The Dog From Himself down like a special ops team. Sure enough, as I was talking to my new boyfriend Brad, TG rolled up on the bike and I could hear her saying: “Hey, that’s my dog!”

Brad wasn’t going to be fooled into surrendering the dog to just anyone (bless him):

“Do you know someone named The Girl, riding a bike? She’s in a white tee shirt.”
Once we established Kipper was not being taken off by a stranger for a Korean dinner party or vivisection at the medical school, Brad asked me:

“Is your dog deaf? I heard people calling his name but he didn‘t notice.”

Oh he noticed all right. He wasn’t ready to return to the yard at Cleaver Prison Camp For Dogs. The smells on the outside are just too good to give up.

I’m really thankful Brad didn’t ask why his toe nails were pink. I don’t like to sully my karma with lying about having a silly twelve year old daughter at home and the truth is too embarrassing.

We earned our pre dinner martini last night. The dog can explain to you why his toe nails are pink. My lips are sealed.

Bless Her Heart

We went out to breakfast mid-morning today and after breakfast we went to the little Russian grocery store about a mile from here. Our ‘hood sounds like it would be all tree lined and charming like Queens where you see little old Jewish women pushing shopping carts. But it’s not, it’s an inner tier suburb with old strip malls built around the time Nixon was president. We have Arabic, Ethiopian, Indian and Russian markets within a mile of our home and two miles away is an Asian store the size of Walmart. TG wanted to make a German style cucumber and onion salad so we needed specific vinegar. Not just any old white vinegar or apple cider vinegar or balsamic vinegar but a strong German vinegar. First of all, I didn’t know you could get stronger vinegar. This stuff is strong so what she doesn’t use in the salad I’m going to keep in the first aid kit to cleanse wounds and with my paints to clean brushes. While she was looking for the vinegar I was naturally salivating hankering after the sweets and cookies.

And I scored. Really scored with Russian Moon Pies. On the way home TG asked me what was in them. I confessed I didn’t know but it looked like they possessed every a Moon Pie does but the banana flavoring and that little touch of lemon in the cookie. It was at this point she let out a sad sad truth about herself that almost broke my Texas born heart into tiny Rhode Island sized pieces.

“I’ve never had a Moon Pie.”

Bless her heart.


image here

Life Is Scary...Let's Go Shopping!

Isn't this just the most awesome picture? I found it .here. It looks like TG and me this week as we gallivant from one thing to the next. I'm really not a social butterfly and we have a small circle of friends versus a herd of chums who spend every waking moment of leisure with one another. Which I think of as one of the many "Lesbian Behavioral Traits" and one I lump in the category of cats and sensible shoes: not for me. I don't like spending that much time with anyone except maybe myself and then she gets a little whiny and self serving and preachy and obsessive a lot of the time and you have to pointedly glare at her and say something like: "STFU, K? You're not only annoying but you are super boring, too!"

So between the necessity of a job, our surprising social events, the teenager and young adult rodeo that seems to be my household; I'm running headlong into a big project that I've invested actual real money into so I can't turn back or quit because I'm scared. And whenever I invest actual money into a dream the first thing I want to do is go shopping. Just like those precious slogan tee shirts say: "Life is scary, let's go shopping."

So I want to grab TG and go shopping like these jaunty girls swinging their hat boxes. TG isn't exactly a clothes horse (not room for two in a relationship) but she likes to go shopping and she has beautiful taste. Her bubbling enthusiasm and sense of fun is infectious, too. It's especially fun to watch her in places that play dance music because she is prone to stop what she is doing and dance. In the aisles of any given store. And when she dances, she doesn't dance like she normally does, it's a caricature of how white people dance. I have witnessed the stopping in tracks and dancing in two foreign countries, and three separate states. The Khmer stall keepers in Psar Chaa didn't think we were funny as danced to Lady Gaga in the middle of their market.

See the disapproving stare?

