The World and Me

Kid Brain

2012-01-26T17:43:00.000-08:00

Recently, one of my son's (aka DS as in"Dear Son") let me know that one of the girls on his swim team asked him about my blog.

"How does she know I have a blog?" I asked him.

"Evidently you mentioned it to her a while back," was his response.

"Mmm" I thought to myself.

"Can I have the URL?" he asked. "

"As soon as I can remember it," I responded.

I was till trying to process the fact this this young 10+ something remembered a conversation that she had with me at some point in my long distant past. And not only could I not remember the URL for my woefully neglected blog, but I couldn't recall ever having told any of DS's swim mates that I attempted to keep a blog.

As I pondered this lack of memory, DS poked my arm, "Um, Mom, C____ (I shall just give the young lass a first initial in order to protect her privacy) is texting me asking for the link..."

"Okay, let me go look it up."

We happened to be home when this interrogative came into focus. Oh, did I not set the scene?- shame on my- just because I have an MFA in creative writing does in no way mean that I actually can write....that said- imagine....no- close your eyes and put yourself in the moment: dinner time, pot of water boiling on the stove as a not very pleasant hiss reminds you that perhaps it is time to turn the heat down....the clanking of dishes as you set the table, toss a salad and attempt to submerge long grains of whole wheat pasta into the cauldron of boiling water....

Okay, now back to the the URL and the memory - or lack thereof. I log into my computer (hence the importance of being home) look up the URL, and dutifully pass the series of letters and dots along to DS who in turn passes it along to C who has been texting dribs and drabs to DS. Texting is one of those skills I have never mastered. Indeed, one needs a dictionary to decode what it is I am trying to say- typing, well, like cooking, it's a skill that is not inherent to my genetic coding.

The ability of young ones- a mere decade old give or take a few years is actually a wonderment to me as I approach the age which shall not be named. I know my memory is not what it used to be. I must make lists and create little ditties to help me keep tabs of where I placed the password to my PC or my security code for this that and the other device.

Years ago, I too had a mind that was quick and witty and spot on. And as I try and wrack the feeble old noggin for the conversation that enabled the young C to have interest in my blog I recall a young thing- no more than three or four. He was a rather shall we say petulant and indulged young thing. At the time of our encounter I was working in a clothing boutique called Virgina Allen. It does not exist any more. But at the time when I worked there, it sold classic pieces designed for the executive woman on the rise.

This young whippersnapper was swinging like a chimpanzee on one of the round tables from which hung jackets and skirts. It had a glass topper that probably weighed twenty pounds - and as I eyed the young thing he probably weighed twice that much- which meant that any excessive force might be enough to tip the rounder, the clothes and the glass over- the outcome would not have been pretty.

I asked the young lad to please not do that- I believe I even used the word "Please."

"Oh be quiet you old billy goat!"

I kid you not. This is what the young thing said to me. Lucky for me his mother and her designer bag decided to come and look for the long lost child at that exact moment.

"Your son just called me a billy goat," I said.

She gave me the Greenwich Glare (this was in Greenwich, CT circa 1987) - took Junior by the hand and left. For those of you not familiar with the Greenwich Glare it is a set way way of looking through someone of less financial success. It was often observed in the women of Westport and the preppy wives of the Greenwich set. As a poor college student at the time it was a look with which I was intimately acquainted. Imagine ice daggers piercing your eyeballs and you can imagine the look.

A billy goat. A kid of a different kind. And now - here was DS's friend C asking to for a link to something that I couldn't even recall. Her kid brain certainly was in a different league to my Billy goat gruff days.

Billy goat indeed....

copyright 2012. All rights reserved.

The World Keeps Getting Smaller Alice...

2011-11-07T13:50:00.000-08:00

Recently, we as a human species passed the 7 billion mark on the number of people living on this planet called earth. That's a lot of zeros: 7,000,000,000. As I got to thinking about this number it made me realize that it seems that long since a post was last made to this website. And for my dear loyal, devoted fans who have been begging me to write, write, write (okay...imagination is a good thing...) here it is- the new and improved humor from one member of the human population of 7 billion+.

What have you been up to these days? One might ask. Well, despite the number of Homo Sapiens now walking this earth, it seems to me in many ways, smaller. Technology has allowed me with a click, a tap, a sneeze almost - to turn on a light, anwer a phone or connect with a friend thousands of miles away in Paris.

Indeed just last Thursday, the phone rang in Plato's Cave (what I call my office cubicle) and as I struggled to understand how to fix an unbalanced anchor tag in my html code (I know me -a total right hemisphere gal coding- - it is bizarre- those tags are enough to drive me to the dark side - but that is a story for another day.

I picked up the phone to be greeted with, "I am walking along the Seine. It is 11:30 at night. I have just finished dinner with clients and I thought of you...knowing how much you love this city of lights- and rather than take a taxi, I opted to walk back so I could share the sites with you long distance." And thus began a five minute conversation with a dear friend who happened to be in Paris for work. I suppose I can share that he works for Bill- and is a PC-kinda guy- I am an Apple kinda gal- but we don't let our technological differences stand in the way of our friendship - no, no no....

So, you see as the planet increases the number of bipeds taking up residence, it seems to shrink in terms of how we are amazingly able to connect- even when we are physically very far apart. Now I will admit I am mostly Luddite in nature- I do not tweet, chirp or groom gardens on Facebook. However, I do send letters - and I do use text and I do use email- I am a big believer in the electronic message these days.

So please, my loyal and devoted fans- do share how the word is smaller in your version of Alice in Wonderland- despite the growing number of people- do you feel more connected than say five years ago? Let us take an online, very unsophisticated poll and see what we come up with...

Alice is back and she promises to be a better and more frequent blogger with many tales to tell....

Thanks for sharing your lives with me!

copyright 2011. All rights reserved.

Goodbye Bill...Hello Steve

2010-10-12T16:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Bill,

We have been together a long time. Close to twenty years. We’ve weathered many ups and downs; and if there was ever anyone who could show compassion as I sat knee deep in muck in the middle of the night, it was you.

You were always there with quiet guidance and a solution,“ Let’s try a reboot,” you’d suggest. Or maybe after studying the problem for a bit you might say, “I think we need a Control+alt+delete. ” Whatever the case, you were there for me. My knight in shining Armorall.

You taught me many things. And I am grateful to you Bill. I really am. I mean if it weren’t for my time with you, I would never have learned that patience isn’t a virtue. It’s a necessity.

When the Wreck of the PC came in the wee hours of the morning and claimed my hard drive as its own I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream and run stark mad out the door. I took the thing to the local tech hospital where I kept an around the clock vigil as the hardware doctors tried to perform a last minute intervention. One more breath from the drive. Just one file with all the data for my report. That’s all I needed.

“These things happen.” That’s what you said. Nobody is perfect. Well, that may be true. Today, I come to you with outstretched hand and a bid of adieu. We shared conversation across the campus of your beautiful building in 1995. Yes, you and I walked side-by-side and chatted about the newest baby, Windows 95. Oh, I know, I am dating myself here. It goes to show how time does indeed fly.

So I thought you should be the first to know – Rasta Woman convinced me with a single word. I ran into her (literally) at the Farmer’s Market where she had the most perfect specimen of an eggplant in her hands. Her skin glowed with something akin to love and she told me that she had seen the light. I should paint the scene for you- I was inspecting a quart of organic strawberries when I dropped them all over the hemp-strewn carpet of the stall. I stepped on Rasta Woman’s foot in the process of collecting the perfectly ripe specimens. Oh and the scent – they were just exquisite.

But, I digress. As I began to apologize, she shared with me the truth of the world as it applies to the computer. Lo and behold she did it with a touch of a finger and the name of a fruit. Rasta Woman with the impeccable skin placed her cool hand on my cheek and whispered a single word, “Apple.” My cheek and me were flushed with embarrassment and the remainder of the peanut butter that at one time had been on the sandwich of my six year-old’s lunch.

Rasta Woman rules. She is the light at the end of the dark tunnel of lost data, slow boots and endless crashes in the middle of the most urgent project. No more. I'm sorry Bill.

The Apple of my eye is a guy named Steve. I am leaving you for a younger, brighter more virulent man. Yes, it's true . And my how his Apple does shine. Rasta Woman was right. Apple. One word.

Steve and I – well – I guess you could say we have entered into a mutually exclusive relationship. He is always ready for anything. He is awake, ready, willing, and able. He has none of this belching and creaking and groaning and stretching. He is ready to go. He hits the ground running- whenever I am ready- so too is he.

Goodbye Bill...Hello Steve…..

Sincerely,

A former PC Groupie – now an Apple Convert

Sock Troubles...

2010-02-04T13:17:00.000-08:00

They are at it again. I can hear them giggling and whispering behind my back. It never fails. Just when I think I am in control, that I have things firmly in hand - Kaboom!

The socks of the world have united against me. I have no less than 8 different socks in varying shade of pearl grey, mud spattered white, coffee stained yellow and black with stripes, black with ribbed coating and not a one has a mate.

I feel like I have become the host of the dating game for socks. In this corner over here we have a lovely white sock with a small hole in the big toe – extra air conditioning really- looking extremely dapper and in need of a mate. And over here looking suave and sexy is gold toe reinforced cashmere sock eagerly in need of a mating…

I swear, they go in as two and come out as one. It makes no sense. Does the laundry machine eat them; chew them up and spit them out as lint bits? I just don’t know. Where do these rapscallions hide? Amidst and among the shirt sleeves and coat tails? In the lining of swim suits? In the hoods of sweat shirts? Why can’t they just stay with their mates? What is this divorce court? It is out of control.

And then just when I think I am going to just toss the bunch of rabble rousers and start over – or maybe turn them into dusting clothes for hard to reach place or puppets with bug eyes for me to use as wake up calls for DH and DS, just then out pops a varmint from the inner lining of a recently changed set of sheets or from the folds of a swim towel giving me a smug look as it plops very unceremoniously to the ground.

Failing dismally at my ability to manage the socks I see little hope for the rest of the house. I think it is time to think about a trade-in- I will talk to the DH – maybe there is a good trade in on a used model of house wife these days…

copyright 2009-2010 all rights reserved.

Poof- be Gone...

2009-11-07T17:21:00.000-08:00

Poof! Be Gone! That is what I wish I could say and make the myriads of piles just disappear.

What piles you ask? Well, the piles that magically appear on the family room couch for example. Dirty socks strewn haphazardly across the cushions; boxer shorts lounging languidly sans occupant, empty cheese stick wrappers ruing the day, television remote controls in prime view of Hercules the cat, milk cups with dried drops glued to the innards…the list goes on and on. The fairy godmother has until recently been magically managing these endless piles of stuff and sending the items to their proper home: the laundry room, the recycle bin, the dishwasher. Until today.

This is when the above- mentioned fairy godmother accidentally poisoned (well a slight exaggeration) said Dear Son (DS) by offering the young lad who I must admit is a wee bit under the legal age of drinking and driving – a bit of alcohol-laden chocolate sent to us from some dear friends in Paris. Now I will admit that contained within the package was a note explaining what went to whom. The chocolate package looked like it could have been for DS. So, I opened the package and took out a very innocent looking brown wrapper which DS began to unwrap and stick in his mouth.

“Bleck! Ach...” Cough. Sputter. DS ran to the sink to expectorate contents of his mouth and gulp down water. “Mom, what was that?!” he asked incredulously.

I looked at him, red in the face from coughing. I then looked more closely at the package and realized that although there was indeed chocolate and biscuit in the sweet offering there was also a good deal of liqueur – pear brandy to be exact.

Well, I couldn’t control myself and began to laugh somewhat hysterically while DS recuperated from his brief brush with alcohol. “I am so sorry honey,” I said with my most contrite mom voice.

“Next time I will read the note before assuming anything.” I gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“That would be a good idea Mom,” DS said. “And while you are at it, maybe you could make that box of whatever it is disappear?”

I gave him the sweets intended for him which he promptly devoured.

Now what has any of this to do with poofing? Well, nothing really, except that it got the above mentioned fairy-godmother-of-sorts thinking that she had better enable her DS to fend for himself – from the likes of yours truly proffering candy – and better learn to control his environment- which means starting with limiting the messes. By not creating them.

Or having created a mess- cleaning it up.

Poof! Be Gone!

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Daylight Savings....

2009-11-02T14:56:00.001-08:00

“My hour of sleep was savagely ripped from my loins in April and today, the one day I can take comfort in reclaiming that hour by sleeping in my wife decides that I have actually gained an hour to do more with the day. “

These were the words uttered out of my husband’s mouth at 7:15 a.m. this past Sunday which happened to begin Daylight Savings Time. The sun was high in the sky and the actual time as I informed him was actually 8:15 a.m. And we had a whole new hour to carpe diem.

He looked at me with one eyes and rolled over in the bed, pulling the blankets up over his head. I tried to sneak under and give him a gentle loving kiss on the cheek. But alas, he held those covers tighter than he holds onto his wallet when I walk by.

“Papa, it is a beautiful day outside. You must get up, do a few deep cleansing breaths and welcome the start of the fall.”

I heard what sounded like a groan emitting from the bed.

“I am trying to gain back the hour that has so rudely been wrenched from my arms. The hour that I truly deserve and have earned.”

I tried futilely to pry the covers from his hands and provide him with a gentle shake, rattle and roll, to try and get the blood flowing through his body which was pulled into a fetal position.

“Just think of all the great things you can do with your newfound hour dear. “

I succeeded in helping my husband roll over and unleash the covers. I gave him a big hug and a smile and said, “Welcome to the fall my dear husband.”

The day was just beginning. An extra hour to enjoy.

If only I could make my husband see the beauty of this philosophy…

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

A Wee Bit of ...

2009-10-15T13:24:00.000-07:00

Paisley prints went out a while ago. Or so I would like to think. The spermatozoa splotches of pinks and purple and psychedelic shades of blue and green never did much for me. Which is why I was surprised to see a motley collection of shapes that looked like paisley prints recently rimming the seat of the downstairs toilet seat.

The seat itself was up. The messy collection of prints was around the circumference of the seat proper.

“Hm, thought I to myself, “That is strange. I just cleaned this bathroom yesterday.” (I am the maid, cook and bottle washer (make that cup washer) in our humble abode.)

Well, as I peered in for closer inspection I noticed that the normally clear water in the bowl was not clear. It contained. Well, this is a G-rated website, so I won’t bother with descriptive. Let it suffice to say that the color was a shade of liquid amber.

That said, I gave a squeal when I realized indeed what had taken place in the commode.

Kitty (aka that Hercules) had decided to go for a look, drink, goodness knows why. Curiosity I guess.

I do know that I went out of the bathroom and summoned dear offspring and asked him to come ‘have a look.’

“Now, my dearest son,” said I in my most matronly voice.

“What do you think has happened here?”

He took a look at the toilet seat, inspected the curiously edged paw prints rimming the white seat and pronounced, “It looks like Hercules was here.”

I gave him the “That’s your response” look along with a gentle finger pointing and said, “Please be more careful next time – put the lid down next time.”

He sighed and said, “I’m sorry Mom. I won’t do it again. Now can I go back and watch the wrestling match on television?”

I gave the toilet and the bathroom sink and the floor a good scrubbing.

As for Hercules- I contemplated giving his paws a cleaning, but wasn’t sure how he would react….

I swear this cat is going to make me decide that having a chameleon for a pet might just be the answer.

They don’t chew wires do they?

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Kibble Loaf

2009-09-26T20:58:00.000-07:00

I admit it. I am not the world’s greatest cook. Martha Stewart, Rachel Ray, Julia Child (rest her Butter lovin’ soul) have absolutely nothing to worry about from me in terms of competition. But, if they knew they would probably shudder and refer me to the Food and Drug Administration for family endangerment – if they knew.

But they don’t. In any case, it all is nonsense really. I am not a good cook. My family knows that. My friends know that. Practically every friend I ever had knew that. Past tense being the operative word here.

Once these former friends tasted the (ahem) comestibles from my kitchen, well, those of you wise and vintage enough to recall the song from the Sugarhill Gang from the early ‘80s just might remember the following lines:

have you ever went over a friend’s house to eat and the food just aint no good
the macaroni’s soggy, the peas are mushed
and the chicken tastes like wood….

The above lyrics, from the 1979 hit called “Rapper’s Delight” pretty much summarize how most folks feel about my cooking. And I am right there with them. I wouldn’t eat my cooking either- if only I were rich enough to afford a live-in cook.

I give me credit for trying- again the operative word – trying. Take for example the other evening- a typical dinner in the household of DH and his mini me- also known as DS – (Dear Son for those of you just tuning into this riveting blog). I served up a dinner of vegetables- asparagus I believe, salad and meatloaf.

I got a bit creative this time since I can never remember exactly what the recipe calls for anyway. So I added a dab of this and a smidge of that and served it up piping hot to my ravenous boys. So follow along if you will and picture the following.

The scene:

[The kitchen table, low light, father, son and mother sitting down about to eat. Son says evening blessing, “Thank you for our food. Amen.” Short, sweet and to the point you might say.]

Son: Mom, did you do something different to the meatloaf? It tastes a little well, strange.

Mom: No, not really.

Dad: Seriously honey, what did you add to it? It does have a different flavor. (Here he tries to swallow a mouthful – it appears to be somewhat painful.)

Son: Mom, is there kibble in this meatloaf?

(DH tries to not choke on his asparagus as son spots out these words.)

Mom: No, there is no kibble in here.

Son: Mom, did you put some of Hercules’ cat food in here? It does have a certain texture to it tonight I mean…

(Son and Father are in hysterics by this point over the possibility that I have indeed put kitty kibble into the evening meatloaf.)

Mom: Well, I can see that this is another successful meal.

Dad: Now honey, don’t take it personally. We still love you.

Mom: Indeed, I did not see you nor hear you for that matter jumping to my defense which by default makes you as guilty as said son.

Dad: But I didn’t say a word.

Mom: Perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps you could have asked our son to be well, less well, more grateful anyway.

Son: Hey that’s it Mom, our evening grace will from now on be:

"Thank you for our food and may we not be served kibble again. Amen."

I think I will end this scene here, with 'moi' grinding the evening meal down the garbage incinerator.

[Son and Husband are still laughing as they stick two spoons into a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and head off to watch an episode of the Disney show, The Suite Life of Zac and Cody.]

Sweet life indeed....

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Kitty Litter

2009-09-18T16:47:00.000-07:00

Six weeks ago I was a perfectly average domestic diva. For the record, I coined this phrase in 1998 the year my son was born and actually had taken out the domain names including domesticdiva.org, domesticdiva.com - and then my DH said that I didn’t need them- had I only kept them…but I digress.

As I mentioned, a mere month and a half ago I was just doing my best to juggle housework, meal preparation, family outings, swim practice for an eleven year-old and the usual collection of things that take up time. I was plenty busy with daily life. It was rather routine, but comfortable. No complaints really.

Did I mention that was six weeks ago? Let us refer to that period of time as BP for ‘before pet.’ Now here I am six weeks later with a four-legged creature of the feline variety that has taken up residence within our house. Let us call this period of existence the Now Pet (NP.) This now ten month-old kitty named Hercules Apollo for his Herculean strength, has inserted himself smack dab in the middle of our daily life.

As a matter of fact he is more than comfortable and has made himself right at home. So much so that as soon as he hears a pot or a dish he comes running into the kitchen to see if perhaps there is a sweet nibblet available for his enjoyment. I know he comes running because around his neck is a crystal collar with a bell that jingles as soon as he takes a step. I would not be good with a stealth kitty under foot. Would not be a good thing – for him or me- or the family now that I think about it.

When said kitty hears me in the kitchen he can almost be assured that he will indeed be given a bit of something more than his rather drab and boring bowl of round brown pellets – the recommended diet from the veterinarian. So, he will often get a piece of chopped up deli ham or turkey on a plate that was part of our wedding registry (I digress once more). Hyacinth from “Keeping up Appearances" would be proud of me I am sure.