But usually people just give us a wane smile as they move on with their lives…quickly away from the obviously deranged dancing middle-aged women. She did induce one of the Sephora goddesses to dance with her a week or so ago. This woman was a gorgeous sixy-something and could bust a move. Sometimes, I pretend to be all eye-rolly but really I'm charmed. The funniest thing she does when she shops is pointedly keeping her hands in her pockets. The woman stops at the door of the shop and you can hear the dialogue: “Now Girl, keep your hands in your pockets so you don‘t touch anything.” I asked her about the whole pockets thing and she told me: "I have to or I'll just touch everything and I don't want to break stuff." TG has the most remarkable self-insight into her behavior. That we all had such insight…therapists would be forming bread lines because I watched her stores when she forgot her rule and she really does have to touch everything while she whispers to herself: "oOooohhhh that's nice...I like that...ohhhh I like that..." It isn't particularly dangerous if we are looking at sweaters or blouses or lawn mowers but the other day she made me really nervous in Crate and Barrel. I had to ask her to put her hands in her pockets but she didn't because she was too busy swinging the little brass watering can back and forth . I gave her a "mom stare"and then belly laughed at her as she was about to swing the damn thing into a giant wine glass with a microscopically thin stem standing in the middle row of the precarious Pyramid of Big Glasses That Would Shatter Into A Million Pieces If Dropped. In fact, I think Crate And Barrel should be renamed that: "Pretty Things That Break Easily". I feel much safer with her when we are in the Cephalon section…but it just occurred to me if we actually bought one those behemoth pans I would have to carry it so she wouldn’t be tempted to take out a display of glassware and china with one big swing of a frying pan as she sang to herself and grooved to “Rock That Body“ or Ke$ha.

Yeah, I think we need to work in a trip to the mall this week because she’s just so damn fun. And frankly, I need to dance.

Happiness Is

Today is one of those perfect days. The sun is out and it isn’t super hot like it has been so the dark clouds around us might yield rain, something we haven’t had in a week or so. My water bill and my vegetables will be most appreciative. Whenever I’m finished working in the yard, I always reward myself with flower arrangements. It feels completely decadent to have a house full of cut flowers. My perennial garden is amazing and we are blessed with monarch butterflies as well as honeybees. There is a working farm nearby and I wonder if they are keeping bees which would rock to find local honey. A few weeks ago, we were discussing the lovely alchemy of keeping bees and wouldn’t it be an interesting thing to do. Deadly in her case because she’s very allergic, but in theory it would be so very Zen. Handling bees you must absolutely be in the moment. I have a hard time being in the moment so tasks and jobs feel mysterious and sacred to me. Bees and butterflies are two signs of a healthy garden. I’m not sure I could stand the bliss if I had frogs, too. Poor frogs are dying off all over the world. We did see huge frogs at Angkor Wat in the reflecting pool and heard them at night and in the early morning at our hotel outside of the city.

Tending the garden, yard and flowers never fails to make me smile; even when it’s hot dry and dusty. This year’s beds aren’t as lush and varied as last year’s when we had a wet and temperate summer. But I am a little concerned about the front flower bed, everything bloomed way too early and is now dormant. I’m wrestling with setting more things out, annuals and such. I do have zinnias (the most cheerful flower, according to Oldest Friend) which will bloom in a week or so but otherwise the terraced bed looks a little woebegone and sad. Even the 4 O’Clocks are being stubborn and refusing to grow and bloom. Much to be joyful about today despite my worries.

My step-mother’s granddaughter (my--what--step-niece?) is an amazing artist and keeps a lovely blog, today she listed pictures of things that make her happy. This being a perfect day it was easy to find things that make me happy. Here are eleven (I like prime numbers) as they occurred to me.


Summer days when it’s not blazing hot, dry and windy so the back porch is “Command Central”


My flowers

The Girl is making chicken and polenta for dinner tonight and C from next door is coming over, maybe with her new beau who isn’t terribly handsome but he adores her and thinks she is the most amazing woman on the planet.

My Oil d’Provence (an infusion of my own herbs d’Provence in olive oil) was a huge success.

Tending the vegetable garden and worrying over the delicate tomato plants which were set out a little late and on a very hot day. Finding big sweet carrots, sweet peas, three habanera peppers, four cucumber blossoms and the golden beets which will be ready any day now. I’m boiling them and serving them on their greens cold with a pungent blue cheese and pine nuts. I. Can’t. Wait. I have fantasized about this beet salad for a year.

Getting to spend the whole day with TG.

Honey bees.

Butterflies.

The dog hasn’t turned over the trash can or escaped from the backyard today.

Wally let me take a picture of him.

Jelly Side Down

the cute head Pocket Toast Pal was found here


If I do say so myself, I believe I deserve this vacation. Between The Girl breaking her arm last week; my own really nasty sinus infection; The Beav confessing, after six months of the rest of us playing “where’s Wally’s bike”, he sold it (without permission) and then racked up $300 in extra text messaging charges; and Wally’s adventures at the bank I ‘m pretty well done. Stick a fork in me and call me toast. I asked my Spare Girl--a single mom with probably the most spirited teenagers on the planet--if it was August yet because this summer is shaping up to be…um…challenging to say the least.

So here I am sick, whiney and pitiful. Good thing I’m alone. Because I’m not sure I even want to be in my own company. The jelly topping on the toast is today I found out I didn’t get the job I was asked to apply for. It was a good job and a good fit. I cried after I talked to the nursing recruiter and later my boss had the grace to ask me if I was going to be alright with this decision because the important thing is “you are happy in what you do.“ I will never forget that gift. Yes, some days are harder than most but everyday is an adventure and everyday I learn something new either about the human body, psyche or myself. It doesn’t get any better than that. Unless you count I get to work with a great team of nurses.

And Beav asked how he can pay me back the money. (window washing and garage cleaning plus moving the lady next door)
And Wally appeared to really listen when I told him for the third or fourth time how to balance a checkbook. But that’s a moot point because he no longer has a bank account to jack up. (he is into me large and will also be washing windows, cleaning garages and moving the lady door.
And in less than twenty-four hours I leave my life for a couple of weeks and see how the other half lives.

The lower half that is.


My guess is witnessing physical poverty unlike anything I’ve ever seen will cure my poverty of gratitude and faith. And if it doesn’t, I’m guessing this guy will kick my ass. In the spirit of love. Just like Christ would.

Next stop Siem Reap. I’m the one with my mouth hanging open in awe and wonder over the bas reliefs.

Breaking My Heart Open So My Eyes Can See

Ten years ago this month I made a decision to leave Ward and within a couple of short months later not only had I left him but I left my kids too. I gave him custody because I was sick of fighting with him about it and I thought--as boys--they would be better off with him. But the real REAL reason is because I was absolutely convinced I was a terrible mother. I had suffered from not one but two episodes of depression. The first one was a mild post partum depression but the second bout was a doozy. I couldn’t leave the house for a month and Ward had to take full control of the kids. I barely made food for them those long weeks. Poor kids. Poor Ward. I still see their sweet faces looking at me with a mix of puzzlement and sadness because Mommy was dressed in a sweat suit in July and about 100 degrees outside and I had to hire a babysitter to take them to the pool and to the park and the rec center for activities because I simply couldn’t leave the house. I’m still not sure exactly why I couldn’t leave the house; I mean I don’t fully comprehend even now after years of therapy which monsters lived outside the door of the Fabulous House in Stepford and why they went away as quickly as they arrived. I do know I had to leave Ward if I was going to survive and if my children were going to survive and grow to have any sort of meaningful life they belonged with their fully functional father. They could hire their own therapist when the actions of their mother, foisted on them at the tender ages of nine and five began to muddy their abilities to cope in relationships with others. In essence, my well-meaning but sick actions fractured my relationship with them a decade ago because I was convinced I was a terrible mother because I suffered from two bouts of depression and was pretty sure I was gay. Let‘s not forget to add I was unfaithful to Ward to this list. I was depressed, confused and a liar. I was a BAD person to the tenth power and didn‘t deserve those children. In hindsight, I can see the life I was leading was sucking the life out of me. Of course I felt like I was drowning in an ocean with a plastic bag over my head. Shit, who wouldn’t? Don’t answer that because I know plenty of wonderful mothers who put up with WAY more than I did from Ward and they aren’t leaving their husbands and their kids.

When I say I left my kids, initially I saw them every other weekend and a night a week. I was Disneyland Mom. But a couple of years later, my children wanted less and less to do with me. For a long time I blamed Ward for poisoning them against me. But now I blame myself because I stopped trying to have a relationship with them and for two years we were like amiable friends who would get together a couple of times a week but each visit felt forced and everyone was miserable. Of course it didn’t help I was in the most dysfunctional toxic relationship of my life which, in the end, left me broke and broken. In AA terms, I hit bottom. (there by God’s unboundless grace go I)