Kitty has his own little placemat with color coordinated bowls for water and dry food and then there is the lovely small china plate that holds special treats. Among his favorite are tuna, turkey and ham. He also enjoys a teaspoon or two of vanilla yogurt, but will not turn up his nose at blueberry yogurt for that matter.

Speaking of turning up one’s nose, he has developed quite the skill and does indeed register his dislike when I proffer him with salmon. After a sniff and a lick he turns his kitty eyes - two sparkling orbs – and implores me to take it away. If he really is displeased with the offered vittles he meows.

Imagine - it isn’t enough that we took him in when he was cold and hungry, that we provide him food and shelter, but now he has the audacity to meow when he wants something different. Like a petulant child. Indeed I say.

As life with a pet continues, I find that I think of kitty when I receive an interesting piece of mail that might provide entertainment for him. His hours are more like those of a movie star and he usually naps until well after noon unless I prod him awake for a bit of exercise.

I have created a few stimulation zones and try to insure that there are new and fun things for him to explore. His latest enrichment item is a Trader Joe paper bag in which I place toys from his treasure box - I am assuming that every kitty has a treasure box n'est pas?

Of course the whole kitty litter thing is an exercise in patient and humility. I try and change it daily. I don my mask, double bag and my scooper and get busy. It is a lovely site. Often Hercules will observe me from the doorway of the guest bathroom which is where we decided to place the kitty’s special throne.

He sits on his back legs with his front white mittens placed neatly in front of him with his head cocked to one side as if he is trying to figure out what it is I am doing.

“I am cleaning up your poop,” I explain. “I thought I was done with diapers but it seems I am not,” I sigh and he comes and nuzzles against my leg.

It is his way of saying thank you. At least that is what I imagine.

This is my life in the NP era….

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Mad Catter Momma

2009-08-18T12:57:00.000-07:00

I must be batty. Or Catty. Yes, that is it. I have become the mad catter momma. You have heard of the Mad Hatter. Well, close your eyes and imagine a wrinkly old lady with a stooped arch to her spine and leathery hands and a big mop of unruly hair on her head and you will have a picture of what a mad catter mama would look like.

Yours truly has become a cat owner. Who would a thunk? Certainly not moi. I mean, the closest I ever came to owning a pet was back in the mid 80’s when I had to babysit 25 hamsters in a lab during college spring break. While the rest of my fellow college buddies were off in the Bahamas or Florida, I was in a lab weighing said hamsters, observing how much of the hulled sunflowers versus the unhulled sunflowers were gobbled by my four legged furry pals and changing way too much sawdust. I had enough of the stuff to last me a life time.

Having a husband and a son is more than enough for this ol’ mama. Or so I thought. Life was fine just as it was. Until a couple of weeks ago when DS out of the blue inquired if I would like to go for a morning walk. Of course I jumped at the chance. As we walked along the Eucalyptus lined path near our house we talked about going back to school, the new adventures of being in sixth grade, what to have for dinner and when we should plan to go and see the new movie “G-Force.” Deep stuff.

We were on our way home when we heard a sound in the bushes. We stopped and looked; peering out at us was a honey colored tabby with white mitten socks. We stopped to say hello and noticed that the kitty did not have a collar.

But this kitty was ever so friendly. He (or she) came up and proceeded to give us purrs and licks and to follow us the three blocks to our house.

Well, DS and I figured that the kitty belonged to someone and that they were probably looking for him (her- we learned later that kitty was indeed a “he”). We also assumed that the kitty was probably hungry. We invited the kitty into our humble abode and since I was not sure that the kitty would like cheerios, I decided to offer the kitty some tuna.

He gobbled the tuna and sat there in the kitchen purring contentedly. DS and I watched in fascination as the kitty proceeded to snoop and inspect the various rooms of the house before deciding to join us for an episode of the Suite Life of Zack and Cody.

DS of course wanted to keep the kitty but I was concerned that someone was looking for this kitty without a collar and despite his attempts to ingrain himself into my non feline loving heart (he sat on my head, kneading it and purring with his little kitty head on the side of my face- I kid you not) I knew we would have to make a good hearted attempt to try and find his rightful owner.

We called the local animal shelter that sent out an officer to pick up said Kitty who by now we had nicknamed Hercules for his ability to push empty boxes around with the mere swat of a paw.

Well, to make a long story short, no one claimed the kitty. And here we are a week later with a new member of the family, hereby referred to as DK (Dear Kitty, who is also fine with being referred to by his name: Hercules Apollo.)

He sleeps on top of the head of DS and will come and snuggle on a lap and chase a ball and attempt to get into all kinds of mischief.

Not wanting kitty to be lonely I of course went out to Toys R Us looking for age appropriate kitty toys. After all, he is more like a baby than a baby really. When I explained that I was looking for small balls and such for a kitty the store clerk just smiled and told me to have a nice day.

Of course every kitty needs a soft blanket and Hercules loves his blue blanket which he sleeps with every night. When we leave the house I turn on the jazz station which I think he enjoys and I let him know we will be back in a few hours.

I have not yet resorted to calling and leaving messages for him to insure that he knows I am thinking of him, but I am sure that day will come soon.

Thus, closing your eyes can you not picture a bag lady – albeit with a big brown bag-and a good pair of shoes – walking the streets of a local beach community with a honey colored tabby following close behind- like the pied piper perhaps. Or the Mad Hatter.

Be kind to the old batty catty lady. She may be someone you know...

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Mai Tai Monday

2009-07-29T10:26:00.000-07:00

My Dear Husband (DH to those of you in the know - my dear followers) of a decade plus recently decided to take a one week vacation. A pure unadulterated stick to your roots stay-cation at the homestead. This was his dream. Simple and easy.

He has been in need of such a break from the daily grind for a while, and with DS in a half-day ocean camp, DH would pretty much able to do what he wanted to do on his time table. Of course should he require a partner in crime I would be willing and able. Caveat being I had to be back in time to pick up said son from camp.

Well, on Monday, the first official day of the DH sojourn to solitude and rejuvenation, I began my daily morning ritual of making beds, getting a load of laundry started and packing a lunch for DS to take with him to the beach. DH slept in and was left to dream and count little lambs.

I roused the younger version of my husband and he prepared for his day at the beach by wolfing down a granola bar and a cup of milk, and after a friendly reminder from yours truly,” “Don’t forget to brush your teeth dear,” DS and I left for camp.

We were running a few minutes late and usually when this happens there is a good deal of gruff from the small one grimacing about why brush when he would just be eating again in a few hours. But not this morning. This Monday morning was looking up.

Off we went, my pint sized blonde son with a smattering of freckles across his nose and his long tan legs poking out of his jammer. My goodness he was getting tall and lanky. He certainly didn’t look like a little boy anymore. But I wouldn’t tell him that.

On the twenty minute drive we chatted about the upcoming quiet month of August- no camps, no swim, and just pure sweet nothing. How exquisite. Especially for an eleven year-old whose only real responsibility thus far in life was to make his bed, brush his teeth, put his clothes in the hamper and help out when asked by Mama on occasion. Other than that, the world was his oyster as I often told him. “I don’t like oysters, mom,” was his pat response. “They are slimy. So can we make my world be something more like a Wiener schnitzel hot dog or pizza?”

After dropping DS off at the school where he would be transported with his class of twenty or so like minded beach bums in training I waved goodbye, blew him a kiss and headed off to the gym. I had an appointment with a nine o’clock SET class (strength, endurance and training class) and I didn’t want to be late.

While I sweated and groaned throughout the sixty minute class my DS was home unattended and getting into goodness knew what. So when I walked into the house looking very much like something the neighborhood cat had dragged in from a hard night , I was greeted by the sights of my my DS was standing there all smiles.

“Honey, how about you and I head down to Fashion Island for a nice lunch?”

I looked at him for a moment. My DS asking me to go to one of my all time favorite crime spots in the world – on a Monday morning.

I put down my sweaty towel and asked him if there was a reason he had chosen Fashion Island- an incredible outdoor mall set amongst palm trees, Koi pond and piped in music- not to mention my two favorite stores – Bloomies and Neiman Marcus.

I admit it- I am a shopaholic- I love clothes and as a former assistant buyer at B. Altman’s many many years back the love of fashion has stayed with me. Nothing better than a good dose of au courant to chase away the blues of a recession, yes indeed.

Of course I love any chance to have a date with my sophisticated man, but I knew there had to be more to the story since DS is anything but a shopper. DS explained that he needed to replace his Bose headset and there happened to be a Bose store in Fashion Island. Of course I knew exactly where it was located. After all, Fashion Island is my home away from home. I can often be found sitting under the umbrella of a large green tree with an iced coffee watching little children experience the magic of the Koi pond. It is a cost effective way to relax and enjoy at the same time.

After a 12 minute shower I was dressed and ready to go. We hopped in the car and made our way to the Island of Fashion where much to my husband’s chagrin the Bose store did not have the headset in stock. No worries, he would order it online.

Next stop- lunch. We decided on Cheesecake Factory and had a nice corner table where we could look out onto the skyline and the ocean. I ordered water and a salad and DS ordered a soup and salad combo and water – and a mai tai. It was 11:45 a.m.

“It is five o’clock somewhere,” DS said with an impish grin as he took his first sip.

I watched him savor this Monday morning treat and joked about it being a “Mai Tai Monday morning” and he laughed. We both did actually.

It is the simple unplanned pleasures of life that we must grab when they are afforded. And today, DS was grabbing for a mai tai and I would drive us home. All was good.

Well, we ate our delicious lunch and as DS slurped the last few liquid droplets of his drink I could tell that the alcohol had begun to work her magic and DS was smiling a big big grin.

“Everything okay Papa?” I asked.

He wiped his mouth on the napkin and glanced up at the ceiling, out at the ocean and then at me.

“I am wonderful,” he said.

And such was the first day of a vacation for an overworked husband much in need of a respite. Mai Tai Monday may become a yearly event.

Taxi cab at the ready!

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Take a Hike

2009-07-15T21:00:00.000-07:00

“Honey, I am going on a hike.”

These were the seven words uttered by my Dear Husband (DH) the other evening. We were in the living room being lounge lizards. I was playing catch up on back issues of The New Yorker magazine which had begun to pile up in a most annoying way. DH was reclining on the other end of the couch looking at his Kindle. Somehow I can’t imagine the Kindle as actually supporting the task of reading, but, to each their own.

“Okay,” said I. “Have fun. Be back before breakfast.”

I studied the cover of the magazine in my hands. A nun, a girl in a bikini and a woman in what appeared to be traditional Islamic dress with a hijab and long black dress sat staring out at the reader. I noticed that the woman in the Islamic attire was actually similar to the outfit of the nun except that she wore a big ol' cross on her chest.

I listened to the smooth butterscotch voice of DH as I studied the cover trying to understand what it was the artist was sharing with his art. I traced my hand along the outline of the woman dressed in the bikini. She had on sunglasses and her legs were crossed. I noticed she had on platform shoes that didn't look very practical for a day at the beach.

“Well, I am not sure yet where the hike will take me,” said DH. “I mean I haven’t exactly decided. It may be Appalachia or it may be Argentina.”

“Well, at least you know which letter of the alphabet you are talking about,” I replied.

I glanced over at my DH looking very comfortable in his perch on the couch. His blue eyes were the color of topaz at dusk and he stared back at me as a rogue lock of sandy blond hair plopped over his left eyebrow. He had on an orange tee-shirt with skeletons dancing across the front of it. ‘Rattle them bones,’ was printed in block letters underneath the skeletons.

“You might want to get a haircut before you go,” I said.

He laughed and began to scroll through the electronic device propped on his lap.

"A hike,” I thought to myself. “I can’t even get him to go on a constitutional around the block and now he wants to go on a hike?”

DH gave me a big smile and a yawn, the wide open mouthed hippo-style yawn that seem to go on forever. That kind of yawn.

“Have you read anything interesting on your Kindle? “I asked my husband who had become way too horizontal on the couch.

I decided to try and get to the bottom of this sudden interest in hiking, and decided that maybe asking questions like Miss Marple – on seemingly unrelated matters might bring me closer to the truth.

“Well, there is a senator from South Carolina who is in a bit of hot water for a vacation he recently took,” DH said in a sleepy voice.

“Indeed,” I replied. “What kind of vacation did he take exactly?”

“Well, it seems that he neglected to tell his wife where he was going - just that he was going on a hike someplace to get away and think for a few days.” I could hear the cracks in my husband's ankles as he changed his position on the couch.

“So far sounds reasonable,” I said. Being a firm believer in the importance of personal space I support a few days here and there to get re-acquainted with one’s inner self.

“I guess you could say it turned into a little bit more than a commune with nature,” my husband said with a chuckle.

“It turns out that the good senator from the good state of South Carolina decided the scenery was better in Argentina and decided that neither his wife nor his staff needed to know how to get in touch with him. He was spontaneous- like you honey. Except that when he got to Argentina the only hiking he did was with a pretty Latina with whom it turns out he had been having a riveting email relationship."

I dropped the magazine into my lap and looked over at DH who was grinning- an ear to ear grin that said: “I am a goof.”

“Well dear, if you would like to go on a hike anywhere in the alphabet I am happy to accompany you,” I said in my sweetest candy voice and I winked.

And DH winked back.

Hike indeed.

I wonder who paid the bill for that hike? Come to think about it, I’ll bet the almighty senator will be paying for that hike for a long long time to come.

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Pine Needle in a Haystack

2009-07-07T14:11:00.000-07:00

It’s good to be a nobody. It’s kind of like being a pine needle in a haystack.

I mean, a nobody will never make it to the front page of the tabloids for having mismatched shoes or a missing button. A nobody will never be paraded in a five page spread complete with broccoli in her teeth and grey tufts peeking out from under a baseball cap. A nobody will not be hunted or hounded by the paparazzi tribe parading around with cameras and direct connects to the Internet.

As a nobody I can burn the meatloaf and the only ones who will give a fig- flying or otherwise - will be my DS and DH. Both of whom are eternally understanding and forgiving. What brand of toothpaste I use, the fact that I have crow’s feet, wrinkles or any other flaw will not become tabloid headlines or a point of reference on the Ryan Seacrest radio program.

Nobody cares about what a nobody eats or reads. When you are a nobody it is indeed like looking for a needle in the almighty haystack; and I like being part of the collective haystack. There is safety in bits of hay. Albeit prickly now and then, but good. Safe. Quiet.

In recent days we have had the passing of some great entertainment luminaries – Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Karl Malden, and Ed McMahon – each of whom shared incredible gifts with the world. Yet, each was singularly human. Each now is a subject of the vicious and insatiable appetite of the masses for salaciousness. Somebody wants to know the sordid details of the laundry and now the closets and dresser drawers are all being scavenged for who has the most untidy, most messy piece of fabric that needs to be hung on the interminable clothes line of lies and deceit.

Being a somebody comes at a steep cost. I applaud the efforts and talents of these individuals who have moved beyond and whose work here on this planet is now done. May they be resting in peace, sipping pink lemonade and listening to a few great tunes on a fluffy white cloud of hope.
When you are a nobody, it means that there isn’t a somebody to garner special reservations at the latest and greatest eating establishment. It does mean that as a nobody sometimes luck steps in and gives you a full hand. It means appreciation for getting a front row seat, or a great table or a smile or a bit of courtesy just because- not because someone expects anything in return- but just because.

Being a nobody means if I decide to run out in yesterday’s sweaty clothes that no one will care and actually it may provide an intended twenty feet personal space barrier to insure that those standing behind me in the grocery or bank give me an extra wide birth. Yup, being a nobody definitely has its advantages and upside.

I like being a nobody to the rest of the world. Because to those whom I care about and those who care about me I am a somebody - snug in the confines of our own little haystack. To me, that is just about perfect. I have no fear of The National Enquirer, People Magazine, TMZ, Access Hollywood, or any of the motley collection of fool’s follies knocking on my door or peering in my window anytime soon.

And that suits me just fine.

I like being a pine needle in the haystack.

copyright 2008-2009 all rights reserved.

Tissue for Your Thoughts...

2009-06-30T14:13:00.000-07:00

I was in need of a piece of paper to scribble a thought I had about the recent death of Michael Jackson.

It was just a thought that the muse had whispered in my ear and the chance of it flitting away like an air bubble within the next five minutes was highly likely.

I was getting ready to drop the children – yes you read right- children- as in plural – as in more than one – at their summer camp. For the next three weeks my DH, DS and I are part of the goodwill ambassador foundation. We are sharing our house and home and our simple life with a fourteen year-old French boy. Oui- c’est vrais.

I was taking our young Frenchman and DS to their Ocean Camp at the other end of town. Two mop heads poked up from the back seat of the car as I made sure that I had indeed opened the garage door.

Garage doors and I have a somewhat static relationship. I once upon a time backed up a brand new car into the garage door that was coming down and it scalped the back side of the new car’s bumper.

Another time, the same car now that I think about, I decapitated a side mirror. My poor DH….but stories for another day.

This morning I was in mom mode and needed to get my charges to their camp on time. Garage door opened, key in ignition, I was listening to the familiar deep throated growl from my car when the thought hit me. My icon of youth, Michael Jackson, had passed away. He was just a few years older than me. Immortality or lack thereof was sending goose bumps down the back of my neck.

I began backing the car up looking over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t accidently hit a concrete boulder or an unsuspecting neighbor walking the dog. Michael Jackson was still with us. He had just taken on a different form I told myself. His music lives on in the myriad of his LPS, CDs and DVDs I had collected over the years.

I wanted to write this thought down in case it slipped out the back door before I had a chance to at least introduce it to the grey matter of my rather spotty mind.

I stuck my hand into the dark belly of my purse that for some reason seemed endless this morning. I felt around with my fingers and felt the shape of a phone, a wallet and a soft and squishy item that I was not sure about.

Aha! My fingers brushed against a slippery piece of something that crinkled when I tried to grab it. Paper! I pulled the sorry looking scrap out of the purse and stopped the car. On the paper was the following:

turkey meat
small packages of Pringles chips
sun screen
Gatorade large six pack orange/red/yellow
cheese squares
celery
one carton of organic low fat milk
Paul Newman’s lemonade

Riveting I thought to myself. How could I ever find room on this eensy weensy bit of paper to scribble my latest thought?

“Mom, can I have a tissue please?” I heard from the back seat of the car.

“Sure, honey,” I said, reaching into the console and pulling out a wad of the soft white stuff. Handing him the tissue I had an epiphany.

I can write my thoughts on a tissue - albeit unused.

“Thanks Mom,” said my son blowing into his cotton cloud.

“No, it is I who must thank you,” said I. “You helped me to be resourceful in a dire time of need,” I said as I furiously scribbled my thoughts on the soft tissue in my hand before they muse left me.

Desperate times desperate measures.

Salt and Vinegar

2009-06-30T13:45:00.000-07:00

After picking up my two charges from their morning summer camp we made our way home for the afternoon meal. Two hungry boys with growling bellies is not a pleasant thing to encounter. Lunch was needed ASAP.

Thus, I scrambled as quickly as a mom with two legs can: hauling out deli meat, mustard, mayo, cheese, wheat bread, veggies and created a lovely lunch complete with a watermelon appetizer, Sprite and organic cookies.

Emile, our visiting French boy, sat next to my son on the couch. They chuckled and laughed as they watched the antics of a television show about two mop headed boys names Zac and Cody. I gathered from the raucous laughter that the boys on the TV had similar dispositions to that of the two boys sitting in my living room.

“Hey Mom,” said my tow-headed son splayed on the couch.

“Can we have some of the Salt and Vinegar Pringles I bought for Emile and me?”

“Okay,” said I making my way over to the pantry.

Where two of the blue and gold cans had recently stood at attention there was now a big empty space.

I gulped, realizing that these salt and vinegar chips were something the boys looked forward to almost on a daily basis. And it was summer, so I didn’t sweat it too much. However, I began to sweat thinking how was I to break the news of MIA Pringles to the young lads?

I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hi Mom, I thought I would come over and help you find them,” said Dear Son. Sheesh, he was getting tall, I realized. Now he came up past my shoulder. I shook my head and stepped back while he stuck half his body inside the pantry prowling for the cans.

“They were here yesterday,” he said pointing to the gaping maw of what used to be home to two cans of unopened Pringles.

“Hm,” said I standing there perplexed, as my son’s eyes filled with tears.

Part of me wanted to laugh - after all, we are talking about chips - not even spilled milk- over which the phrase, “crying over spilled milk,” was created. But looking at his pinched face I realized that this was no laughing matter.

“Well, honey,” said I putting on a stiff upper lip. “I am not sure where they went. Perhaps Daddy has been having a midnight snack when we are all snuggled safely in bed. You know how he enjoys a good munch while he is watching a movie or playing WOW.”

DS closed the pantry door with a sigh and a small sob and just stared at me. His eyes were glistening and I knew that I had about three seconds to resolve this situation.

“We bought those chips for Emile and me, Mom” DS moaned.

I rubbed my hand across his cheek, and wiped a lone teardrop slipping forlornly down the left side of his face.

Shaking my hips left to right, I did what I do best, the Mama dance. “I will r-u-n, o-u-t, n-o-wwww,” I crooned to the tune of the Jackson Five’s ABC-123.

“I will be back before you are even half way through your lunch,” said I trying to feel as brave as I sounded. Now I knew how George Washington must have felt before the battle of Brandywine Creek.

I hopped out, ran to the market and picked up two cans of Salt and Vinegar Pringles as well as two bags of Lay’s Salt and Vinegar chips. They were on sale - buy one, get one free.

I flew home, feeling like Glinda the good witch of Oz, except that she had an amazing ability to poof while I had to wait for three lights to change from red to green. Opening the door I found four eyes, four hands and two mouths eagerly awaiting S&V chips, and I delivered. Smiles and a myriad of ‘thank-yous’ greeted my ears.

“You’re the best Mom,” said DS with a mouth stuffed with the salty pleasure.

“Glad to help,” I smiled as I made my way to DH’s cave where I deposited the two-for-one bags of salt and vinegar chips. This way, he could have his own booty without dipping into that of the boys.

Everyone would be happy.

At least this was my hope.

Expedition of the spuds

2009-06-25T14:46:00.000-07:00

Today being Thursday I had nothing planned for this morning at 6:30 a.m. Nothing other than volunteering time at my son’s swim team to help prepare for a four day swim meet. Lucky for me I am an early bird, proud to claim that I often am awake before the sweet song of the crow and parrot compete for best vocal.

I had signed up to help with hospitality, which in a nutshell means setting up a table (two actually) and providing coffee and fruit and donuts to coaches from the various teams. Or so I thought. It has been a few months since I last ’volunteered’ in the hospitality area and thus my surprise and near heart attack when I was informed that there was cooked food being served at the tent.

“Cooked food?” I muttered to myself. “What do they mean exactly by cooked food?”

Nick, one of the old timers, and my version of a living breathing teddy bear, informed me that several months ago a new team of volunteers decided to add cooked food to the menu - like omelettes and pancakes for the coaches.

“Uh-huh,” I replied. Tongue stuck to the roof my mouth, I wondered what in the world I would do now since my culinary talents begin with a smile and end with pouring coffee. Visions of me flipping a pancake in a pan were not pretty. I was recalling the episode of I Love Lucy when she tries to make a pizza. Not a pretty picture.

Needless to say I decided there and then that my volunteer skills would be better served behind the scenes, as in the back room.

I was then chartered with washing grapes and blueberries and slicing vegetables for use in the said omelettes.

Luckily, the Head Hospitality Mama loves to cook and that is her domain so that I and my other volunteer moms were more than happy to oblige and stay out of the way and simply follow commands.

One of the gals had been given an instruction which was brought back to me: “Expedite the potato prep.”

I stared at the deliverer of this message, a petite blond with incredibly sea blue eyes. Okay Patti, how does one expedite the dicing of potatoes? We giggled as she picked up her knife and helped me slice and dice the spuds. Hash browns were the next order of business on the food deck out front. I needed to get busy expediting.

“Expedite the spuds,” I said and began to laugh. We looked at each other. Were we in a board room meeting and had simply forgotten ourselves?

I looked around the room, realizing that with the motley collection of folks here, many in shorts and tee-shirts and smelling of sunscreen that I definitely was not in a board room of any traditional format.

I repeated my hollowed phrase: Expedite the spuds - and hold the suds.

I honestly don’t know why we found this to be funny, but suddenly it was. Perhaps being volunteers in the wee hours of the morning – sans coffee – we had gone off the edge of normality.

Out on the pool deck was a full blown swim café complete with piping fresh coffee and made-to-order omelettes and pancakes…and to think just a few months back the swim coaches were happy with a coffee and a bagel.

How times have changed. And this being a recession no less.

Expediting spuds . Two words I never would have sewn together but now they have become part of the fabric of my swimming lexicon.

Let’s salute the expedition of the spuds.

All hail hash browns on deck….

Parlais Vous…

2009-06-24T18:18:00.000-07:00

I don’t know the word for garbage in French. I wish I did. It would have come in handy the other day as I tried to bleakly explain to our visiting French friend Emile, why it was we could not move the car.

We had finished a nice leisurely breakfast at the neighborhood International House of Pancakes (IHOP) and had strapped ourselves into the car which was parked near to an enclosed area that I soon found out was home to two very large garbage bins.

“I am sorry,” I say. “Je suis désolé, mais nous avons un petit problème.” I turn to my passengers in the back seat. I notice my son is wearing a milk moustache and that there is a splat of something yellow on Emile’s tee-shirt. “Two peas in a pod,” I think to myself.

“It is the garbage truck,” I try to explain, adding a French accent for affect- the closest thing I can get to fluency.

I suppose it is more correct to refer to the giant metal monster as a waste management vehicle, WMV for short, but somehow garbage truck just seems to roll off the tongue so much easier.

Le Murphy – as in Murphy’s Law - is my personal guide through life. I contemplate trying to explain the concept of Murphy’s Law, but decide against it.

Emile is looking at me through his glasses with a smile of sorts, not sure what to make or what to say to this strange American lady behind the wheel of the car.

My Dear Son (DS) pipes in, “It never fails, if there is a fire truck, bus, student driver, little old lady, or hearse somehow they find my mom- or she finds them. I am still not sure.” I grimace and catch a glimpse of his face in the rear view mirror. He smiles at me.

“Isn’t that right mom?” DS Says with a chortle from the back seat.

Emile, our 14-year old from Versailles, says, “oui, camion d'ordures.”

I am too busy keeping my eye on the big green bin, bin being the understatement. I watch in utter disbelief as the garbage truck uses its orange pincers to pick up the monstrosity, empty it into the gaping hole on its upper back as if it were no heavier than a tissue, and then gingerly place the big green box back down right behind my car.

“Well, look at that,” I say to no one in particular. The green giant is on wheels and the waste management expert, also known as a garbage man in my ignorance, pops out of his truck and proceeds to wheel the green bin into a fenced area. He then latches the gate, looks over at me waves, gives me a big grin and pops back into his truck.

I smile and wave and pulling my head back inside the window where it has been stretched like that of a tortoise looking to catch a bit of morning sun. How this happens to yours truly is a question best left for another day.

As I pull my head back into the car I notice something shiny on the ground. I open my door, get out of the car and realize I have found two quarters. Yippee!!

That Murphy - he sure does know how to keep one guessing.

“Only you Mom,” DS says as he and Emile snap their fingers in time to a song on the radio by some band of brothers whose name escapes me at the moment…

I start the car, listening to the refrain, “Now I'm speechless, over the edge I'm just breathless...”

Kind of like me...

Tortoises, Turnips and Hippos

2009-05-11T17:50:00.000-07:00

I like to be spontaneous which is why when my DS had asked me several weeks back what I wanted to do for Mother’s Day my reply was noncommittal and fluffy, “Oh let’s just see what they day brings,” said I.

One of the true luxuries of life for me is not having plans. So much of our daily life is microscopically planned, where one needs to be when, etc. So, when I have what I refer to as a “down” weekend or a “down” day- I am ecstatic. It means not having to be any place special at any given time. It means someone else isn’t waiting for me or a loved one to be at some special place at some special time. It means I can do things as I please, when I please.

Ah…the sweet delicious drink of nothingness. It is like no other.

I digress…

Yesterday being the day of giving thanks for Mothers I was thanked with some wonderful thoughts and sentiments by my two boys. And after a morning constitutional with DH to a local French bakery we sauntered back to the homestead where I made the spontaneous decision that I would like to go to the zoo.

Well, after a quick change of clothes we three amigos headed off to the San Diego Zoo. I figured there were few mothers who would want to spend the day grazing and gazing at bipeds, mammals and furry friends- and I was right. It was a beautiful day not too cold, not too hot and we had such a fun time chock full of adventures and laughter. And no crowds!

As always, we began our day with a visit to my ‘ancestors’ as my dear son refers to the wrinkled, wise and crone like features of the tortoises. The males can grow up to six feet from head to tail and can weigh up to 573 pounds. They can live up to more than 100 years- which is why my DS has decided that I will be a long living reptile – despite the fact that I am not a reptile, but perhaps I have more in common than I yet know.

We witnessed a great scene yesterday with a giant tortoise eating a delectable known as a turnip. A Nerf ball size sphere of scrumptiliciousness for a tortoise. How does a tortoise eat such a thing one might well ask. Well, we actually were privy to the amazing feat of this four footed RV on feet. A tortoise doesn’t have teeth, but rather a hard, sharpened edge that he uses to bite with, kind of like a bird’s beak. We stood in awe as this long necked leathered friend held this turnip between his two front feet and with his knife-like beak ripped off bits of the turnip which he managed to swallow whole and seemed to be in Tortoise nirvana.

After our visit to the tortoises we moved on to a collection of lizards in various shapes, sizes and colors sunning themselves on rocks and sand dunes in the soft morning light. We also went to see a show at the world-famous Wedgeworth amphitheater which featured some beautiful birds and a regal wolf and of course a very large sea lion – it was lots of fun - and wetness for those who dared get close enough- we know better and sit far enough back to avoid the splashes from these sea creatures.

Watching the tortoise gobble his lunch had made DS and DH a bit peckish and thus we set off for Albert’s restaurant in the tree house–like setting high above the animal enclosures below with a view that is spectacular and you feel as if you are nestled in a tree. The food was great, the wait was short and we had a lot of laughs.

Speaking of laughs…we strolled the path from Tiger River into the Ituri Forest where we were off to find Hippo Grotto. One of the boys’ most memorable exhibits. Why you might ask? Well, imagine if you will, a rather gregarious river hippo doing water ballet. The luxurious pool in which the hippo named Otis was swimming allowed us to witness some true acts of nature as only she Mother Nature could enable them to be.

We witnessed Otis in all his glory though the spectacular underwater viewing window which showed off his imminent releases – if you get my drift. The guffaws and the ribald laughter that came from the crowd of onlookers was priceless. Especially as we learned that the scratches on Otis were from his “introduction” to the female hippo- seems he is need of some hippo etiquette.
Speaking of etiquette, DS and DH are still laughing about the amount, duration and expanse of poor Otis’ releases- liquid and otherwise. Since this is a G-rated site I won’t belabor the point too much. The humans that came to see them Otis in his luxurious pool were not disappointed.

Great eye-to-nostril encounters were possible through the special underwater viewing window.
Since he’s a male hippo, Otis likes to mark his territory and does it with much exuberance. What does he use? His feces and urine, of course, and the more the better! His paddle-shaped tail swished back and forth as he pooped, making a jet stream along a rock wall along the backside of his enclosure.

Needless to say the boys are still talking about this once in a lifetime moment. And when we asked about this amazing activity in a gift shop the young gal explained that there is a zookeeper wall of shame where those unfortunate enough to be in the line of fire have experienced the almighty power of Otis…

Back to the concept of unplanned moments- we planned none of these great memories-and yet we all had a great time and laughed, learned lots and came away with a renewed respect for what the San Diego Zoo does for conservation and protection and education of animals big and small.

A great day indeed. Spontaneity is truly the spice of life. What more could a mom ask for than the love and good will of her significant others? Not much.

It's Good to Dream

2009-04-29T18:46:00.000-07:00

I like to dream. Especially when looking at one bedroom apartments for sale in the Marais district of Paris. Especially since I know almost exactly where the apartment is located – given the accompanying photos shared with long lusting viewers such as myself courtesy of the The New York Times.

The beastly publication - said with all due respect -since one of my greatest pleasures is sitting in my striped ottoman on Sundays devouring the paper from top to bottom and front to back.

And my homepage on my web browser is set to The New York Times.

But they must shoulder some of the blame for my latest daydreaming and wondering with just how I can come up with a quick mil. As in million – as in Euros….wish I had a rich uncle right about now….Suggestions welcome…

Anyway, today’s front web page had a little section in the right hand corner of the website that caught my eye. Practically anything with the word Paris or Europe will catch the corner of these ol’ eyes, bifocals not withstanding.

With interest piqued I clicked on the link that took me into a world I knew and loved. A world I had become one with just a few short years back. I had walked these same cobbled rues and avenues with my dear Julie, a French daughter of sorts to me- a youngster who had lovingly shared with me this engaging treasure of Paris.

It was very cold as we passed the wonderful jewels of shops, so many tiny gems each sparkling and welcoming in their own Parisian way - the art and the sense of Bohemian joie de vivre.

In Le Marais I bought a pair of leather gloves from a little shop the color of pink taffy where the leather goods were made in the City nearby. The young girl that helped me spoke perfect English and looked like a porcelain doll from a high end catalog. While I do not have much occasion to wear my gloves given that I live in southern California, any excuse – that being a temperature dip to fifty degrees or so I do wear them - and think of Julie and the sense of energy and life that pulsed through every cobblestone we walked on. Every smell of bread and coffee, every well-dressed woman to the college student on his or her bicycle, to every smart car neatly packed into its proper place and time. I touched Le Marais and it touched me.

And now sitting at my desk, safe in the comfort of my little office, viewing the photos of this remarkable one bedroom apartment well, I got to dreaming. At least for a few minutes. Laundry as many of you know, takes no breaks and demands attention – all hours of the day, all days of the week.

And then I thought to myself, tsk, tsk, you have a lovely home that you should be so lucky to own given the uptick in foreclosures in my very neck of the woods. Indeed, some of the neighbors less than a quarter mile away were now stretching their necks ways above the cornfields trying to save their elongated gullets.

So truly, I am content. But as I said, I like to dream.

I can imagine myself humming a little tune as did Leslie Caron in An American in Paris, and I can pretend that I am she. Again, key word being pretend. To wake up and throw open my shutters after a restful sleep and smell the fresh baked croissants wafting up to my nose from the boulangerie down below. And look, over there, Madame Leroux walks her little poodle Fifi .

“Bon jour Madame," says I with a smile and a wave as she looks up and nods. There goes Monsieur Gidot with his bald pate shiney and smooth setting out his daily menu next to his boulangerie.

But all dreams must end. I wake up and remember that my fluency in French is limited to deux mots: “Oui” and “Merci” okay maybe three: “Non.”

The word my DH will surely use more than once in the course of any quackery I may try and throw his way about the smart investment a pied de terre in le Marais would be. One word he is quite fluent in:

“Non.” Imagine Ricky Ricardo telling Lucy, "No" and you can imagine the scene. All the batting of eyelashes will never work. And I have nary a trick that Lucy had- oh if only I did!!!

Ah, C’est la vie…

Join me in my dream if you dare:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/29/greathomesanddestinations/29gh-sale.html?_r=1&8dpc

Tolerance- Teach it- Preach It- Reach It...

2009-04-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

Give us all a reason to love and care about everyone…not just some – this article hit home- I share it with all of my readers – pass it along- especially those of us with children of the same age as these two young little boys- their lives had barely been lived…

http://blow.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/04/24/two-little-boys/

April 24, 2009, 3:04 pm

Two Little Boys

By Charles M. Blow

On April 6, just before dinner, Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, a Massachusetts boy who had endured relentless homophobic taunts at school, wrapped an extension cord around his tiny neck and hanged himself. He was only 11 years old. His mother had to cut him down.

On April 16, just after school, Jaheem Herrera, a Georgia boy who had also endured relentless homophobic taunts at school, wrapped a fabric belt around his tiny neck and hanged himself as well. He too was only 11 years old. His 10-year-old sister found him.

Two beaming little boys, lost. To intolerance? Too tragic.

The sad ends to their short lives shine a harsh light on the insidious scourge of the homophobic bullying of children.

Children can’t see their budding lives through the long lens of wisdom - the wisdom that benefits from years passed, hurdles overcome, strength summoned, resilience realized, selves discovered and accepted, hearts broken but mended and love experienced in the fullest, truest majesty that the word deserves. For them, the weight of ridicule and ostracism can feel crushing and without the possibility of reprieve. And, in that dark and lonely place, desperate and confused, they can make horrible decisions that can’t be undone.

For as much progress that’s been made on the front of acceptance and tolerance of all people, regardless of our differences, enough hatred remains–tucked in the crags and spread about the surface–to force Carl and Jaheem into the abyss.

We should commit ourselves to ensuring that their deaths are not in vain, that their lives are the last page in this sorry chapter of our development as a people. And, the first step in that direction is to fully understand the scope of the problem.

In short, homophobic bullying is pervasive. It disproportionately affects black and Hispanic kids. A new study suggests an apparent link between bullying and suicide. To wit, black and Hispanic adults who are gay reported higher “serious suicide attempts” than their white counterparts, most of those attempts taking place when they were young.

Let’s look at the data:

According to a 2005 report entitled “From Teasing to Torment: School Climate in America” that was commissioned by the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network, students are more likely to be subjected to homophobic bullying than bullying for most other reasons …

We, as a society, should be ashamed. The bodies of these children lay at our feet. The toxic intolerance of homophobic adults has spilled over into the minds of pre-sexual children, placing undue pressure on the frailest of shoulders. This pressure is particularly acute among young boys who are forced to conform to a perilously narrow concept of masculinity. Or else. My colleague Judith Warner put it best in an online column that she posted after Carl’s death:
“The message to the most vulnerable, the victims of today’s poisonous boy culture, is being heard loud and clear: to be something other than the narrowest, stupidest sort of guy’s guy, is to be unworthy of even being alive.”

Well, no more. All people are worthy just the way they are, the way God and nature made them, the way they see themselves through the truest eye of the soul. We must teach every child, nay every person, that the greatest measure of our own humanity is the degree of human dignity we afford those from whom we are different. A smile, a kind word, a handshake, a hug, understanding and compassion – the simplest acts of goodness can bridge the widest chasms.
These little boys deserved our love. Instead, through the vessels of our children, they were shown our scorn. We failed.

Carl and Jaheem, I will never forget you. I am the father of 11 year-old twins. I will give them extra hugs and kisses tonight in memory of you. I will teach them to be even more tolerant, in memory of you. I will make sure that they know that I am always there if they need an ear or a shoulder, in memory of you. I will let them know, when the waters get choppy, that the storm will always pass, in memory of you. And, I will make sure that they know in no uncertain terms that whomever they grow up to be, I will love them always and forever. This too I will do in memory of you.

We will soldier on in your stead. You rest in ours.

(It should be noted that to my knowledge neither child had self-identified as gay or bisexual at the time of their death, but now it matters not. Whomever they would have been is forever lost to the grave.)

I also invite you to join me on Facebook, follow me on Twitter or e-mail me at chblow@nytimes.com.

New Home for Mama

2009-04-24T16:11:00.000-07:00

I got to thinking last night. It being my birthday and all. And the fact that the world was mad at me for perceived infractions along the line of not being able to provide a hot dog at nine o’clock at night to a small person. It was time for bed. Not eating. Dinner had been several hours earlier and he had a bag of starburst during the movie we had just come home from watching at the theater.

Thus, a strong string of rants and groans and grunts ensued from said small person’s mouth. It got me to thinking….what would it be like to find a secure, safe place with three square meals a day where I didn’t have to do laundry, didn’t have to worry about bills, didn’t have to worry about unsolicited telemarketers calling me at inopportune moments..hm...