But God’s hand was always just right there and as much as I hate to admit it; The Most Toxic Woman On The Planet had a role in all of this. Did I mention after I left her I was not only broken but financially broke? The only place I could find to live was a tiny little rental house in a neighborhood riddled with meth heads. I hadn’t lived in such a bad neighborhood since I was in college but the rent afford my paying off hideous debt and my landlord, an angel on Earth, didn’t give a shit if my credit rating was in the toilet. “I don’t check those things, I see in your eyes I can trust you.” And I didn’t let him down. We lived in that little house for three years. The 750 square foot house was our little port in the storm. I was able to put myself back together with the help of Jesus, Wayne Dyer, my therapist/reiki practitioner, Landlord Bob, and my boys. It’s a good thing I got my shit together and rebuilt my relationship with my sons because it was at this point Ward decided he was tired of being the custodial parent and lost interest in his children. But despite the neighborhood and the tight space our home was generally a place of peace and joy. Yeah there were hard times because Wally was such a challenging kid and Beav wasn‘t a walk in the park, either. But I figured (still do) the tantrums (theirs) and the aggression (Wally‘s) was bad Karma I had to work off. I made new friends, too. One of them shares The Girl‘s name and I met her first but eventually she became my “Spare”. I can‘t count the number of times me and TSG have been out and people will say: “Oh, this is The Girl.” And I have to explain but I’m always flattered by the confusion because The Spare Girl is an awesome woman. TSG has been a cheering section for me in ways I‘ve never told her and has been there for me in ways I don‘t think I can even explain. Her oldest son and Beav are a few months apart and very alike in their natures; while her youngest son-- seven years younger than Wally --is just like Wally. We can commiserate and compare notes on lots of things because in addition to our children, we have feckless ex-husbands who are hit and miss with financial and emotional support to their boys; plus we came out in mid-life. Rather, we finally came out in mid-life. One of us--not TSG--had a false start in the eighties.

So when TSG called me early on Thursday morning and her first words were: “I can’t do this anymore. I want out and I don‘t want to be a mother anymore.” I knew exactly what she was talking about. Because I feel this way about three times a week and know without a shadow of a doubt if I had to do it over again, twenty years ago I would have told Ward I didn’t want to go out with him much less sleep with him because if we started dating, one thing would lead to another and it would spiral out of control until I was locked into a life long relationship and a role I would spend most of my time resenting and quite frankly hating. I hate being a mother because I’m so bad at it. Like I hated being a waitress because I sucked at that, too. I don’t hate my children so don’t call social services or my ex-husband. I just really don’t like being a mother because I am emotionally lazy. I am sick of having to be thoughtful and strong and forbearing and patient and wise and wonderful and listening and coping. Because just now it seems like the only thing these kids do is break my heart and drain my bank account and ask me for a ride somewhere I‘m not invited to go . So I knew exactly where TSG was coming from. The week before I had spent the day helping her--pre and post op--with her boys when they had their wisdom teeth taken out. Wally-the-Younger (WtY) was tuned up and I knew he was going to be a handful waking up from anesthesia. He was but TSG is a saint (I really want to hate her but I can’t) and she talked him off the cliff and he calmed down. What I didn’t count on was he had been acting like an asshat for a few months and was moving my very dear friend to the brink of her limitless patience. When she told me what was going on I wanted to march over to their house and spank that twelve year old menace. (More evidence I’m not much of a mother) How DARE he treat his mother, his hardworking single mother like that. I at least have an ex-husband who shares custody of Beav (for the moment until his stepmother, Alexis Carrington, gets bored and doesn’t want him around) so that’s a gift compared to her ex-husband and his fucked up games and issues. But instead of spanking the boy she set some stern boundaries with him and he has respected them for several days now. God’s hand was clearly in this because I was supposed to work and if I had been at work, I would have missed her call.

I need to remember this whole God works in mysterious way thing because that evening I got the other big phone call; Wally had failed his PT test because he quit in the middle of a run. I’ve already chronicled in full internet blog vomit my initial reaction. Last night, as grief would have it and my nature will predict I landed full on in the Anger territory and sit here. I mean I was really angry. I wanted to scream and rave at him: “What the fuck were you thinking?! When are you going to stop this behavior????!!!!” Then I got angry at myself for ever giving birth. (now that’s getting to the root of the problem) TG thoughtfully decided we should go out to dinner last night, to cheer me up and to celebrate her recovery. She had progressed from laying in bed with ice on her shoulder and under the influence of prescribed narcotics to being able to dress in real clothes in the span of a few days because she is from Polish stock who all believe if you can survive post WWII Germany and refugee status under the tyranny of the USSR you can survive anything, including shoulder surgery. I know everyone will be stunned to learn I wasn’t very good company. It’s a good thing I had to drive because if I had the option of not driving I would have had eight too many drinks and probably puked all the way home from the passenger seat. (Hey, I’ve come a long way in five years but I’m not perfect) Not only was I angry at Wally but I was resentful I had to try and help him through this hiccup and not only was I angry about the whole thing my heart was broken for him because he has to live with the consequences of quitting. I was also angry because I knew this about myself--prone to freaking out and quitting midway because of ZERO self-esteem--and went ahead and had children. What the fuck was I thinking twenty years ago.