Wouldn’t have to think about keeping the car maintained- where all of my medical needs would be covered and I would be given a supply of clean clothes – uniforms even - where I wouldn’t need to be concerned about labels and keeping up with the latest fashion trend.

The more I thought about this scenario of another world I got to thinking that maybe just maybe, I could finagle a way into the system of permanent healthcare, food rations, good security and no bothersome phone calls. I might even have access to a library where I would have time time to actually read a book...Heaven....

I wouldn’t have to worry about laundry or feeding other folks and making sure that the refrigerator was stocked. I wouldn’t be expected to plan outings and day trips and provide hot dogs to wayward offspring at inopportune and somewhat late hours.

Nope, the more I thought about this idea the more sane and rationale it is beginning to sound. I think I will place a call to our local branch of the government penitentiary and see what qualifications they need for me to become a member.

“Hello, my name is _______________________, I just turned a ripe ol’ fifty and would like to know if there are any openings in your facility?

I promise I don’t snore. I can keep my room clean and will follow all the rules.

What was that you ask? Am I crazy?

Well, I haven’t been certified but maybe you can help assist with that….”

What would you do....

2009-04-22T14:12:00.000-07:00

WHAT WOULD YOU DO....

...If your new favorite pair of Taryn Rose shoes got peed on by your really nice neighbor's really cute little poodle...

(A) Cry?
(B) Say "oh, no problem" like I have plenty more where these came from (HAH!)
(C) Discreetly place your foot in the grass to try and wipe off the fowl stench and stain

...If your wonderful vanilla latte from Starbuck's blew up in the microwave (in the teacher's lounge no less) as you tried to reheat it?

(A) gulp back tears
(B) lap up the liquid as it ran out of the microwave and all over the counter
(C) run to the cleaning closet and get as many towels as you could to mop up the mess and get rid of the evidence before you were accused of trying to blow the place up

...if you started a load of laundry and when you went to take out the supposed clean clothes noticed a peculiar lavender color to everything including the jeans....

(A) Yowl as you realized the culprit of the color change was a tres tres deep purple suede jacket by Ellen Tracy that had been purchased more than a decade ago and was now really vintage and earmarked for DRY cleaning only....
(B) laugh and say "Oh well!"
(C) tell your son that purple is the new white.....

All in a day's life of "This could only happen to me."

Blind, Batty and...

2009-04-14T19:27:00.000-07:00

I wish I were a bat. Or at least had the ability to see with my ears as a bat does. It would have been very handy the other evening driving home from an Easter celebration with friends. The friends live about an hour away. But for some reason, this particular Sunday night meant that 80 miles away was a two and a half hour road trip.

I was the designated driver. I had bought my driving glasses. Without them, I am close to blind. But my glasses make the world clear and sparkly new again. Except, something was wrong with these particular glasses- they seemed to be rather, well, frosted, I don’t really know how to describe it other than to say that I couldn’t see anything other than fuzzy shapes and blurry cars.

I did not have any alcohol in my system – I had stuck to water- and one Buck’s Fizz – more than seven hours earlier. So I knew it couldn’t have anything to do with spirits of the liquid variety. I was perplexed and more than a bit baffled.

My DS had quietly decided to take a respite and was blissfully sleeping in the passenger’s seat and DS was right behind him- figuratively and literally. My driving partners would be of no use to me on this night I could tell.

If I were a bat for example, while my eyes would be small and poorly developed, with visual acuity, I would be able to use my vision as an aid in navigation especially at long distances, beyond the range of echolocation. And goodness knows echolocation would have been most mightily appreciated on what promised to be a long sojourn home.

I felt like Edith Wharton’s character Ethan Frome stuck in a heavy New England snow storm, unable to see more than a few inches in front of him. Luckily, my life has no parallels to his and I was in a car and not a horse drawn wagon.

However, the wagon might have moved more than the fifteen miles an hour I moved for close to thirty miles of the drive home. I guess that in hindsight (no pun intended) it was a good thing given that I lacked vision, night goggles that worked and echolocation.

Well, we made it home in one piece and none the worse for wear.

The next morning I trotted down to the optometrist where I had just purchased this pair of glasses a mere two weeks earlier. The optician was perplexed. Imagine what I was.

I had after all, purchased three pairs of glasses – two of which were for distance- one being a pair of sunglasses, the other a pair for night time driving. The third pair was, I must admit –a pair of – gulp- reading glasses.

Now given that these three pairs of glasses had cost more than a few pennies, I was less than satisfied with the state of affairs. Especially when the call came in a day later telling me that the so-called pair of distance glasses actually contained my reading glass prescription.

“Imagine that,” I said to the optician. “Lucky for me traffic was moving at a snail’s pace for much of the drive home.”

Of course billows of apologies were proffered across the telephone line. I hope that when they come back to me the glasses are the way they are supposed to be.

Bats have it pretty good in my opinion.

Spousal Semantics

2009-04-10T18:10:00.000-07:00

I like to walk. In the morning, at night. Both are good.
My DH likes to walk – sometimes. He says he likes to walk in the morning and also in the evening.

The only problem is the semantics of the terms ‘morning’ and ‘evening.’

You see, to me morning means before 6:30 a.m.

To my husband, morning means after 8:00 a.m. I should caveat that walking for my husband is a weekend activity. He is after all, the breadwinner in the family. I am the maker of peanuts (but not the ones causing all of the salmonella poisoning). My earnings are more like peanut shells now that I think about it. But I digress.

By 7:30 a.m. the day is half over, the birds have been chirping, the bees have been buzzing and I have gotten two loads of laundry done – folded if I am on a real roll. I like to get up before the sun and get busy, stop and smell the flowers, listen to the gentle stretch of the leaves as they unfurl their strong green tendrils and wake to another day. I like to become one with the morning. I like to say hello to the bunnies nibbling sweet grass near our home. I like to listen to the soft coo of the morning dove gently wake her spouse.

And speaking of spouse, I do have a technique I have used for years to try and gently coax my DH from the ether world of deep sleep. I give him a gentle kiss on the cheek and a gentle massage along his back.

This is where once more, semantics differ. What I refer to as a gentle loving kiss upon the cheek of my slumbering beloved, my DH refers to as a ‘power suction peck.’
What I refer to as a gentle nudge, DH refers to as an SSR which stands for ‘shake, rattle and roll.’
Now, being that he is of the left hemisphere species and I am of the right hemisphere species, we sometimes are left in a quandary.

By the time my gentle attempts at rousing DH from his supine state take hold, the sun has placed herself high in the sky and is beaming way too bright for this fair skinned maiden to even fathom walking in her Vitamin D-enriched rays.

‘Not to worry’ I console my DH who by now is bright eyed and ready to start his day at an hour where most of the work of the early morning has been done and stowed.

“We can have an evening constitutional,” I say to him with a loving and caring smile.
Being the patient and obliging husband that he is, my dear sweet DH agrees. But the look on his face sometimes is more like someone in a state of well, kidney stone passage.
And thus, the day passes.

Until the appointed walk time. For me night is 6:30, 7:30 p.m.

For DH, it is anything up until the point of actual darkness. Semantics.

I try and explain to DH the wonders of an evening constitutional: the owls calling to each other, the moon silently making her entrance into the night sky. Not to mention the silence of moment, with crickets as a sweet serenade and backdrop to the growing peace of the evening.
But alas, semantics once more creep into the moment and I must bat my lashes such as they are and croon sweet nothings to ask my DH to accompany me on a walk through the trails that surround our home.

It is lovely and calming and very Zen - but alas, once more, the two shall be but ships passing in the night, one heading north, the other heading south.
Recently, my DH and I were on the walking trail that parallels our home and one of the garage doors was open letting us peer in where we were greeted by the sight of a very large television screen and a man on an exercise bike, or maybe he was sitting on the couch. My eyes being what they are, it was hard to tell.

“Now that is what I call a set up,” said DH.

“A place to escape from all the noise and chatter inside the house, a place of one’s own, where you can do what you want, when you want…”

Indeed, I thought to myself.

He didn’t need to say another word. I got his message. Virginia Woolf I am not, but I am happy to walk by myself in the peace of my own company.

Hrmph!

A Good Day

2009-04-07T17:02:00.000-07:00

When my magic carpet left me stranded in the middle of motherhood I really had no idea what kind of ride I was in for. After all, corporate life – deadlines, meetings, business plans, stats and travel were the life that I knew. These things were all containable, all identifiable.

So when Magic Carpet took a wrong turn, and took me along for the ride, I had no idea just how wild a ride it was going to be. If I had only known…

And now here I am, eleven years after the start of the ride that has me here today, waxing philosophical and a bit regretfully at just how quickly time can, and does pass. I have been on an eleven year journey of growth and discovery thanks to the young man in my life known as my Dear Son (DS) for short. Of course his being here today would not have been possible without the “ahem,” generous contribution from my Dear Husband (DH.)

And as we sing Happy Birthday to our DS and give him hugs, telling him just how proud we are of all that he has done in his decade plus in this world, we, well, me anyway, stand in awe of what we have created – and what I have not yet broken.

I realize just how fragile little minds and bodies are. I give thanks to the angels and gods and goddesses who have deemed me worthy of a bit of luck and happenstance to thus far not have poisoned my son with my awful cooking, snipped off a wayward digit, or left him unattended in the shoe department at Bloomingdale’s.

Hard to believe. Even harder to do- I am better off not thinking about it too closely- which is what I have learned from my DS. To be in the moment. The dishes can wait- they just sit there anyway. Staring at you- mounds of goop and dried egg. Not very inviting if you think about it. So much more fun to play a game of hide and seek or cards or these days, Scrabble. And I don’t win. Sigh…

I have learned much from my son including the fact that patience isn’t so much a virtue as it is a necessity. That hugs are cheap, easy and ever so comforting. Sunshine is made in a smile from a child.

So as DS enters the next decade of his life- ‘offically a ‘tween’ as he has coined himself, I look forward to the ride. I have learned to strap on the seat belt. Take a deep breath, keep my eyes open and expect the unexpected. After all, that is when the truly best surprises can be found- when one least expects them.

Happy Birthday DS - may you have many more.

Goats and Pie

2009-04-03T20:18:00.000-07:00

Goats and Pie.
Who woulda thunk?
“Not I,” said the little mousy wife trying to stay alive and out of mischief”
“Not I,” said the big brown bear looking around for a chair.
“Not me,” said the hen again and again.
Goats and Pie…as in pie a la goat?
As in goat a la pie?
Either way….it would be best to say bye bye…

Okay now that those of you brave enough to read beyond the first line are scratching your head wondering where did the original goofy gal go? No worries. I am right here, scraping the egg off my face, pulling the twigs out of my hair and the sprigs of feathers from the bottom of my feet. And to think this is just the first week of my low residency MFA program…only 103 weeks more to go…What joys and treats you are in for my dear loyal readers!

Fear not, I have gone just a bit loopy my friends and fellow Thespians. But I must share with you two recent happenings that left me sitting on a local street corner sans shoes - singing, squawking really, for my dinner- actually a cup of coffee - I made ten cents, and a fellow crazy person donated the dollar to me to purchase said beverage. (story for another day- someone remind me…memory of the ol’ gal ain’t what it used to be.)

Why you ask was I sitting on a street corner? Well, when you have nothing left but dotty thoughts of apple pie and goats well, where does one turn? To the street my friends, to the streets.

It began on a recent afternoon around 3:00 p.m. Dear Son had just come home from school. Imagine if you will.

The Scene:
Scruffy mousy mom sitting at keyboard pecking out a story upstairs in her office.
Door slams from somewhere below.

“Hello Mama!” a familiar voice bellows.

“Hello My dear,” the mousy mom bellows back down at her young son. “I will be down in a minute dear,” she quickly pounds a few keys and hits the “save” button.

Next Scene: (The family Room):
Mousy mom bounds down stairs and plants a west kiss on sweaty cheek of young ward who smells like a wet puppy dog.

Sweaty young son is plopped on leather oversized couch drinking a bottle of water watching a basketball game on television.

“Hey Mom,” sweaty young son asks.

“Did you send in my form and money for the apple pie?”

Mousy mom stares at young lad and questions:

“What form, what pie?”

Sweaty young son turns off television and gives mousy mom a long stare with two pools of dark chocolate in which water appears to be cresting the dam.

“What are you talking about?” Mousy mom (aka yours truly in case you haven’t figured that out) asks in disbelief.

Young son stares at crazy lady with paint splotched oversized oxford shirt and bleach-splotched sweatpants and socks complete with holes where big toe peeks out unceremoniously.

“Mom, Miss A. says is it the best pie in the world. Everyone in the class is getting one. I was the only name she didn’t call when she read out the list of those who had sent in their forms and money.”

“Well, okay then” says I in mock agreement. “But please, may I ask you, when did you develop a craving for apple pie? I can barely get you to eat the apples I put in your lunch. And while we are talking about apple pie, since when do you or I or Dad for that matter eat pie? When was the last time you saw a pie in this house?”

The dam broke. I was faced with a ten year old soon to be eleven crying buckets because his mousy mother had neglected to send in a form for an apple pie that was going to cost fifteen dollars. And we don’t eat pie. At least I wasn’t aware we did.

But there on the couch in front of me sat the young lad telling his mousy old mam that he loved apple pie…I guess it must have been with his other mother that he ate the aforementioned apple pie.

I sighed. It was a losing battle that I was happy to let go. I would give in and let him buy a pie which I must admit, I was curious to see exactly how it would make its way home on a 2-hour bus ride. Might be worth the humor factor- cheaper than a movie ticket. And I was even more curious to see who would eat this supposedly ‘to die for’ pie.

…Just when I thought things couldn’t get more surreal, I read an article on The New York Times home page http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/01/dining/01goat.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=goat%20meat&st=cse

that shared with me that the most populous meat the world over is: GOAT. As in horns and bleating and head butting four legged, hooved creature. I am heading toward complete vegetarian and now this- goat? I guess I learned too may nursery rhymes in preschool including Baa Baa black sheep and read too many stories about Billy Goat Gruff to ever fathom (gulp) eating such animals.

Anything with eyes is circumspect in my book when it comes to food.

Speaking of eyes…Apples don’t have eyes do they?!...

The Luck O' The Irish

2009-03-24T15:02:00.000-07:00

Recently, I decided that I was losing my mind. I realized this as I tried to come up with the reasons why I had decided to go back to school and endure two years of grueling work – like five classes that start in a week. Why I was working two jobs – one that I really enjoy which doesn’t pay very much but is really satisfying in a much deeper way and another job that taxes my brain sometimes and makes me feel really dumb. And oh, then the reality of being a mom, chauffeur, wife and sometimes really bad cook.

I realized that trying to be all things to all people at all times means giving up things like matched pairs of socks and cold milk. Cold milk you ask. Cold milk I say.

And this is why I believe I have lost my mind. St. Patrick’s Day- a few days back arrived cool, crisp and clear. I made breakfast for the DS and prepared lunched for DH and DS. I readied myself for work after dutifully planting kisses on cheeks of said husband and son.
Off we trotted to our respective destinations in the wee hours on the day of the Irish. My son to school to learn the golden rule; my husband to work, from which he did not shirk; and me to play with my three year olds hurray!

So we went. And so I returned to the domicile four hours later where I began to unload the dishwasher and put the dishes away. As I opened a cupboard there grinning at me was a face on the side of the milk carton. I wondered what it was doing in there with the plates.

It was a half gallon container. Almost full. Now warm. It was supposed to be in the refrigerator. It was not supposed to be in the cupboard. I scratched my head and truly began to wonder whether I had completely lost my marbles, every single last one.

And this is when I decided to share my latest debacle with my dearest and bestest friend from years back (we are delicate in our doting age of agelessness and shall simplify refer to our friendship as entering a golden period). In any case, I lamented my inability to put a simple carton of milk back from whence it came.

On and on I yowled like a petulant child or a hungry cat. In either case, an email groaning is not a pleasant way to start one’s day or end one’s night. And this being St. Patty’s Day no less. I asked my dearest and best friend whom I shall call Karen Alice, if I was indeed losing my mind. And her answer is below. It says it all and it says why she is indeed my dearest and bestest friend (next to my Dear Husband of course who already has the number for the neighborhood men in white on auto dial – just in case…)

As told to me by Karen Alice:

"well...I'll tell you what my sisters told me when I WAS losing my mind: "No you're not, You're awesome, remember how good you are at______, do something nice for yourself, things will get better....

But on the off chance that you lost your mind and I find it, I'm keeping it... when Nathan was home for weekend and little cousins and such were visiting, the dishes were so high in the sink, I couldn't see out the window, there were so many pillows and blankets on the floor, I couldn't walk, my feet were so sore, but I still didn't get to bed until 12 midnight. and I call that a pretty good, fun weekend!

Maybe the leprechauns will put a wee little spring in your step, I've been warming up my best Irish Brogue all afternoon. Have a wonderful day my special lassie.

I love you,

Karen Alice St. Murphy

Now, I may be losing my mind, but with a friend like Karen Alice, I don't think I can get much luckier than that!

A Good Day

2009-03-23T12:58:00.000-07:00

There is a recession going on around the world. We are all in its midst- well, at least I am- and most of the folks I know are as well. We are looking for ways to trim here, snip there.

It is a good thing in some ways. Forcing us all to reevaluate what is important. What really matters. What one really needs to get through not only challenging times but life in general. I am fortunate and I do try not to take what I have been given for granted.

I understand that everything can be swooped out from under one’s feet in the mere breath of a butterfly wing – whoosh.

I was reminded of this recently. I hosted a small brunch for some of my fellow writers. We had become chummy through the UCLA online extension program. We spent three months or what seemed like three months writing and editing each other’s work- all online in that mysterious netherworld of zeros and ones that we call the Internet.

We got to know each other’s styles and got to know each other’s lives a bit – sometimes with perhaps more detail than we cared to know, but part of taking an online writing class in the genre of personal essay is all about learning to share.

We had enough in common that four of us wanted to try and get together once the class ended. The fact that we all lived in southern California also simplified the possible connections as well. And so we did.

We began our 'ladies who write' gatherings over a year ago and we have kept them up – sometimes at someone’s home and sometimes at a restaurant or museum.

It has all been good. These women whom I shall refer to as “Dr. J”, “Lady T” and “Lady G” represent what the newly coined “fempire” world would look like. We may not be thirty anymore and we may not have the name Diablo or Cody as our calling card, but we are fun and mighty with words.

I stand in awe of "Lady G." who has not only finished her first book but has actively sent it out and has gained the interest of several agents. An amazing accomplishment. But she is also a might force of acting- the consummate professional and so amazingly beautiful in a most refreshing and real way. What? you ask - an actor who is real? What an oxymoron. In this case. No. It's the truth. She is the 'real deal.'

Moving on to "Lady T." She is what every good friend should be. A come, take charge and whip me into shape kinda gal. All with a smile and an amazing ability to create works of wonder out of a few bits of string and hemp. And her humor is unparalleled. To take the energy that spouts forth like a gurgling brook from her is to be in the presence of what it means to live and enjoy and to seize the moment. Oh did I mention she has two grown children and looks amazing. You know, that kind of sunny disposition female you want to hate...she is it. Except that you have to love her. At least I do. As do her kids and husband and the list goes on and on....

And then there is the patient curiosity of another writer whose mere presence is truly a reminder to taking life fully. Grabbing it tightly and holding on. I am most humbly reminded of this when “Dr. J.” enters a room. Imagine a soft warm glow of ethereal light bathing its surroundings with a sense of peace and calm. I guess this is what I feel when I am around this incredibly poignant and ever so talented writer. She has depths of understanding and life experience that she has made her own and her fabric- her life’s tapestry is rich in color and vibrant in texture.

Imagine if you will, sitting down to a casual lunch of salad and sandwiches and sweets and of course chocolate covered strawberries- and homemade carrot cake (courtesy of "Dr. J.") and chatting for hours - and hours. Delicious. It was just an amazing flow of conversation on topics of every shape color and weight. And with four different mouths all chatting and sharing there were a thousand more thoughts roaming and waving hands here and there- and we laughed and we shared and we even sniffled a bit.