As luck would have it a young couple were sitting just across from us in the uber chic uber hip restaurant we were in last night and as luck would further have it they had their brand spankin’ new baby with them. “You know it’s a good thing I’m driving because if I weren’t I would probably get drunk and tell those people it’s not too late to take that baby back to the hospital because all that baby is going to do is grow up and break their heart” The Girl looked askance at me, worried I was going to do it but her worry was quelled when I started to cry and go over and over all the the bad things I did to my children and the many ways I have sinned against them. I do believe in my heart of hearts our children choose us but why on Earth would anyone be as masochistic as choosing me for a mother and Ward the ball-less wonder as a father. She let me rehash the things she has heard me confess about a hundred times and then she said this:

“Those boys love you. You are the one they depend on.”

As much as I was enjoying the pity party, I realized she was right. Wally called me first this week and when he tried reaching his father; his father “missed” his call. (Oh for the love of God you don’t miss calls in this day and age. His asshat father didn’t want to deal with it. Gah, I just wish he would disappear!) Beav knows it’s pointless to ask his dad to do something for him because it won’t get done and it’s doubly pointless to ask him for money for his activities because Ward simply won’t have it because he never has money for them but has a wine cellar. As she reviewed these things, I realized she’s right and I fought becoming smug because everyone knows how much I can’t stand “teh smug”. Smug is also a sin of pride and that’s just one more thing for the long list of transgressions I commit so I chose to not add it. Instead, I changed the subject and we talked about her. What a relief for everyone when the whining stopped.

This morning at the early hour of two at 0200 I awakened with a headache which I was happy to blame on stress rather than alcohol abuse. Because worrying about stuff you don’t have control over is so much healthier than drinking to excess. (myth number 2373 I tell myself) I took a few Ibuprofen and tried to go back to sleep but of course I couldn’t. I lay awake in the still half light which gave the impression it was not early winter but mid summer because it had snowed. For a few minutes I tried to pretend it was really an early morning last June. After playing the time machine game, I ran my tape about how much I hated myself for hating being a mother and how I hated having my heart broken by Wally again when I remembered something I read in The Power of Intention exactly five years ago which was one year after I had found shelter in the Crack Cottage and began my amazing spiritual journey which led me to the sweet life I have today all made possible because I couldn't leave my house July 1999. Dr. Dyer shared a letter a woman wrote to him which said the following: “When my boyfriend broke up with me, I thought my heart was broken but you helped me discover my heart was broken open.” I realized I needed to turn pull my finger off the self-loathing button and take a second look inside this broken heart. My heart is broken open to all sorts of possibilities and lessons in faith and trusting the Universe or God or Jesus or whoever things because do happen for a reason. Like the whole messy business of involving myself with The Most Toxic Person on the Planet so I would have to live in a terrible neighborhood in a tiny poorly insulated house that was either too hot or too cold so I could learn what was really important.

"So God, I’m ready, bring it on. Show me what the purpose of this Fresh Hell is all about and if it’s about giving you everything I worry and fret about and then taking it away because I’m a big control freak. Fine. I can deal with that but can you leave my kids out of it because I think they have suffered enough at my hand." Thanks, Me.

Pebble In Pebble Out

I've borrowed a fable from the ancient Greek writer Aesop to create a parable you can use in the coming weeks. Once upon a time there was a very thirsty crow. Rain hadn't fallen in a long time, and the creek from which she'd always drunk had dried up. Searching and searching for a bit of moisture, the crow finally happened upon a tree under which sat a ceramic pitcher with some water in it. But the pitcher's neck was narrow, and the crow couldn't fit her beak past it to reach the water. Inspired by desperation, the crow at last got an idea. Why not drop small rocks into the pitcher, making the water's level rise? And that's exactly what she did. How sweet it was when at last she quenched her thirst.

This is becoming a theme isn't it? I swear this is the last time I'll use my horoscope to spin a short essay. But this week's is intriguing. . . Last week, Rob didn't intrigue me but made me scratch my head with this gem of a horoscope. I spent a little time this past week contemplating this fable and what it meant. It wasn't until tonight I realized in a sickening a ha moment how this fable applies to my life.