And it was all good. Like life should be when we are surrounded by beauty and acceptance and honesty and truth. The simple things really.

"Lady T" said it best, “Because despite all that is going on, it is the continued creation of friendships, communication and aesthetics that give value to this life…”

And thanks to the kindest efforts of My DH and DS who poured punch and picked up the food for the soiree, we had a moment bathed in happy warm goodness.

I am indeed a lucky gal.

Two for the Road

2009-03-11T17:43:00.001-07:00

There are those out there who know that I am really ‘out there.’ And there are those that think I just think I am really ‘out there.’

But little do they know. If they had to live within the confines of my four walls well then perhaps even after a mere few hours they would realize that the misplaced bottle opener, the half full carton of milk inside the cupboard with the dishes and the dangling pair of mismatched socks in the hall closet are just the tip of the iceberg so to speak.

Try as I might, when my brain starts doodling in a host of dizzying directions the outcome is often hilarious, often unfounded in reality and often, way too often, embarrassing for at least one member of the family.

In a recent episode it was Dear Dear Son (DS). We were meeting friends at the San Diego Wild Animal Park for a photo caravan where we were promised an up close and personal look at white rhinos. We would be allowed to feed them and have a photo taken from the safety of an enclosed truck with a heavy looking deadbolt.

We hopped aboard our trolley of sorts and that is when my gaze drifted downward to the floor of the vehicle. I was scanning feet for some reason unbeknownst to me when I thought what I was seeing was a mirage- so I rubbed my eyes and tried again. In and among a pair of sandals encasing some rather organic looking toenails, a pair of scuffed black boots and a pair of better day sneakers in a washed out shade of salmon, was a pair of sneakers on two legs that I thought was truly creative.

The sneakers, both Nike with the tell tale spiffy Nike boomerang were in two colors. On one foot was a white Nike with a blue boomerang. On the other foot was a slightly dirtier shade of white sneaker complete with a red Nike boomerang.

“How interesting,” thought I. “That is indeed a fresh and new twist to individuality.”

I was musing over this clever and creative take on not being a slave to the fashion masses and let my gaze move upward to the proud owner of this fashion du mode. And that is when I squawked ,“argh.”

Both the tour guide whose name was Jamie and my husband who had been giving me a gentle snuggle as he sat next to me on the bench of our truck looked at me.

My DS was the owner of the mismatched pair of shoes.

At that moment he looked over at me and grimaced.

“Thanks Mom,” he said.

I could share the rest of this story but by now we had reached the innards of Rhino land and I was trying to retrieve my digital camera from the jaws of a very hungry baby white rhino whose mouth was anything but baby like…..

Never a dull moment in my life….

Oops...I did it again...

2009-03-01T12:55:00.000-08:00

I haven’t done it for a while. Come to think about it, it has probably been six or seven months. Maybe even longer.

It’s not like I haven’t been tempted or thought about it, frankly I have tried to avoid situations where I am prone to possibly committing the act.

What act is that you ask? Oh, silly me. I thought you knew. If you have ever been inside a Trader Joe’s store or a local Albertson’s and possibly even a large department store, then you more than likely are in the know and just don’t know it.

Like the time you reached into the freezer section to grab a bottle of milk and whoosh, like a blast of cold air you turn back to your cart to find it has mysteriously, magically, maybe not so magically – disappeared.

Thanks to – yours truly – the cart snatcher.

Now, in my own defense, I will admit that I am not the best at paying attention to what I have placed in my cart or were I have actually left the four wheeled jalopy as I in my own personal quest for organic low fat milk or free range eggs cluck like a chicken examining packaging and expiration dates. I truly can get caught up in the moment and then deposit my items in the nearest cart.

Often not realizing the nearest cart may not be my own.

Until well, take for example yesterday. I was in my neighborhood Trader Joe’s in search of milk. The three half gallons I had bought a mere two days before had disappeared from the homestead. And since I don’t drink milk as a rule, then it had to be the boys in the house – my Dear Husband (DH) and my Dear Son (DS). They need their calcium and must have strong bones.

I was browsing through the Greek yogurt selection in search of the honey flavored one which was my personal favorite. I scored a couple and headed back to my cart- or what I thought was my cart. I didn’t have much time before needing to pick up DS from school so I made a quick maneuver between two little ladies with droopy stockings and a toddler who had had one glass of juice too many when I felt a small tug at my sleeve.

“Excuse me, but I think you took my cart by mistake.”

I turned to see a black haired woman with licorice eyes smiling at me.

“Oops,” I said. “I am so sorry. I have a bad habit of doing that.”

And as I glanced inside the belly of the cart I realized that pork chops and ham would not be items making their way to my house any time soon. And the cat food and cat litter should have been a definite tip off.

“No problem,” said the lady as she steered her cart as far away from me as possible.

“I guess I better go and try and find my cart now,” I said.

And I trotted back from whence I came- the freezer section. There standing forlornly against the free range eggs sign was a cart with a head of orange carrots peeking out from the spokes of the cart. I could see the green carrot hats flopping dejectedly over the side of the front seat of the carriage. And poking up from the rear of the cart were three bottles of milk and two yogurts.

“Oh joy,” I thought to myself.

I noticed that there seemed to be a gap between myself and the rest of the patrons in the store. As if someone had spread the secret that the cart snatcher was on the loose. Beware; guard your cart with your life.

I looked around furtively and did a double step to the checkout counter praying to the grocery gods to let me sink into the floor like any second – like now…..

The Kindness of Strangers

2009-02-26T22:32:00.000-08:00

We as parents work hard to set our children on a path strewn more with green grass than cobbles, and we as parents try hard to feed and nourish their souls and bodies with good things: good food, good thoughts, good Karma.

And so, when something less than wonderful happens, we ache, if not for the downfall and disappointment of the child, then for the inability to spare the child from the actual cause of such disappointment.

And alternatively, when we have done all that we can, nourished small bodies and souls with all of the necessary ingredients that we believe necessary, and something good happens and we can share with our child the exhilaration of such a moment then, then we give thanks.
This evening I was able to experience with my son just such a moment.

You see, recently my young lad attended an away swim meet- the one mentioned in the “Rites of Passage” blog from several days back. Well, upon returning from this incredible experience without the presence and hovering of Mom or Dad, our son came home proud and happy. For he had won the 9-10 boys division of the swim meet. How proud was he!!

He beamed for several days. This despite his disappointment in himself at having lost the bag that contained all of his electronic devises, the charger for his phone, the charger for his handheld Nintendo DS as well as four video games including his newest and currently most favorite Guitar Hero along with associated finger playing device.

“Don’t give up hope honey,” I told him with my Pollyanna belief that most people are good. “It may turn up yet.”

“Don’t hold your breath Mom,” was the tart reply from my too young to be jaded son. “Kids were telling me horror stories of things they have lost on bus trips. It’s gone for good.”

I sighed and proceeded to send mother messages electronically to the coaches pleading for the name of the bus company in order to give them a call – just in case just anyone were to find and turn in a small yellow zipper case lovingly labeled with my son’s initials.

The man who answered the phone to the bus company sounded tired, but pleasant, worn from life, yet decent with a warm voice like - buttered toast. Hard to explain, really.

He didn’t dismiss what was by most standards I admit, a trivial request – a yellow bag with a few games and electronic devices. It wasn’t a missing kid, it wasn’t a critical medicine. It was simply- a bag full of – things.

“Was you son on the Irvine Novaquatics trip to Arizona?” The man asked in his warm toast with butter voice.

“He was,” I said.

“Well, let me have your phone number. There were two buses that made that trip and I will ask the drivers to go through them. But it may take me a couple of days.”

“Oh thank you,” I told the man whose name I neglected to ask.

We ended the call and I told my son to have faith and not give up hope.

He smiled at me as he finished his math homework and said, "Mom, I love you for always trying to see the bright side of things.”

I reminded him of how many times the brighter side had revealed itself to me. Like the time I had left my wallet in the cart at Target. And hadn’t realized it was missing until an hour after I got home and went looking for some money. I called up the store and sure enough, a store clerk who had been collecting carts from the parking lot had found my wallet and turned it into the lost and found department.

I of course jumped in my car praying that a cop wouldn’t decide that this was the day where he was one ticket short of quota and I would be his mark – since trying to explain that my license was in my wallet which wasn’t at the moment with me, but that if he cared to escort me to Target where some nice young person had turned it in…well, luckily, I made it there without incidence.

I reminded my son of this story and of the time we were on a family trip to San Francisco. We had brought rain coats because it was supposed to be rainy that week. And it wasn’t until we had gotten out of the plane in SF that I realized I had left my black London Fog coat that I had gotten on sale at Macy’s for a great price years back on the back of the chair 600 miles away. Of course it was raining. It rained much of the week now that I think about it- and I ended up buying a cheap water coat in a drugstore. Raincoat or no raincoat we had a great trip loaded with laughs and raindrops and memories.

I of course called the airlines when we had settled ourselves in the hotel. They said they would keep an eye out and call me if it turned up.

My husband and son were both convinced that it was long gone never to be seen again. And so imagine their surprise and my happiness when the day before we were to depart to come back home from SF the phone rang. It was the airlines: they had found my coat- it had been turned in by a passenger and would be waiting for me in the Lost and Found area when I got to the airport.

The number of times I have left my prescription sunglasses either at a friend’s house, our favorite Italian restaurant who actually opened early for me one Sunday morning so I could have them for a planned trip to San Diego, in a bookstore, at the dentist, at the doctor’s office...

If these glasses could talk….I mean, I have been blessed by the gods and angels of good fortune. And now I hope that my son and husband will believe me when I say, there are many good people in this world that do the right thing just because it is the right thing to do. They do it without looking for anything other than it’s the right thing to do. It’s very simple really.

Which is why a man who takes a bus to work from Irvine to Placentia every day was willing to meet at the library near his bus stop at 9:10 p.m. this evening to deliver my son’s yellow bag which had been found by one of his colleagues named Luis.

He had called me around 7:00 p.m. letting me know it had just been turned in. He let me know that he too lived in Irvine and would be happy to have me meet him at the library if convenient.

And so I sat on a bench outside the library waiting and listening to the hum of cars and the now and then meow of a cat somewhere nearby.

At 9:10 p.m. I saw man of average build carrying a plastic bag and a small lunch pail.

"Are you the bus driver?" I asked with a smile.

The man with the warm as toast with butter voice had eyes the color of the bluest sky and a white trim beard nodded.

I shook his hand, thanking him for his kind gesture. He opened his lunch pail and pulled out the all too familiar yellow zipper bag trimmed with black that had been the source of a bit of grief this past week.

I handed a card to him and asked if he would be so kind as to pass it along to Luis, the man who had actually found my son’s electronic bag. He said he would.

I handed him an envelope and said, “And this is for you. For being so kind and once more rekindling my faith and belief in human goodness.”

He gratefully accepted the small token and smiled.

I offered to drive him home; he declined thanking me saying he lived nearby. He turned back from the direction in which he had just come.

And I walked back to my car, cradling the small yellow bag, silly thing that it was.
It was what it had come to represent. A disappointment now turned to the belief that decency and humanity are not dead.

I hummed a song, got in my car and realized that I had not asked the man with a voice like warm toast with butter for his name.

Rite of Passage

2009-02-20T16:26:00.001-08:00

I am undergoing a rite of passage- that of a parent letting her child travel for a sport event in a bus with some 40 other children without me there to protect him; wipe his nose, keep him warm, make sure he drinks enough liquid; eats a balanced meal; brushes his teeth, gets to bed on time, gets up on time, eats a good breakfast, keeps warm between swim events …the list is endless.

It is part of my unwritten list of duties as a parent, as a mother and a caregiver to insure the health and well being of all my wards- big and small are fully executed.

And thus I sit here on a sunny Friday afternoon wondering if my little guy is okay. Is he having fun in the five and half hour bus trip? Does he have enough of the right clothes to keep him warm and dry? Did I give him enough spending money? Did I remember to tell him where I put his books?

Who will give him a kiss goodnight and tell him, “I Love you”? Who will sit with him while he says his prayers – an extra big one for Grandpa Joe who is his role model for all thing sport related and for Papa Marvin- his guardian angel who has prevented many an unfortunate accident from ever happening. Who will make sure that he hadn’t tossed off the covers in one of his night time battles with the evil orcs?

Who I wonder? Who? And as I muse and ponder this new state of existence in my temporarily diminished capacity as mother and caregiver, I realize that he will be fine. He knows he is loved unconditionally. He has plenty of clothes in his suitcase and will have coaches and team mates to keep him plied with humor and food. He is a solid swimmer and handles pressure well. He will be fine; I pat myself on the shoulder, as if it were him here telling me all is okay.

I think back to the truly momentous moments that for me were rites of passage: the utter feeling of being airborne while taking my first spin around an ice skating rink on a pair of skates; the first time I went to the movie theater to see “Oliver” with my Aunt Mary Jo. How big and grown up I felt. I remember my first kiss from Jimmy Eaton, the preppie blonde from Andover who just wanted to sail and live off the coast of Maine in some lobster shack. How romantic and exciting it sounded to an impressionable adolescent.

The truth is, that while this trip may be a rite of passage for my son, the adventures and sights and sounds to which he will be exposed from older boys and girls wiser and more worldly than my little one, are just the beginning in his hopefully long and fulfilling life. But I know he is wise in so many ways beyond where I was at his tender age. And I know that the experiences he will take away from this first of many away sport team trips is a good thing. It is good for him. And it is good for me.

And so I sigh once more, the pit of my stomach tightening and kneading itself into a ball of glop that says to me, “relax, he will be fine.” It is you who needs to relax.

And so I shall. After all, I still can play caregiver and domestic diva to the other man in my life, my dear Husband (DH). And as a matter of fact, I believe he has made dinner reservations for this evening. A date – just the two of us.
Maybe this rite of passage stuff isn’t so hard after all. It’s all in the how you handle it….

Peanut Gallery

2009-02-16T11:26:00.000-08:00

“Mr. Chairman and members of the committee, on advice of my counsel, I respectively decline to answer your questions based on the protections afforded me under the U.S. Constitution"

- Stewart Parnell, president, Peanut Corporation of America, February 11, 2009

Seldom do I get riled up enough to share publicly my thoughts on too much outside the realm of my own safe cocoon. This is one of those times when I am just befuddled by the lack of ownership and sense of responsibility.

An Open Letter to Mr. Stewart Parnell, president of Peanut Corporation of America

Dear Mr. Parnell,

As you have probably heard, peanuts are not in good standing these days. As a matter of fact, the very word is enough to make a parent or caregiver cringe. Why is this you might ask?

Well, in a nutshell (no pun intended) it is largely due to your ignorance and apathy that peanuts, peanut butter and other related food sources are the source of salmonella that has intentionally been shared with the millions of residents of the United States of America – so thank you Mr. Parnell of the Peanut Corporation of America.

Listening to your testimony on Capitol Hill I could not help but cringe and shake my head. You took the fifth when a congressman asked you whether you would eat the salmonella-tainted peanuts sold to customers; you took the 5th Amendment, citing their right not to incriminate yourself in testimony. What?! What were you thinking? How vapid can you be? To quote my gal Eliza Doolittle, “Gawd!!!”

Written documentations have indicated that you complained in emails about losing money and saying that you were frustrated by the delay in shipping products.

Do you realize Mr. Parnell that your greed and utter lack of any concern for anyone but yourself has led to a salmonella outbreak that has resulted in 600 illnesses and eight deaths in the U.S. and federal criminal investigation is underway? This was a number from last week. It may be higher as I type.

How, I ask you, can you even look yourself in the mirror? Now I know I am far from a lovely morning sight, but at least I can look at myself and know that what I see is what I get. You on the other hand, you actually urged your workers to ship tainted products after receiving test results identifying salmonella. You Mr. Parnell actually implored your employees to "turn the raw peanuts on our floor into money," according to internal company e-mails disclosed Wednesday by a House committee.

The company e-mails obtained by the House panel showed that you Mr. Parnell, you the owner of Peanut Corp. of America ordered the shipments tainted with the bacteria to be sent because he was worried about lost sales. One word: UNBELIEVABLE.

As you well know, these disclosures came in correspondence released by a House Energy and Commerce.

Well, I hope you are happy; your greed has led to one of the largest recalls in history with more than 1,800 products pulled in the U.S. and more than 200 products in Canada. Imagine that. Just look what the miracle mile has led to Mr. Parnell.

You need to wake up and take responsibility for your mistake. Get busy making amends. I would suggest by saying you are sorry. It is the least you can do. Stewart Parnell, what do you say to your family when they ask: Are you happy now?

Sincerely,

C.A. Thorson
_________________________________________________________________________________
http://briefingroom.thehill.com/2009/02/11/peanut-execs-withdraw-into-shells-in-congress/
February 11, 2009

Peanut Execs Withdraw into Shells in Testimony
@ 4:42 pm by Michael O'Brien
When asked by a lawmaker today in Congressional testimony whether they would eat the salmonella-tainted peanuts sold to customers, executives of the Peanut Corporation of America pled the 5th Amendment, citing their right not to incriminate themselves in testimony.

Rep. Greg Walden (R-Ore.), holding up a jar of peanuts wrapped in police caution tape, asked peanut executives: "Would either of you be willing to take the lid off and eat any of these products right now, like the people on the panel ahead of you, their relatives, their loved ones did?"

Citing the advice of counsel Peanut Corporation of America Stewart Parnell invoked his constitutional right to not testify against himself. Sammy Lightsey, the manager of one of the company's plants, similarly invoked his 5th Amendment rights.

Lawmakers summoned the company's leaders to the Hill today to grill them on the processing that led to a salmonella outbreak in peanut products resulting in eight deaths and an estimated 600 illnesses

http://www.ctv.ca/servlet/ArticleNews/story/CTVNews/20090211/peanut_emails_090211/20090211?hub=World

The Associated Press

WASHINGTON -- The owner of a peanut company blamed for a salmonella outbreak in the U.S. has appeared before a House subcommittee, but is refusing to testify.
Legislators ordered Peanut Corporation of America owner Stewart Parnell to appear at the hearing today.

He showed up, but refused to answer questions, invoking his constitutional right not to incriminate himself.

Earlier, the House Energy and Commerce Committee released the company's internal correspondence showing that Parnell was ordering tainted products to be sold even after confirmation of salmonella.

Parnell complains in emails about losing money and says he's frustrated by the delay in shipping products.

The salmonella outbreak has resulted in 600 illnesses and eight deaths in the U.S. and federal criminal investigation is underway.

The owner of a peanut company urged his workers to ship tainted products after receiving test results identifying salmonella, imploring employees to "turn the raw peanuts on our floor into money," according to internal company e-mails disclosed Wednesday by a House committee.
The company e-mails obtained by the House panel showed that Peanut Corp. of America owner Stewart Parnell ordered the shipments tainted with the bacteria to be sent because he was worried about lost sales.

At one point, Parnell said his workers "desperately at least need to turn the raw peanuts on our floor into money" and at another point told his plant manager to "turn them loose" after learning some peanuts were contaminated with salmonella.

The disclosures came in correspondence released by a House Energy and Commerce subcommittee Wednesday during a hearing on the salmonella outbreak that has sickened 600 people in the U.S., may be linked to eight deaths and has led to one of the largest recalls in history with more than 1,800 products pulled in the U.S. and more than 200 products in Canada.
A federal criminal investigation is underway.

"We appear to have a total systemic breakdown," said Rep. Bart Stupak, D-Mich., chairman of the committee's investigations panel.

Parnell was ordered by subpoena to appear before the U.S. Congress on Wednesday to discuss `the outbreak blamed in large part on his Georgia plant.

In prepared testimony, a laboratory owner told the House panel that the peanut company's disregard for tests identifying salmonella in its product is "virtually unheard of" in the country's food industry and should prompt efforts to increase federal oversight of product safety.
Charles Deibel, president of Deibel Laboratories Inc., said his company was among those that tested Peanut Corp. of America's products and notified the Georgia plant that salmonella was found in some of its peanut stock. Peanut Corp. sold the products anyway, according to a U.S. Food and Drug Administration inspection report.