I think I'm trying to quench my thirst after an arduous ten months worth of life. Most of the time I can prop myself up but frankly it's getting harder and harder. So much has happened and changed in my life over the last 300 plus days. I've experienced a great deal of loss and the people who seem the most blind to it are those closest to me. I've lost my mother, 10% of my income, my son is leaving home and he is estranged from his father; my other son is worried he will be his stepmother's next victim; I am estranged from my sister after the toxic waste that is our relationship escaped from it's safe container I keep buried deep inside; my dog is dying; and my partner has such pain in her right shoulder and arm she can not raise it over her head and it has rendered her sleepless and unable to do much around the house (something immensely more frustrating for her. It just annoys me when other shit is on my plate). The icing on the cake is of course when I'm not at home taking care of people; I'm at work taking care of people.

Is it any wonder I went to the gym tonight (while Beav was at Parkour) and managed to work out all of twenty minutes before I decided the better idea was sitting in my car; crying and eating a 700 calorie snack? I suppose this is better than finding a liquor store and drinking in the parking lot. While the image of doing this gives me the shivers don't think for a minute it didn't occur to me.

It's a good thing I had a "refreshing" break from reality because it didn't sting so much when I returned to a messy kitchen and clean laundry lounging around the family room.

Good thing I have more pebbles.

One edit at 0835 the next day: My problems aren't HUGE life changing problems like having cancer or a chronic illness or a loved one with either of this issues. So maybe I have an extremely low threshold for giving and a low tolerance for drama and upheaval. And maybe I can't continue to give and give and give because ultimately I'm selfish. If this is the case then I guess I'm getting what I deserve.

Domestic Bliss /dripping sarcasm

The Girl is installing the kitchen floor and it's going to look grand. I helped cut the crappy vinyl and the fabulous Armstrong Solarium Linoleum underneath. I don't try to help with the tile and the grout, it doesn't go so well. We tried to demolish the old floor by hand for about thirty minutes and had peeled away exactly six square inches. Thankfully The Big Orange Store had a tool for the job and this proved the better plan. I can now include "operation of Linoleum cutter" on my resume in case maintenance is included in my job description.

In the meantime, I'm continuing to work in the garden and gathered my first bouquet this morning. First light is early and I love sleeping with the windows open so the light greets me early.

Despite the snow on the mountains, I think it's finally safe to say spring is here.

Poor Kipper is trapped inside the house while we work outside he suggests you stop by and rescue him so he himself on a walk.

Wally has exactly four more days of school and despite his best effort to NOT graduate, he will indeed possess a high school diploma. The Beav is on his way to high school and I never ever have to set foot in that stupid middle school again as long as I live. I'm considering having a beer in the parking lot next Wednesday after the Continuation just for the Hell of it because I'm really a fifteen year old with ODD.

Tomorrow I'm smashing plates and tiles for a mosaic counter top.

Bliss, it's bliss I tell you.

The Sawdust Did It

There is a fussy German frau living inside this haphazard housewife. Some days I can let the dust and the mystery ick in weird places go, others not so much and today was one of those days. I found myself mentally shaking a fist at the people who live here because they splash dishwater down the front of the cabinets, leave finger prints on light switches and the ‘frig; allow dust to build up on bathroom counters and splashes accumulate on the mirror. How could they do this to me? I have a laundry room to decorate: with paint, tile and hardware to select and wall art to create. I clean on Tuesday’s and it didn’t go so well today because I would rather be looking for tile and paint. So I half-assed it because I’m sick of doing it. Which will piss me off next week when the house is doubly hard to clean because it was half-assed to begin with. The truth of the matter is I love to clean but lately it’s become a big fat ugly chore. A chore like cooking is a chore. A chore like balancing the checkbook is a chore. A chore like anything-I-should-do-but-I-don’t-care-to-do-in-the-moment is a chore.

I blame the sawdust.

For a couple of weeks The Girl has tirelessly been building cabinets for the laundry room. So there has been a lot of sawdust scattered through the house. It’s driving me crazy. Our house was a blank page when we moved in almost two years ago to the day. A foreclosure, the realtor/developer came through with a paint sprayer coating every vertical surface with white paint; "updating the floors with the crappiest carpet and vinyl flooring imaginable.

If we had only looked at this house a week earlier undoing what "Ladies Man" did in an effort to move the house from 1969 Suburban Chic to 1990’s Slum lord would have been one of those bad daydreams you brush away with a shudder. Every goddamned room in this house needs or needed work. (to clarify, we nicknamed Fannie Mae's realtor "Ladies Man" after this character)

I thought any minute he was going to invite us over to his place for some Courvoisier so we could “discuss further the ramifications of my highly esteemed organization replacing the furnace that may or may not be faulty.” To say this guy pissed me off is an understatement. Thinking about him still pisses me off and raises my feminista hackles . But I digress.