"It is not unusual for Deibel Labs or other food testing laboratories to find that samples clients submit do test positive for salmonella and other pathogens, nor is it unusual that clients request that samples be retested," Deibel said in prepared testimony to a House subcommittee. "What is virtually unheard of is for an entity to disregard those results and place potentially contaminated products into the stream of commerce."

Deibel said he hopes the crisis leads to a greater role for FDA in overseeing food safety and providing more guidance to food makers.

The investigation is starting to zero in on the question of who was responsible.
Stupak says he wants know how Peanut Corp. managed to sell allegedly tainted goods month after month without triggering action by state and federal health authorities.
The company, now under FBI investigation, makes only about one per cent of U.S. peanut products. But its ingredients are used by dozens of other food companies.
Federal law forbids producing or shipping foods under conditions that could harm consumers' health.

Peanut Corp.'s troubles mounted this week as the FBI raided corporate headquarters in Lynchburg, Va., as well as the Georgia plant. On Monday night, the company closed a second facility, in Plainview, Texas, after test results earlier in the day indicated salmonella was present in samples taken at the Texas plant. None of the products had been distributed to consumers, but the finding raised the prospect of a broader recall.

Further testing is needed to confirm the results, said Doug McBride, spokesman for the Texas Department of State Health Services.

After the results came back Monday, the FDA sent inspectors back to the Texas plant to check more thoroughly for signs of problems similar to those found at the Georgia plant, which has been identified as the source of the salmonella outbreak.

The company has said it is still investigating what happened and has expressed regret and concern for people who became ill. It is not clear whether Parnell will testify Wednesday or assert his constitutional right to not answer questions that may incriminate him.

Love Buns

2009-02-13T10:45:00.000-08:00

Driving to work this morning I had the radio tuned to NPR. I was listening to Renee Montagne chat with Nigella Lawson.

Ms. Lawson loves to bake. She is a goddess in the kitchen and I admire and respect anyone who can set out with a task in mind and follow a recipe and have it turn out as it should. She loves cupcakes and embraces them wholeheartedly. Listening to her digress about the creation and decoration was like listening to a painter describe his creative process. Truly mind boggling and beautiful to hear.

But I had to chuckle- more than once. For example, Lawson refers to cupcakes for Valentine’s Day as ‘love buns.’ For Lawson, part of creating recipes is the sheer joy of being able to define and provide their nomenclature - thus – Valentine’s Day cupcakes in the generic sense become none other than: love buns.

Now listening to the lively chatter between Lawson and Renee Montaigne was well, fascinating. Take for example her description of an ‘easy whip meringue’ topping for cupcakes:
Her casual use of the word ‘easy’ is a bit daunting to the likes of someone of my culinary limitations. For me, the kitchen in any fashion does not equate with the word ‘easy.’ ‘Difficult, challenging, messy,’ these are the words more apt to describe my experience in the throes of pots and pans and any attempt at cooking never mind baking.

Lawson breezily goes on to describe in her throaty British accent how she makes the topping with a touch of this and a dab of that. It sounded more like make up application but who am I to judge.

I listened to this love bun exercise while driving on a crowded road with anxious mothers scurrying to get children to school. The surreal commentary was combined with the day being a Friday the 13th, making the topic all that more entertaining. When stuck in traffic, listening to good humor is a cure all for much.

According to Lawson’s instructions for creating the so-called easy topping included: egg whites, sugar and corn syrup, along with a touch of salt and cream of tartar to help it maintain its shape. I must digress and explain that the Lawson makes an assumption that obtaining egg whites is a given.

However, in my few experiences at attempting to obtain said egg whites- - without the yellow, mucky yellow goop – requires a serious lesson in egg white capture 101.

So as I continued listening to the lady of love buns, I realized that Lawson was addressing that domestic part of the culture that had bypassed me when the good spirits of life were handing out home economics materials. I must have been busy chatting with the sparrows or something.
One of the highlights of Lawson’s description of her love bun making came with the following as she recreates for the listener the shape and design of the cupcakes.

After the egg white foam is swirled atop the cupcakes, she adds these rather fantastic little heart-shaped sprinkles, which she lets fall flutteringly onto the cloudy peaks. According to Lawson, “they almost look like prop cakes, they're so perfect."

And that perfection doesn't have to be stressful, she reminds the listener.

Hah! She has never been in the kitchen with me. I bet she would sing a different tune.
Valentine's Day recipes “can get so fussy and fernickity," Lawson says, "that actually you do not feel loving toward your loved ones – you just feel vaguely hostile, that you've been doing something so complicated and challenging." I must agree.

Lawson goes on to share with the listener her recipe for cherry cupcakes and that the assembly is easy, as all the ingredients are stirred together in a saucepan before being poured into a cupcake tin. Again the word ‘stirred’ is one of these actions verbs that causes me pause. Somehow my ability to stir ingredients often ends up with a patchy chance of glue like materials stuck to the bottom of a pan angrily staring back at me.

"If you can get those candied cherries, that haven't been dyed rather an alarming bright red, and you can get the ones that are a natural dark red, you've got something rather sultry and enchanting, rather than cute." Cute? In my kitchen? Cute?!!! I am speechless here.

Lawson enthusiastically tells the listener that with a topping of heavy cream and bittersweet chocolate, the cupcakes can let anyone join in the recent surge in cupcakes' popularity. Anyone…uh huh…anyone…indeed she has not met the likes of me…

"I think that adults have some sort of yearning for childish things, childish foods," Lawson said. "And I don't mean that disparagingly." According to Lawson these cupcakes help satisfy that desire. The only desire I have when it comes to baking or anything in the kitchen is to win the lottery so I can have a Nanny McPhee come to my rescue and whip up miracles in no time flat sans eggshells…

Lawson sums up her light and chatty menu du jour with how little fretting there is- that eating a cupcake is so much safer than the eating entire cake. Now here use of the word fretting – this is a word with which I agree- there is much fretting on my part as I cross my fingers hoping that my intended guests don’t get the cupcake or piece of cake with the rogue eggshell who refused to leave the batter upon command.

Fretting, now this is a word I can understand.

Below for the brave of heart are the recipes shared with listeners on the NPR website.

Enjoy- and let me know how the peaks of the love buns come out….

Chocolate Cherry Cupcakes

Reprinted from How to be a Domestic Goddess: Baking and the Art of Comfort Cooking. This recipe has not been tested by NPR.

Cupcake Ingredients
Makes 12 cupcakes
· 12-cup muffin pan and paper baking cups
· 1/2 cup soft unsalted butter
· 4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, broken into pieces
· 1 1/3 cups morello cherry jam
· 1/2 cup sugar
· Pinch of salt
· 2 large eggs, beaten
· 1 cup self-rising cake flour

Icing Ingredients
· 4 ounces bittersweet chocolate
· 1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon heavy cream
· 12 natural-colored glace cherries

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.
2. Put the butter in a heavy-bottomed pan on the heat to melt. When nearly completely melted, stir in the chocolate. Leave for a moment to begin softening, then take the pan off the heat and stir with a wooden spoon until the butter and chocolate are smooth and melted. Now add the cherry jam, sugar, salt, and eggs. Stir with a wooden spoon and when all is pretty well amalgamated, stir in the flour.
3. Scrape and pour into the muffin baking cups in their pan and bake for 25 minutes. Cool in the pan on a rack for 10 minutes before turning out.
4. When the cupcakes are cool, break the chocolate for the icing into little pieces and add them to the cream in a saucepan. Bring to a boil, remove from heat, and then whisk — by hand or electrically — till thick and smooth. Ice the cupcakes, smoothing the tops with the back of a spoon, and stand a cherry in the center of each.

Butterfly Cakes

Reprinted from Nigella Express: Good Food, Fast. This recipe has not been tested by NPR.

Ingredients
Makes 12 cupcakes.
· 1/2 cup (1 stick) plus 1 tablespoon soft butter
· 1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon sugar
· 2 eggs
· 3/4 cup flour
· 1 teaspoon baking powder
· 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
· 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
· 1 tablespoon milk
· 1 cup heavy cream
· food coloring of your choice

1. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees and line a 12-cup muffin pan with paper liners.
2. Cream the butter and sugar either in a bowl by hand or with an electric mixer.
3. Once light and fluffy, add the eggs one at a time with a little of the flour, beating as you go.
4. Fold in the rest of the flour, the baking powder and baking soda, and the vanilla, and finally the milk.
5. Spoon the batter into the paper liners, dividing equally.
6. Put in the oven and bake for 15-20 minutes or until the cupcakes are cooked and golden on top. Take the cupcakes in their paper liners out of the pan and let cool on a wire rack.
7. Once they're cool, cut off the mounded peak (if your cakes have obliged), cutting it in half to make the butterfly wings. Dig down a little with your knife. This will also leave a small hole to put the cream to hold the wings. If your cakes haven't peaked much, you will just have to cut out a slightly wider circle after the top, digging in as you do so.
8. Whip the cream until thick, coloring with food coloring if you wish, and dollop about 2 teaspoonfuls of cream on top of each cake.
9. Stick on your butterfly wings, using the cream as the glue.

Valet

2009-02-12T08:46:00.000-08:00

This morning I drove my son to school. We had to be there ten minutes earlier than usual because he is a valet. Which simply means he opens doors to cars for parents dropping off students. He says “good morning” and “have a nice day.”

Thus, in my quest to multitask, make beds, lunches, get a load of laundry started and empty trash bins, time ran out and before I knew it the clock yelled “7:45 a.m.” We needed to be there at 7:50 a.m. The drive to school luckily was five minutes away.

“Come on Mom, we gotta go,” stated by drill sergeant DS as he stood with lunch pail in one hand and back pack slung over his shoulder. “I can’t be late.”

“Okay, okay, here I come.”

I grabbed my keys and sunglasses and wallet and threw on a pair of flip flops.

“Mom, you are still in your pajamas,” DS reminded me.

I looked down to see big white polar bears engaged in a variety of snow antics

having a jolly time across the sleeves of my very well worn flannels.

“No worries,” said I the optimist. I grabbed a jacket from the mud closet, threw it over myself and scurried to the car.

We got to school in record time right up until the turn into the school parking lot. That’s where car number one had deployed its air bag as it careened into car number two complete with a little girl of maybe two in the back seat. Mom was getting out of her car and opening the back door to get her baby who was crying. The black Acura with the deployed air bag had a young girl of maybe twenty. She was standing outside her car looking at the hood and talking to someone on a cell phone. All parties seemed to be standing and walking and shaking heads and waving fingers.

Sighing with relief that no one appeared to be seriously hurt I began to wonder exactly how I was to get into the school parking lot since this bumper crash took up most of the road directly in front of the driveway.

Several teachers were scurrying over to the scene and helped direct me around the mess.
I was glad for once to be extra early to school. I did not want to imagine what this scene would be in five minutes with all of the harried parents trying to drop kids off and get to work on time.

“I’m glad everyone is okay Mom,” DS said.

I nodded as I turned into the parking lot.

“Me too,” I added.

“The little girl is probably scared,” DS noted.

“Probably, but she looks okay,” I stated.

My son gave me a smile and as he got out of the car and added, “Just be glad it wasn’t us Mom. I mean, after all you are in your flannel polar bear pajamas. You look like Lucy from I Love Lucy.” And with a grin he bounded off to his civic responsibility.

I gave him a half grin and made my way out of the parking lot, hoping to get back before anyone I knew saw me in my most attractive get up.

I tried to imagine having to get out of the car in my fashion du jour: flip flops, faded flannel polar bear pajamas, uncombed hair, and unwashed sleepy crypt face….the very thought was enough to make me shudder. The police officer would probably arrest me for public indecency..

This morning I learned a valuable lesson – never go out unprepared. In this case, always have on clean suitable clothes- just in case….

Knock Knock It's the Plumber

2009-02-11T09:03:00.000-08:00

The plumber came for a visit yesterday. Not a friendly” how are ya, come in and have a cup of coffee” visit. More like a “Please help fix my clogged drain as quickly as possible. There is water backing up in the shower” kind of visit.

And how I wish we had a plumber in the family. I mean, part of me thinks that if I can get over my fear of slime that I just might take up the cause of learning about pipes and drains and bits and pieces going here and there.

Maybe. I mean, I could probably wear gloves and a mask. And well, it would save a lot of money not having to hire a plumber to come and declog drains.

And this drain was indeed unable to drain. He had to use this long hose-like device that coiled around and around on one of these portable rollaway scooters. And stuck to the end of it was what I thought appeared at first to be a shrunken head.

Actually it turned out to just be a clump of hair. My hair to be exact.

And that is when the visit turned nasty as in three feet of mucky yucky goop covered hair nasty. My hair – all mine lay in a forlorn heap inside the shower stall. The plumber frankly was surprised to learn I was able to shed so much hair in six months. Looking at my head of grey but still full hair one would never think me the culprit.

And since it was mostly darker in color there was no way to pin the blame on DH for this escapade.

And so the $225 visit from the plumber to declog our master bath shower and my sink (which was still usable BTW) was a much needed visit from a very nice and courteous young man whose services I would highly recommend- but as I mentioned, there is a great deal of money to be made from anyone willing to pull off the gloves and get a bit, um dirty.

And come to think about it, much of my daily job involves pulling off the gloves in terms of cleaning toilets, sorting out the bales of laundry from an active sweaty ten year old, vacuuming into the farthest crevices of mankind to seek out new and unexplored dust bunnies of various shapes, sizes and colors.

I wonder if UCLA by chance offers online extension courses in plumbing 101.

I have a few spare hours…

Bear Claws, Saws and Wood

2009-02-10T17:20:00.001-08:00

Dinner at our house is usually a fun and often funny affair. If not for one reason than definitely for another.

Oftentimes what it is I have attempted to make for the evening meal becomes fodder (no pun intended) for hungry mouths. Sometimes their disappointment is tantamount- especially the expressions of DS when he queries me, “What’s for dinner Mom?”

Me: “Steamed broccoli and baked salmon.”

DS: “Oh” with a long drawn out sigh and a face like a red balloon.

Me: “I hope that is okay?!”

DS: “Oh it’s fine, I was just really hoping for tacos or a burger or macaroni and cheese.” (Followed by another deep sigh).

Me: “Well, you can save those thoughts for another night or an evening out with your Dad.”

DS: “You’re right.”

After we settle down, give thanks and begin attacking the fuel enriched food in front of us, what usually happens is that one of us will bring up a topic and that topic will then take off on tangents so unrelated that one wonders how to ever get back to the beginning.

Take for example last night. We somehow got onto the topic of high school and electives. DH was delivering his version of what electives should comprise- as when he was in school taking honors everything from A-Z pretty much. He decided to take things like home economics and woodworking as a soothing balm to his otherwise GPA-enriching workload.

I was fine with the conversation until DS asked DH to explain woodworking. As my DH detailed what was involved in the act of working with wood he added that DS should consider taking such a course in either junior high or high school.

And this is where I dropped my fork, letting it fall ungracefully onto my salad which caused a chain reaction of rolling tomatoes and jittery romaine strips to slide here and there. It was as if they too were alarmed at the sudden turn the conversation had taken.

“Over my dead and buried body will any son of mine be in a woodworking class,” said I in a very high and mighty tone of voice – it surprised me too I must admit- but well, motherly preservation or whatnot just kicked in I guess.

“I learned incredible things in woodworking dear,” my husband said in his most pacifying voice- the one that makes my eyebrows shoot straight up.

“Indeed,” said I.

“Like what Dad?” inquired my very curious son.

“Oh I learned how to use a band saw to cut steaks off a slab of frozen meat bear.”

I looked at my DH to see if he was serious (his dad was known to have killed a skunk and even had it mounted someplace so I wasn’t sure what to think other than appalling thoughts of sadness for the poor bruin.)

He added that he learned to use a lathe, a device that rotates a piece of wood at high speed and allows the user to cut with tools (e.g. you use it to make chair legs). Somehow I can’t envision my engineer exacting husband as the Home Improvement kinda guy.

But I was still back on bear and saw and shuddering uncontrollably and thinking that this conversation was way off the track when my DH added more information about the many benefits of wood working class.

“There’s the great use of a planer –a device for feeding wood through, and grinding one surface completely smooth and flat, always a good skill to know,” my husband proudly added.

I just stared at him, at my son and back again at said Home Improvement master- the Grand Poohbah himself- Grizzly Adams sans bushy beard and hair. Who knew that the king of sawing bear steaks was sitting across from me this very evening? In fact, we had been living under the same roof all these years…and I had no idea. Come to think about had I known my DH had such fondness for woodworking and saws I could have put in a request for a handmade vanity and a set of side tables and…

“Dad, how does the bear get frozen? And what do you do with the claws?” my son asked.

My dear dear husband was chuckling and chortling and he and dear dear son were really getting into the whole conversation- probably getting a chuckle out of my complexion turning from red to green and back again - like a Christmas ornament.

Except that this ornament was about to crack.

But I had a trick up my sleeve- little did my DS and DH know that they were being enrolled in a Fred Astaire dance class…and it would be starting sooner than either of them could say one more word about saws and bears and lathes.

Hail Mother Nature

2009-02-06T10:51:00.000-08:00

Driving in hail is an interesting and intense experience. Especially with two inches of water on the road and slurping sloshing cars driving as if they are on surfboards. I was on the road with them and I can attest that surfing and rain and hail do not make a good concoction.

I recently had a hail-full experience. And it was just that - an experience. I cannot say whether it was pleasant or unpleasant. It was just what it was. A hail raising experience complete with rumbles from the sky that made me wonder if what I was seeing, these white roundish crystalline bits popping off the hood of my car and windshield were actually hail. Indeed they were.

And so I say, “hail to the almighty gifts of nature.” Here in California – at least in my town, drivers pretend that rain is something they encounter every day. Thus, they drive crazy—zigging here and zagging there- even crazier in rain than in dry sunny weather. The conditions with which most ‘southerncalies’ are used to driving and living become circumspect in anything less than 70 degrees and balmy.
I know a bit about hail formation from my good friend wikipedia, (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hail).

Hail forms in storm clouds when supercooled water droplets freeze on contact with condensation nuclei, such as dust or dirt. The storm's updraft blows the hailstones to the upper part of the cloud. The updraft dissipates and the hailstones fall down, back into the updraft, and are lifted up again. The hailstone gains an ice layer and grows increasingly larger with each ascent. Once a hailstone becomes too heavy to be supported by the storm's updraft, it falls from the cloud.

In large hailstones, latent heat released by further freezing may melt the outer shell of the hailstone. The hailstone then may undergo 'wet growth', where the liquid outer shell collects other smaller hailstones. Imagine that!

The sun was out while the rain poured itself down upon the ground in little miniature rounds of ice. Plunk! Plink! Plunk! Gdunk! These were the noises surrounding me as I gripped the wheel trying to stay safe and sane.

I tried to steer with one hand and when I got to a stop light I tried to snap a photo of this amazing sight. Above me the cloud formation was amazing - to my left there was a rainbow that reflected iridescent colors of sherbet along the perimeter of the sky.

If only I could get the windshield wipers timed to stay down while I took a picture.
Hail is one of those pieces of nature that has always fascinated me.

And now, three days after the initial interaction with the said hail I find myself trying to get some errands done and find myself unexpectedly being pummeled with shards of glass - no actually – shards of ice- ouch!

Hail to the almighty gifts of nature-is it possible to return this particular cadeau of Mother Nature and receive a credit on say, another rainbow?

Forget the errands; I am going back inside the house. My fascination with hail is ended….

Lost...in a Parking Garage

2009-02-05T15:46:00.000-08:00

“I'm all lost in the supermarket

I can no longer shop happily

I came in here for that special offer

A guaranteed personality”

It is this refrain by The Clash running through my brain as I wander aimlessly through this huge parking structure trying to remember which C2 it is exactly where I left my car.

I am in the Irvine Spectrum. It is 9:30 a.m. on Wednesday. I decided to park someplace different from where I normally park. Why you might ask?

I am asking myself that very same question as I plod with heavy plastic bags from Target, the world’s friendliest department store to someplace half a world away it would seem. Of course Target would happen to be at the exact opposite end of this sprawling complex of rectangles and squares and hexagonal buildings all in shades of mocha, slate and riveting white foam.

And I have no idea which structure exactly it is in which I have parked my car. Lucky for me it is early morning and I don’t have to be back to pick up my son from school for several hours. By that time I should have managed to find said vehicle. Or if not, at least a security person to chauffer me around.

I didn’t pay attention really to much more than the big blue C and the number 2 indicating the level on which I had parked my car. I had a sneaking thought deep in my mind though that what happens if there is more than one Level C2. The Irvine Spectrum is a massive place and frankly a place I usually avoid.

But I was in need of efficiency since I knew I had to get to work in the afternoon and thus was limited in the amount of time I had to acquire Valentine’s Day gifts, throat lozenges for an ailing husband pining away at home (I am taking poetic license here since it sounds better than saying my husband was home from work with a head cold) and a wedding shower gift of which I was at wit’s end on what to get and decided that I would go into Anthropologie and not come out empty handed one way or the other.

Thus, in my quest to take care of the household item I parked and made my way to Target hoping to get those errands done and then at least try and enjoy the process of what to pick out for the bride to be amongst the layers of lovely fiddley bits and gizmos at Anthropologie.

And it was in this state of mind that I found myself when I realized that my car was not in the C2 level in which I found myself. So back down the stairs I went and walked to the next structure which seemed to be at least a quarter mile away- but when one is buried under five heavy plastic bags five steps can often seem like miles.

Up the stairs I went. Luckily the structures were mostly empty so determining if my car was there or not was an easy matter. It wasn’t.

Down the stairs I went and around the backside to yet another dimension of this endless parking maze. Ups the stairs again (at least I had the brains to park on the second level and not the sixth!) and voila, there was my car- in a spot that I have no idea how it got there.

I will pay more attention next time to words like West and East. Or better yet, maybe I will park in my usual spot for those rare trips to this unwelcoming mall.

But after dropping off said packages I still wasn’t done and had to venture forth to acquire wedding shower gift. I paid close attention to where I parked and which entrance I came in and which store I was closest to.

So, after an hour in Anthropologie (Did I mention that the store is known as “a sensory shopping experience for connoisseurs of unique beauty” and I concur.) So many choices! I came out with what I hope the bride to be will enjoy – a motley collection of things – since I just couldn’t make up my mind…soaps, and perfumes and candles and cups and saucers and lingerie bags and notebooks and the list goes on and on…

The good news- I found the car!

Now I just have to find my keys….

Circus Valentine

2009-02-03T14:38:00.001-08:00

Stuffing Valentine’s bag on a sunny Tuesday afternoon waiting for my ten year old to return home from school I sit here listening to Britney’s (she who needs no last name) newest album – Circus. I must admit it is great for completing a mindless task of making sure each bag gets the same allotment of kiddy crack in the form of fruit roll ups and gum drops and lollipops…

I find myself dropping dollops of golden dew into each bag in tune to the mesmerizing beat of the drums and the background vocals of Britney. The lyrics make me stop and sit up - like a mother meerkat- thinking to myself this is the music of my Dear Son’s generation? Aye aye aye. And here I sit, half lotus, listening to the lyrics while my head nods and my hand keeps time with the beat.

And then I remind myself my generation spawned Madonna – truly the world’s greatest marketer and chameleon- she too who needs only one name and is recalled for writhing across the floor at the Grammys many years aback- in a wedding no less.

I suppose the more things change the more they stay the same. With the exception of Madonna who truly was flaunting a brand new generation of sex appeal and feminine might, the likes of Cyndi Lauper and the B-52’s and others of that generation were more of the’ let’s dance and have fun’ – or those at least are my naïve memories of the ‘80’s – a great time for music and laughter.

Wham! , Bow Wow Wow, Dead or Alive, Kajagoo, Bronski Beat, Split Enz, Kajagoogoo, John Mellencamp, the Go-Gos, a-ha, Duran Duran, Thomas Dolby, Elvis Costello, Talking Heads, Blondie, Bobby Brown, The Innocence Mission, The Cure, Prefab Sprout, ABC, The Church, Echo and the Bunnyman, Oingo Boingo, Ministry, Michael Sembello, The Smiths, Romeo Void…the list goes on and on.

I find myself straying from the task at hand of stuffing Valentine’s Day bags and instead going on a hunt for some of my favorite music from the ‘80s. All thanks to Britney.
I listen to the lyrics:

“All eyes on me in the center of the ring just like a circus….”

“Don’t stand there watching me follow me…show me what you can do…Everybody’s let’s go we can make a dance floor…”

“I’m a performer the dance floor is my stage…”

“There’s only two types of people in the world- those who entertain and those who serve.”

“There’s only two types of guys out there those who can hang with me and those who can’t…”

“When I put in a show...I can feel the adrenaline funneling through my veins….better be ready…”

“When I crack that whip everybody don’t trip…”

I have a feeling that Britney read a good deal of Dr. Seuss when she was young.

Maybe that explains a lot.

Now, where did I put that Devo CD…..?

The Intimate Tale of a Tennis Ball

2009-02-02T17:28:00.001-08:00

Tennis balls and I have never been the best of friends. Several years back I took a tennis clinic to try and improve my game. For me this meant keeping the ball in the court and remember that I wasn’t playing baseball. I have learned to buy these bouncy bundles of spongy foam by the bucketful.

I will say that I have been told that I have a pretty good forehand but when it comes to speed or power forget it. I “play” the game – much as little kids play pickup sticks. I am definitely not the stuff of which legends are made.

But hey, it is fun and good exercise- especially as I spend much of my time chasing the tennis balls all around the court. Which brings me back to my most recent and by far most intimate experience with a tennis ball. And to be honest, I never knew that the devil could be found in such a small 2.7 inch diameter yellow ball – until today.

I finished my Monday routine of playing with three year olds, helping them assemble building bricks, fitting puzzle pieces into the right spot, washing hands after snack and giving lots of smiles and hugs to little open arms. At 12:00 p.m. I waved goodbye to my pint sized friends and ran off to run a few errands and decided to squeeze in an early afternoon workout.

I looked at my watch and realized I had a bit of time between when my son would arrive home from school and we would have to make our way to swimming and the beginning of the afternoon ritual. So, I decided to try and squeeze in an hour and a half workout. I made my way to the neighborhood gym and checked out the class schedule posted near the entrance.

I noticed that there was a one o’clock stretch class. “Sounds good” I thought to myself. Typically I take the one o’clock Yoga and Pilates classes offered on Tuesdays and Thursdays. A stretch class sounded like it would much of the same thing. So I thought.

I trotted in with my yoga mat and found a spot in the middle- close enough for me to see but not close enough for me to become a spectacle. Soon the class was filled with men and women of all ages, sizes and shapes.

“This is going to be great,” I told myself.

Hah!

I soon found myself lying supine on my mat with a tennis ball wedged between the backside of my right hip bone and the right upper half of my pelvic plate. Now I will admit that I was a bio and psych major a hundred years ago in college. I will also admit that I had done some grad work in physiology and body alignment. But this was well, this was shall we say a different experience?
“Breathe deeply and find your pressure point and let the weight of your body give into the sensation,” crooned the voice of the instructor. She was a raven haired wrinkle free woman with a voice soft and velvet and smooth.

Sensation?!! Oh I was giving into the sensation alright. Pressure point. Understatement. I highly suggest that if any of you have ever undergone a deep tissue massage, Rolfing or other neck crunching experiments in massage, then you might have an inkling of what childbirth is like.

“What am I doing in this stretching class?” I asked myself as I tried to breathe, give into the sensation of the tennis ball hugging my pressure points tightly and trying to think how many wriggles of the buttocks it would take to make it to the exit.

The tennis ball was used by my toes to act as a rolling pin for the underside of my foot. Catwalks I would not be doing any time soon. The little yellow ball was used in so many places that I had no idea just how versatile such a small ball could be.

Now I know. The tennis ball and I- we are very close. Whether we shall stay close remains to be seen.

Sock Crisis

2009-01-29T14:25:00.000-08:00

There is a conspiracy going on in my house. It has been going on for years and while I have patiently tried to humor the offending culprits, I have reached a point of complete exasperation.

The varmints have been hiding in pant legs, somewhere deep inside the bowels of the washing machine, inside pillow covers and in a host of other places that when I try and provide my DH and DS with matching mates, well, it is less than plausible.

I am referring to socks - those colorful or not so colorful bits of cloth as the case may be that are designed to be worn on feet and with shoes.

It’s not like they live in a prison or anything. I mean, they have it pretty good - for socks. They are kept fresh and clean and get to keep a step in time with the likes of aforementioned loved ones. I painstakingly put them in the washing machine together and yet, somehow, through some as yet undefined trick of the hand they poof- come out bedraggled and single.

Single socked I scratch my head and search high and low – one of these days I am going to take the washer apart and find a nest of matchless mates having a martini party in there- I just know it.

They are having a laughable time at my expense – Woody Allen could have a field day making a goofball comedy about the lady who went loopy over lost mates….I can see it now.
My most recent humiliation by these varmints came when I went to drop off my DH’s shirts at the dry cleaners this morning. I have a big blue laundry bag in which I place all of the items for the dry cleaners to help separate them from the basic wash and dry variety that yours truly attempts to handle. Key word being “attempts.” We have managed to turn quite a few pairs of tidy whities into a lovely shade of blush over the years. That however, is a story for another day.
Speaking of tidy whities, I was pulling the items out of said laundry bag and laying them on the counter for the clerk to count when plop! There on the counter was something that did not belong on the counter. Neither did it belong in the dry cleaning bag. It belonged in the lingerie bag. Those socks – I just know they had something to do with my- ahem- undergarment (the pretty blue La Perla one) lying on the counter for all to see.

Well, I scooped it up before you could say “What time is it” in Portuguese – which I haven’t a clue how to say.

The socks have taken to hiding not only themselves but have brought in the tidy whities and undergarments; in fact there is an entire Mafia connection plotting its next move- no pun intended -while I lament the unwieldy tribulations of being the lost sock mom.

…to be continued…Monk where are you when I need you???

Housewife of Orange County

2009-01-28T16:55:00.000-08:00

Maybe it is because I live in southern California and have become a victim of the reality/fiction show, “The Real Housewives of Orange County” that magazines espousing magical cures for wrinkles and aging intrigue me. The most recent one to cross my post box was titled Body & Beyond and featured thirty pages of advertisements (that was the whole publication actually) filled with great metaphors and similes not to mention plain marketing 101 such as the following, “A beautiful nu image for the nu year.” Interesting that when one is beautiful and healthy that spelling suddenly doesn’t seem to matter as much.

Looking through these pages I cannot help but chuckle, “Look ten years younger on your first visit!” Wow, sign me up, ten years- does that have a direct correlation so if I make two visits I will look twenty years younger?! How does one achieve such magic anyway? The advertisement promises that celebrities loving this treatment include “The Real Housewives of Orange County.” Wow…

I, like the women featured in the “The Real Housewives of Orange County”, can lay claim to being that- a housewife. But I am not sure exactly what is meant by the qualifier ‘Real’- does that mean I am fake? False? In any case, unlike the women in the program, I cannot lay claim to having any resemblance of a life to theirs. Okay, I will admit I live in a gated community nestled at the foot of a range of mountains, but my house is not 5,000 square feet- not of course that there is anything wrong with a 5,000 square foot house- a bit more dust and cleaning to be sure…but hey.

I cease to understand how these woman – who are all amazingly dressed albeit in what appears to me to be the same outfit in different shades (chartreuse, sherbet, camellia, lavender, celery, burnished gold, siena, etc.) episode to episode. But this could my background in retail rearing its impish head -maybe the recession is even hitting the ladies living the high and mighty wave of excess.

If one wants to witness the backlash of women pulling and pushing each other apart like tangled bits of taffy, then this is the show. They do not stop in their relentless self deprecation of how woeful bits and pieces of their exacting lives are. Money and looks aside, these women have very little else.

It would seem that their ability to find happiness resides in their ability to poke and scratch at each other’s eyes- like feral cats marking territory. It is really quite fascinating to observe. On one recent episode one gal, who is engaged to a man old enough to be her father (unfortunately suffering from cancer ) and rich enough to keep her nicely clothed for years to come, shared her concerns about taking care of herself – should something happen. She and he are still just that a she and a he- not a Mr. and Mrs. We will call her Blond Beauty.

She is pretty with tresses of wheat colored hair and a great figure capped with a winning smile. We join this young lady as she is having lunch with her new best friends (BFFs) – another blonde who iwe shall refer to as Alpha Mom and a brunette who used to be a playboy bunny – years ago. We will call her Alpha Gal.

There is another brunette, let’s call her Moon Doggie, who is a major sports and workout hound and she provides a bit of controversy by disputing the claims of the Alpha Mom and Alpha Gal.
The engaged young woman is bemoaning the fact that because she is not yet married that the fiancé’s children from previous marriages will be in line for any inheritance. Alpha Mom and Alpha Gal vehemently yelp: get a prenuptial, or power of attorney, or beneficiary – something in a legal document form to which this young and beautiful lass can hold should the unthinkable happen.

This conversation seems to erupt into a full throttle roar when Moon Doggies tries to explain while waving her jewel encrusted fingers that there is more to life than money. I happen agree with her. But I wonder if it is easier to spout such a statement as one looks at the rocks of diamonds and rubies sparkling on fingers dancing in the California sunshine. Just a thought.
Moon Doggie tries to make her case by recommending that Blond Beauty just try and stay the course and help her man through the chemotherapy etc. Well, Alpha Mom goes for the jugular. Her super tight skin grimaces in a surreal way and perhaps the camera crew could do a better job of trying to portray her with a better angle. I won’t bother describing it- let’s just say it’s not pretty.

I could go on…I will admit that I just cannot pull myself away from this insipid show..and as I sit here looking at page 9 of Body & Beyond magazine espousing that the Glamour Den will save me $100 on my first full head extension. I find myself scratching my recently trimmed locks.
I seem to recall having a cosmetology Barbie doll when I was about ten years old. I believe you could actually pull her hair to make it grow – is that what this is? But hey, the Glamour Den is my one stop for luxurious hair….

I am still trying to grasp the ‘real’ meaning behind “Real Housewives of Orange County.” What does that make me? Maybe I won’t answer that question…

Dogs and Children and...me

2009-01-27T09:48:00.000-08:00

Dogs and children.

These two life elements have somehow, for years, managed to find their way to me. Perhaps it is my smell, or the way I walk; perhaps it is the fact that I hum and talk to birds and insist that four legged and two legged creatures share with others. I am not sure. But it is a phenomenon that has caused some great chuckling around our house recently.

I can, for example, tell you with great certainty that if there is a pair of chocolate covered, mud splayed little hands in the vicinity of the mall, the post office, the bank, the grocery store, the dentist, the coffee shop, - they will find me- even if they don’t know me. I become the rail banister of out and about, with little runny noses and juice stained mouths somehow sharing their artistic creations with me wherever and whenever. I am the human magnet – for messy hands and messier mouths.

As a result, I usually can be found with a tissue in a pocket to help me remove said detritus after such experiences. Now, keep in mind, it is not as if I go seeking these types of mystical encounters. I do not stand in a doorway yelling “Yoo hoo, all little children who have just had a snack or finished making mud pies, come and give me a hug…”

As a matter of fact, I don’t think I do anything except maybe the fateful mistake of eye contact or a smile. Maybe that is it. In any case, I am beginning to do research on the relationship of dogs and children and middle aged moms (a shiver just ran down my spine at those two – excuse me three words…eeesh…who would have every thunk…who is that face in the mirror...) I stray from my story…

Take for example this past weekend. My DH (Dear Husband) and DS (Dear Son) decided it was time for a family constitutional – another word for a walk along our neighborhood three mile hiking trail. It is a nice easy stroll through a platoon of Eucalyptus trees – home to a motley collection of crows, sparrows and parrots. Each of these feathered creatures is in constant competition with its brethren for the loudest, shrillest, most awe-inspiring ‘song.’

The afternoon sky had turned to a soft shade of lavender and the sun was a soft butter yellow, sleepy and warm. We were walking along- the three of us, DH and I and DS on his scooter when from the opposite direction came a golden retriever puppy. His tail was wagging and he was sniffing everything in sight. As he came closer there was an audible groan from my walking companions.

I turned and saw the look of resignation on my DH’s face and a look of incredulousness on that of my DS. For they had been subjected to too many moment s of “Mom moments’ prone to happen especially on walks.

You see, I love animals – well, I suppose I should caveat that with I like most and have a healthy respect for others. The black widow spider who was attempting to make a nest for her babies in our garage had to be relocated. I did apologize to her that it really wasn’t personal, but that well, spiders of her elegance belonged elsewhere- far beyond the steps of our modest home. So I gingerly swept her up and placed her in the back yard behind a palm tree- hopefully she has found a liking for her new residence.

But I digress. If there is a puppy or full grown dog out for a stroll with his parents then I will of course ask if I may pet the canine and if granted, which is usually the case, I become one with my four legged friend. The dog will usually come and sniff my hand or sometimes disband with formalities and hop right into my lap. Depending on how big the dog is, sometimes I am knocked to the ground which I am sure is a very funny sight. Think Lucille Ball with brown hair. I need not say more.

On this occasion though, a new element came into the picture that had not previously presented itself. This aforementioned golden puppy with curious eyes and a black wet nose proceeded to come over to me looked at me with a tilted head. He (I am pretty sure it was a male) sat down in front of me and proceeded to – you guessed it – poop! Right there in the middle of the walking path. As if he were giving me a gift.

Now this had never happened before- at least not to me. And the owner was of course ready with her trusty blue poop bag and my son and husband were in stitches saying “Mom made the dog go poop. Look Mom you have magic poop powers!”

Once finished doing his business the puppy then gave me a smile – or what I believed to be a puppy smile and trotted off with his master. I am not sure if that smile meant, “Thanks I needed that,” or more along the lines,” Lady, you are full of sugar honey ice tea.” (NOTE this is a clean site so an acronym will have to do here…)

In any case, my life is never truly dull. And while this may seem like a farce, I stand before you and say: this is a true story there are three eyewitnesses.

Green Thumb

2009-01-23T13:13:00.000-08:00

A green thumb is not something I have at my disposal. If anything, my opposing digit is closer to the hue of dirty dishwater in color. It is opposed to anything remotely related to green life and plants and leaves and flowers and sod. I wish it wasn’t so, but alas, it is.

Which brings me to the point of this posting. Water. Or lack thereof. No, I am not going to wax eloquent about the state of perpetual drought that plagues the state of California and the southwest in general I believe.

Rather, I am going to lament and mope about the sad state of the three plants in my home – which I inherited from the previous owners by the way. They are all of the Ficus variety I believe. And in an effort to keep them alive and in the state of perpetual health I have given them names: Henry, the sometimes hearty green leafed plant dresses our dining room table in an urn-like pot. He unfortunately gets droopy all too often making me feel like a true heel for not paying better attention.

Ivy is my little potted plant that sits in the kitchen windowsill. She gets talked to the most, but she unlike Henry suffers from over watering and goes limp and yellow.
And then there is the King of the house, Sir Harold. He is a magnificent creature in a twenty or thirty gallon pot that resides in our family room. He has a special drinking tube that I am supposed to remember to fill every few weeks as well as rotate his heavy humped bottom. The key word here is ‘remember.’

With no disrespect to anyone suffering or dealing with senile dementia of the Alzheimer type (it was actually my undergrad thesis back in the mid ‘80’s so I have a great deal of respect for this disease and the turmoil it brings). But that said, I sometimes think I am suffering from presenile dementia of the previously mentioned type. I do not remember to water Sir Harold – until he seems to be a shriveled and rather unsightly Charlie Brown-like tree.

I sigh and moan and sometimes apologize to these green vestures of life and rebirth- for being so dependent upon me for their very existence. I did some preliminary searching to understand these three plants to see if perhaps I could get some insight into how I should improve my green thumb and horticultural understanding.