It must be the sawdust.

Today, after I finished damning my family to a level of hell where they see the menace of dust but aren’t allowed to do anything about it; I started ruminating over the latest neighborhood I discovered in our Next Town; the place we will probably move after Beav finishes high school. One of my time sucking hobbies is partaking in real estate porn cruising houses on Realtor.com. The city we are looking at is considerably cheaper so it’s fun to do a dollar to dollar search. Next Town is in Bible Belt and people sort of freak out when I tell them where we are considering making a home. It's also my home town and a place I vowed never to return. I am choosing to egnore warnings it could be Redneckville and we won’t be greeted with open arms and a basket of muffins but something akin to: “Y’all sisters?…or what?…” cue ominous sound of a shotgun being cocked But really, who cares if Billy Bob and Dar Leene hate us because Jesus hates dirty homosexuals! We can afford a lovely house with a pool! Yeah! The pool will not only refresh us in the southern heat but will make a great place to extinguish the burning crosses. The unhealthiest part of the obsession with House Porn is when I dial down the price and discover the fixers in the same neighborhoods. I find myself swoony over the footprint and the bones of certain houses. Nightmares even more nightmarish than the one I live in. “Oh look at those cabinets they just need to be refinished. . .I bet that has hardwood underneath it. . .I could take that window out and put a door to the patio. . .a little paint would be perfect. . .and it’s so cheap we would be able to just pay cash and fix it up for next to nothing!” I found another one just the other day. It has an interior atrium to die for and a kitchen in such bad shape TG would jump off a cliff before she agreed to this house.

Oh. My. God. I need a twelve step program. Best friend Ms. A has a friend, Pilot, who came up with the idea of creating a Flippers Anonymous Program. Pilot has it bad, too. In the last three years he has done two houses. And he lives in them while he renovates. Sick, sick man. But I totally get it. I blame being a control freak. I have to make everything my own; put my mark on it. Like Kipper, only it’s paint not pee when I mark things. This also explains why (as hard as this is going to be for TG to hear) the idea of a turn key ready house is a terribly boring concept to me. I hate boring.

Which is probably why I’ve never had a proper laundry room (or adequate closets for that matter) because I am usually drawn to quaint little houses with big souls? The closest thing I have come to a laundry room was a designated area in the basement of Mrs. Ward Cleaver’s Fabulous House in the Suburbs. But it wasn’t a proper laundry room; it was where the hook ups were in the basement. A special room designated to cleaning clothes makes me feel terribly grown up. I think this grown up feeling is why, when we discussed redoing the laundry room one of my first questions was: “Can we have a chandelier in there? I think it would be a pleasant surprise to see a chandelier in the laundry room.” And wouldn't this fixture be adorable in a peach oned laundry room.

I wish I could blame the sawdust.

Forty-seven Going on Twelve

Aren’t I cute? That was taken on my sixth birthday when it was exciting to be another year older. As a suburban child with a Cleaveresque mom we of course had birthday parties. They weren’t lavish pony, clown, and magician affairs, but rowdy backyard parties. Mom thought them out, we always had interesting games to play, I can’t’ remember if we had projects and crafts (like at my boys’ parties). Of course we had cake. Duncan Hines. My favorite birthday cake is German Chocolate. I haven’t had one in years because my favorite favorite birthday dessert is pie. Peach pie.


The bigger digits started freaking me out when I turned 35. (If you thought last weeks crisis was ridiculous, you should have seen me at 35!) In some ways I welcome my birthday. It’s a chance to get to do what I want to do. Plus people give you presents. And they sing to you. This is a fine thing as long as it isn’t in a restaurant amongst strangers.




One of my most amusing memories is the boys’ grandpa Francis 90th birthday celebration. We were at the Olive Garden and the waiter overheard us talking about this auspicious occasion. So what does he do but gather together the wait staff and imprison us at our table singing that highly copyrighted song. I looked over at Francis and he was mortified; The Beav who was all of three years wanted to crawl under the table as did the rest of us. Seven year old Wally looks at Ward and me, daggers in his eyes: “If you ever do this to me, I’ll hurt you.” “No prob son. I don’t like drawing attention to myself.”

That‘s me at 20 and I loved drawing attention to myself. My excuse on my birthday was I couldn’t help myself, after all I was drunk and Adam Ant was playing on the jukebox; that table was begging me to dance on it. Besides, it was my birthday. This is the only reason I wasn’t asked to leave the bar-without-the-cabaret-license. And I was hot.

Speaking of drunken birthday celebrations: When I turned 41, I spent my birthday on this beach . (picture from gohawaii.com) The whole nude thing necessitated the copious amounts of alcohol I consumed that day. But what a hoot! All the people with the pretty bodies were covered up and all the not so pretty bodies, nude. Isn’t that the way it goes? My friend had this awesome beer opener, ever time you popped a top a voice jovially encouraged you: “Oh yeah! Time for a beer!”

Another memorable birthday was my eighteenth. I had this massive thing for Johnny Mathis (image: newlog.com) and he was on tour that spring. My boyfriend at the time was so smitten with me he actually took me to a Johnny Mathis concert! What a great evening. What a dear man. I’ve been looking for this guy for years just so I could tell him his gift became the litmus test for how much you really love me.

I love being the princess…but... sometimes it doesn't always work out that way. I met the boy who handed me my first broken heart, on my sixteenth birthday. My mother threw a party for me and he came with his sister. Funny, as I was looking through pictures for blog images, I found his. I also found the picture of the girl he left me for,too. I had a WTF moment and then without thinking shredded them. It felt great. A good birthday gift to myself.

I made resolutions (which I am happy to say I’m keeping!) this January so I have formulated three goals to reach by next March:
1. Weight what I did in 1993
2. Certified in my nursing specialty
3. Ready to pitch the novel to an agent

Looks like a busy year for me! I’m slated to have a happy happy birthday this weekend. I‘m not sure what The Girl has planned but I know it will be fun! Assuredly it won’t be Maui, or a massive party in the back yard with balloons and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and thankfully not a drunken night in a bar. It will be filled with laughter and people I adore.

Unpacking

Yesterday was the last day of our vacation. It was one of the most interesting, relaxing and enjoyable vacations I've ever had. But then, the vacations with TG just keep getting better and better. Here are some of the highlights and I promise I won't blog about Mexico again until February 2010.

We took a wild ferry trip made complete by the 25 foot swells crashing into the side of the boat as we were keeled at an angle I've only experienced on a sailboat. The image isn't mine it's from the Cozumel Cruise Excursion web site.

Enjoyed lunch at "Cannibal Piggy Cafe" in San Miguel

Visited ruins

A beach which made me appreciate The Girl's sense of adventure and fearless approach to a third world country and so we don't have to stay at resorts.

One of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World

Dzitnup Cenote

A Spanish C0lonial town

explored the other side of Puerto Morelos aka "The Colonia"
I dipped a toe in at the Cancun flea market. This picture doesn't do it justice. It was busy and crowded. Fun!

ate beautiful food
read lovely books
Made a new dog friend.This is Ratz, he is a giant schnauzer black lab mix and just about the cutest thing you've ever seen. If we stopped throwing the stick or coconut into the water for him, he would give us a sharp bark.

This dog adopted us.I dubbed him Wayne because he had a medallion on his collar proclaiming him to be a peaceful creature who would not harm another creature. The Wayne Dyer of beach dogs. He just showed up at Abby'sand started following The Girl around.

Watched the world go by

We got too much sun on a couple of days and not enough sun on others but we still snorkeled to the Ojo Aqua a magic place where the Earth opens and fresh water bubbles up into the sea. A direct underground path from a cenote miles away in the jungle.

I overcame a fear of barracudas but not crocodiles

We watched our new president ask us to work hard together for a better future.
The most amazing thing I experienced was a dead calm sea (coincidentally on January 20th). Waves weren't breaking over the reef in the distance so the lovely roar of the sea was absent. Waves were lapping the shore, as if the Caribbean had become a lake.
I've returned to this lovely scene a couple of times since we left Mexico. Last night it was bumpy over Texas so I conjured up the scene while I listened to Tibetan Singing Bowls on my ipod. It came in handy a couple of hours later as Wally rehearsed to me how I MUST fix his car, his computer and buy him a new phone because he wasn't going to bother finding a job. Fortunately, recalling the singing bowls are easy and I was able to tune out his self entitled diatribe as well as picture the lovely, calm sea.

I'm unpacking today. The Girl has mad packing skilz so she is assigned to putting our belongings together. I'm studied and disciplined when it comes to taking things out of the suitcase and doing the laundry so my job is unpacking. Sort of doing the vacation dishes. After cleaning everything out, I reassembled the Mexico bag--warm weather clothing, snorkeling gear, kitchen tools--because we only have 372 days until we leave for our next trip! ¡tanto ser hecho!

Like learning Spanish.