All of the websites that I visited pretty much said the same thing when it came to information about indoor plants: Pothos (of which I think my three plants fall) can handle a wide variety of indoor conditions that rival some of the best indoors plants. (Good to know).

Well, that cheered me up a bit- perhaps Henry wasn’t beyond resuscitation after all. According to the plant experts, such house plants are ‘able to adapt to and endure lower light conditions and generally poor treatment,’ well that did it then. My plants were engineeringly designed to handle the likes of me and my poor nurturing skills.

One would think really, how hard can it be to:

· Regularly water
· Fertilize,
· Trim, prune
· Dust and shine leaves

Let us just say, that it is more difficult than one might think. At least in my case.

Which reminds me, I need to check on my leafy friends….

Mother Love

2009-01-22T09:21:00.001-08:00

The Monster Mash has nothing on me. I can take the most mundane task and turn it into a freakazoid of an accident in no time flat. It becomes a matronly dance all its own.

Take for example, my attempt to make nice and healthy lunches for DH and DS. As I opened up the refrigerator door, a jar of mayonnaise hurled itself upon my ankle- the one still black and blue from the encounter with the corner of the bedpost the night before.

Lucky for me the container while full, was plastic, making the pain less than that of a glass container. At least this is what I am telling myself as I take comfort in not having to pick up globules of glass in addition trying to ignore a throbbing appendage.

After retrieving said mayonnaise jar from the floor I proceed to take out the turkey meat and the carrot sticks and edamame and cheese. I then lovingly cobble together sandwiches made with fiber-enriched wheat bread whose packaging assures me that it provides 100 percent of the daily recommendation of fiber and vitamins. Nothing is too good for my boys.

I glance down at the aforementioned ankle which now resembles a doorknob in a motley collection of green and purple hues. Quite lovely actually. For an injured ankle.

I proceed to take the lunch pails- insulated rectangles of orange and grey- drab in comparison to my ankle I must admit- and add ice packs to the lunches stopping to think that maybe I should take an extra ice pack out of the freezer for my ankle. But then realize I have no time to be pampering a self-induced injury. I have lunches to prepare, beds to make, laundry to do as well as get myself to work on time.

I add a small bag of Pringles chips to each lunch which now contains a decrusted sandwich complete with a slight smattering of a mustard mayo spread and a healthy helping of turkey meat and a protein rich slice of cheese, cut in two (triangle shaped versus the more ho hum rectangle version). I add a bottle of water to each along with a bag of veggies composed of edamame and mini carrots.

I also provide a plastic (recycled no less) spoon and a container of apple sauce (organic) to round out the lunch made with TLC for each of the men in my life.

I deliver said lunches to appropriate pick up stations: for DS- I deliver his to his backpack. To DH, I deliver his to the front door next to his shoes, where he can easily pick it up on his way out the door.

Having done my domestic duty I then begin the rest of my day scurrying about. Off to work, grocery store, dry cleaners, post office, the usual.

The day goes on and before I know it, the evening meal is upon us. DS, DH and I sit down at the table and give thanks for the meal and chat about the day. My DS, with his big brown eyes and truly engaging smile looks over at me and says, “Mom, I know you work really hard on giving me a nice healthy balanced lunch (if he only knew…) but really, do you think you could up the ante on the junk food? The kids at school all have these amazing unhealthy lunches, and well, mine is just so healthy…”

The broccoli spear on which I was munching lodged itself in my throat at this very moment of his utterances….I will have to finish this story later. 911 may be needed this time….

Patchwork Quilt

2009-01-20T15:33:00.000-08:00

Today, Tuesday, January 20, 2009 - the fist uncurled, the hand frozen shut opened - extended its fingers across the lines of color and religion and economy and reached out, grasping other hands, other souls eager to once again reclaim America as the United States of America.

The patchwork quilt has added another fabric square– one that will bind together so many unraveling pieces of this glorious blanket we call home. Our patchwork quilt is made up of so many bits of fabric scraps – each with its own story, its own history. Stitched together these bits of fabric have come to represent the blanket of America.

It is a blanket that has kept us safe and warm. It has, unfortunately fallen prey to the whims of time and Nature.

But now, a new tailor has come into town. He brings with him needle and thread stronger and more resilient. He brings with him not just a cadre of seamstresses and tailors, but cobblers and plumbers and many other artisans who can not only shore up this beautiful mosaic of color and creed, but shore up the crumbling walls; reinforce the tired buildings and once more shine the dome of pride that made this country the land of the free and the proud.

It is a new day- a glorious and historical day where color does not matter; where religion and sexual preference do not matter; where it is the integrity and the meter of one’s soul that is the only sure thing.

Today, the fist of rage was uncurled for the first time in many years. And today, with the extended hand along with a needle and thread, we as apprentices in this new time will do just that- take responsibility for ourselves, we will learn to sew and reinforce the fabric of our patchwork quilt. We will extend a hand to our brothers and sisters- a hand up – not a hand out. Together, we will all rejoice and take cover in our warm and soft blanket.

Together. We will stitch a new patch on our quilt and it will be beautiful. Because we will have all worked on it together – as a team – as human beings. As individuals with hope for today and a vision for tomorrow.

Sweet Jehosophat

2009-01-14T15:30:00.000-08:00

I have discovered heaven in a cup. It is the simplest thing but it works - for me…sweet Jehosophat found in liquid form. Albeit the Syrians may prefer another beverage given the long standing feud from the 4th king of Judah and his buddy Ahab. But I digress….

I am not talking about oil or liquid gold but a good ol’cup of coffee – made to my liking without my having to do much other than place my order and say “please" and pay– but peanut shells instead of walnuts….

I enjoy a good cup of coffee but have gotten tired of waiting in line, paying exorbitant amounts for something with a fancy name that is little more than cream, sugar, and flavoring. And most of the coffee shops – if one can actually refer to them as that- are little more than multi syllabic money pits with the stench of burnt beans often emanating from a back room someplace. And for this privilege along with a surly server and a $3.00 out of pocket experience, I am handed my cup of Java. Actually it is left unceremoniously on a counter top and I am called to some can pick up my order. Brisky beverage - California style.

Given the state of the economy and the lack of additional resources to support my addiction I have begun to reach into the bowels of my wallet for spare change to try and get the extra mile out of the morning java. With my renewed economic frugality I had found that I can get a customized cup of very good coffee without even leaving my car. Of course I wish I could say without leaving my house, but I can tell you horror stories of my attempts to brew a pot of coffee…The results are not so good usually.

But I can say that I give two thumbs up to the coffee that is customized to my liking: two creamers and one sugar- by none other than McDonald’s. Yes indeed, I can drive through our newly opened neighborhood fast food McDonald’s blended in stone work designed to evoke a Tuscan setting and have my morning coffee hot and happy.

I stumbled upon this newest neighbor while filling up my car with gas at the building next door – which is when I looked up and noticed a little window with a head poking out. It was a cashier window and there was a car there delivering money. Because of the masked architecture one would think it was more a shop or some high end restaurant. There is an golden arch “M” on the building but it is small – compared to most other McDonald's’’- and it is on the side of the building- and while it is yellow it is sitting quietly near the rooftop under the eaves of the brick building where it can easily be missed.

The god of the sky Jupiter and his son Apollo are looking out for me on this balmy January morning in southern California as I sip my cup of coffee – knowing that I have enough change left to buy another tomorrow….

If only the rest of the world could find such contentment with a simple cup of coffee....

Charlie Brown and Me

2009-01-12T14:42:00.000-08:00

There is a generation of children growing up without the knowledge of the Charlie Brown tree. I am not sure why this struck me as a bit sad really. Perhaps because all of my peers and those of us of a certain age know immediately what is meant by the phrase “Charlie Brown Christmas tree.” Perhaps it is the comfort derived from the known. The familiar. The familiarity with having been a Charlie Brown tree at one point or another in my life.

I realized this the other day when my son asked me why a particular neighborhood tree looked so scrawny. “Well,” said I. “He (for some reason I have always taken to giving masculine qualities to my trees) is probably an offspring of the Charlie Brown tree.”

“What is a Charlie Brown tree?” my son asked.

“What do you mean what is a Charlie Brown tree?” I responded in a rather perplexed voice.

“Mom, the tree is skinny and could use a few more branches and leaves but what does that have to do with Charlie Brown? Who is Charlie Brown?”

We were in the car (it seems I am often in the car for these lovely conversations –some of which have really been doozies of late- more on that in tomorrow’s blog so stay tuned…)

“Well, let me start by saying that when I was a girl…”

“I know mom, a hundred years ago…” my ever so jovial son reminded me.
“No actually, it was less than that,” I said as my brow furrowed and I tried to avoid a squirrel racing across the road.

“Better pick up the speed there Charlie,” I said not realizing what I had just muttered to the furry rodent with the electric shock tail and overstuffed cheeks.

“Mom, what is a Charlie Brown tree and who is Charlie Brown?” my son looked over at me with his chocolate kiss eyes that required an answer. Then and now.

“Well,” I began. Thoughts of the sprigs of hair sticking up from the top of Charlie Brown’s round head and his scratchy somber voice came back up from the cellar and into the wobbly corridors of my present mind.

“Charlie Brown is the main character in the comic strip Peanuts by Charles M. Schulz. And from the time I was 8 or so; I read the comic strip every Saturday. He also was made into a television character and each season had its associated disaster, like the pumpkin…”

“Um, Mom, could you just tell me what a Charlie Brown tree is?” said the non scratchy voice of the wheat-colored mop of hair next to me.

“Oh, sorry, dear,” said I.

“In a nutshell, Charlie Brown was the unpopular, always last to be called little boy who had really bad luck,” I stated as I made my way down the street and around the corner keeping an eye out for wayward squirrels.

“Sounds like you a little bit Mom- at least the part about bad luck,” said my son now munching a granola bar with the crumbs making a delightful pattern on his shirt and knees. Granola crumbs are a royal pain to clean up….

“Mm hmm,” I mumbled nodding my head slowly.

“Now a Charlie Brown tree is the smallest, skinniest, most naked tree you can think of- and that is usually all that was left by the time Charlie Brown went looking for his tree at Christmas.”
“Sounds like maybe Charlie Brown was a wait until the last minute kinda dude,” said my ever ready ten year old.

“Well, I guess maybe you could say that,” I said, “But really the truth of the matter is that he just had unfortunate luck, but he learned to accept his not so good luck and tried to make the best of it.”

“He sounds kind of pathetic Mom,” my dear son stated.

“Well, maybe he was but somehow I always felt sorry for him and somehow I always related to him and the inability to have too many good things happen and well, it’s kind of hard to explain really,” I mused out loud.

I felt a soft warm hand on my arm, complete with a few granola scraps. “Mom,” said my son looking at me, “You are nothing like Charlie Brown because you have me and Dad who love you and you have lots of friends and are so creative and funny.”

“Oh, honey, thank you. That is so kind of you. It makes my day.”I barely got the words out when my son added, “Plus, you always look for the tree or pumpkins with the most character, and now I will know what you mean when you say character- it is code for Charlie Brown-type.” He winked and gave me his crooked Cheshire cat grin.

I grinned back and drove on.

Picasso's Owl

2009-01-09T08:00:00.000-08:00

The air is tinged with a snippet of winter frost that leaves a tartness on one’s tongue and a sting on one’s cheek. The inky darkness has not quite thrown off her morning coverlets. The stars are canvassed against the purple ink of the nighttime sky. The long limbs of Eucalyptus, pine and oak trees stand dark and straight in their masked silhouette. This is my morning landscape from which I begin to paint my day.

The sounds of the early morning are soft and gentle; and this morning is no exception. I take my three mile jaunt along the walking trail and pass under a canopy of tree bows including the large Eucalyptus where I hear the familiar “hoot hoot whooo” of the owl.

This morning it is answered by another. I stop and look up and there before me high in the boughs of the tree is an owl shadowed against the sky. I can see another owl peering from the top of a nearby tree. Her wings are also open and she is turning her head from side to side slowly. She is listening. As am I.

The owl hoots again as his wings unfurl the full magnificence of his span. His face – two orbs of golden honey in a white face of feathers look down toward me. He lowers his head as if to welcome me into the solitude of the early morning calm. The gift of the owl – the acknowledgement of my existence in his world – gives me a shudder and tingle. I smile and he bows his head once more and brings his massive wingspan closer and stands still on his branch while his mate observes from a distance.

At the wee hour in which I often can be found taking my constitutional, much of the neighborhood is still slumbering. For me, this is the absolute best time of the day. The air is still, I can listen and hear the sounds of the morning: the twitter and chirp of first call from the local members of the bird symphony. There is no rush to compete. It just is. The moment.

The owl recently moved to the neighborhood. I am not sure where he last resided, but I for one am happy to welcome him. He sits in an aging Eucalyptus tree with leafy shards of tussled leaves that sway and toss with the morning winds. He is high up off the ground. I have to peer closely to see him – he is still and regal. Like a king on his throne. This is what I think.

His movements are deliberate and calibrated to an exactness that is fascinating. Sometimes, on my walk, I will stop myself from my ‘quick step jaunt’ as my DH refers to it and simply gaze up at him. I can see my breath – reminiscent of the caterpillar’s smoke stack in Alice in Wonderland. In the crisp morning air I can breathe deeply and enjoy the solitude of being. It is a gift that the owl has helped me to discover.

And then I trot on waving good bye to my friend the owl. For that is what he has become in some ways- a comfort – a part of the morning routine to which I have become accustomed. The early bit of the day is just that - a tiny moment - one from which so much of the remaining day’s landscape can then be painted. I wonder what today’s painting will be?...

The Odyssey and Me

2009-01-08T13:35:00.000-08:00

It is a new year. A new day. A new moment. And yet, time appears to tick on oblivious to the changes of the sun, the wind and a motley collection of other things. And sometimes I think I do too. Like a ferris wheel I let time pass, not really taking in the moment. Not really grasping the meaning of the moment – as simple and small as it may seem.

How did it get to be January 8, 2009? What happened to the days and weeks in between November 25th and now? Where did they go?

As I reflect back on the past year albeit a bit after the moment of reflection is supposed to have occurred, I think that there have been many things to occupy my time. We had friends from Paris, France visit us at the start of the holiday season which meant that time for family and friends was condensed a bit this year. It meant a trip to San Francisco with J&E, our young friends to whom I will always refer as ‘the children,’ since we (my Dear Husband (DH and I) are like their American family. And we- I think I can speak for my better half – DH -enjoyed our wonderful time as a United Nations family – even if it was just for a few weeks.

And what have I learned from this past year? Much – but not enough. The financial community is a place to be treated with carefully - much like a cemetery. One should walk carefully - mindful of stepping on graves. The dignity and respect once afforded the banking capital of the world is now a mere shadow of joy itself. Hopefully with a reassessment and a good hard look inward the ‘souls of the new machine’ in the making will rejuvenate and bring back a glow worth reflecting and holding. One can hope.

There is still much to be grateful for- the fact that I have fingers as achy and disjointed as they may that enable me to peck at a keyboard. That I have a brain that mostly fires on command – mostly. That I have a family – a small and close knit husband and child who are the blanket of the everyday with whom I can snuggle and keep out the chill of the dark skies that sometimes threaten to unleash a bucket of rain.

And good friends and health and humor. And the simplicity of everyday simple tasks that despite the monotony, somehow give satisfaction in knowing that there is fresh milk in the refrigerator and clean underwear for all. Doesn’t get much simpler than that.
So, as we begin the trudge of learning to live in a recession prone world, a world with unrest in Africa, the Middle East and here at home, what is there to be grateful for? What is there to be happy about?

Over the coming months in addition to my trite and light attempts at levity, I will drop in a morsel now and again that is along the lines of food for thought – little bits to be savored, like a delectable piece of forbidden candy – sweet and buttery and full of flavor. So, what is there to be grateful for? And why should we (I) try and make a concerted effort to be in the moment?
Well, for one thing, being alive sure beats being ten feet under or a box of ashes stuck in a dark and breathless place. Secondly, the sheer delight of watching a new generation explore the world and all of its prisms and angles of light. Having the love of a good man. Having a roof over my head. Food on the table- even if it just a bowl of soup and a piece of fruit.

The ability to make the bed and do the laundry – cumbersome tasks as they are – I can do them and I am not dependent upon someone else to so my laundry, to get me out of bed, to make my food, to drive me to the market and the post office. I can get around and do these things on my own.

Waxing philosophical happens to me now and then. My Dear Son (DS) just finished reading the Odyssey- albeit the gentler kid-friendly version (difficult for Greek tragedies in general I think) which is a really great reality check.

I mean Odysseus was one determined guy- I hope Penelope appreciates all that he went through to get back to her and Telemachus. Compared to one-eyed giants, cannibals, roaring winds (okay we do have the Santa Ana to contend with) I have it pretty darn good.

So, the next time I see or hear that the economy is rapidly disintegrating and that we are at a standstill and Hades is having a comeuppance, well, I think I will just take a good look around. I will take a look around at where I live, the work options afforded me and the family that is the tapestry of my life and think that just maybe, it could be a whole lot worse.

Once Brawny...now...Scrawny

2009-01-07T11:36:00.001-08:00

The other day I had a grousing session with a paper towel. It was being stingy – giving me only half of a sheet versus the usual whole sheet required to clean up my messes.

As I grumbled at the white sheaves unfurling across the kitchen counter I tried to rip off a section. My futile efforts were rewarded with a piece of paper towel not big enough to wipe up the sweat on my brow - never mind the freshly brewed coffee that gave renewed meaning to cup runneth over…

No, my paper towel was anything but strong and reinforced with fine recycled paper: shards from some happily pulped tree urn. Mine was as flimsy as a toothpick. As I moved in for a closer look at my woeful mound of lazy paper serviettes, I noticed that indeed there were perforations along every six inches or so - unlike the usual 8X10 smooth sheets to which I had grown accustomed. I could see through them – like parchment really.

For forty years – or close to it now that I really think about it… I have never had an issue with the size of the paper towel. Until now. Marketers in their infinite wisdom have decided that I must have a need for smaller sheets. I just must. What they have given me in their efforts to simplify my life are gray hair and a migraine. Simplified indeed.

I have been perfectly content with my strong enough for the toughest spill Brawny and “the quick picker upper” Bounty quilts of amazing absorbency. (Note: it depended and still does which one happens to be on sale making me an equal opportunist.) I knew my paper towels (PT) and they knew me. We were homies of the homestyle variety.

Both of these lovely rolls of big white strength were big enough to handle any disaster I might throw at them: including the aforementioned pot of coffee, goops of mayonnaise, eggshells, wet oatmeal - the list is endless. I could always rely on my tried and true paper towels to get me through a sticky situation. You could say that over the years we have developed quite an intimate relationship me and my quicker picker upper and strong and mighty friends.

Recently however, this relationship has been sorely tested. Wandering the aisles of my local department store in search of paper goods including paper towels, I was suddenly assaulted by an entire room of paper towels from the likes of Bounty, Brawny, Viva, and a host of others I had never even heard of. Imagine both sides of an aisle swathed in bunting bundles of paper towels - five shelves stacked deep and so wide –twenty feet long and a good fifteen feet high. I never imagined so many choices. Beckoning to me from across the aisle were “Extra soft”, “Select a size”, “White” (why would I need another color?), “Super duty”. Where were my ‘regular’ old paper towels?!

I searched desperately for my friends of the tree cloth - who seemed to be now gone. So, I made a best guess decision and after ten minutes of shock and awe I headed home. I needed to take some aspirin. I installed my newly acquired paper towel roll and realized that despite my best efforts, I had purchased the half sheet “select a size”…

What is a soul to do? Back to the store I trotted, buoyed by three Excedrin and a bottle of water. I was ready to do battle with the paper towel aisle. I had a dictionary of terms to help me on my voyage this time. And as I made my way to the paper towel aisle something caught the corner of my eye that made me well, stop in my tracks.

There on the end cap and snaking around the corner it appeared that there were not one but two aisles and a back row dedicated to – toilet paper (TP)…How would I ever begin to fathom the marketing here when I had not fared too well with the PT? How would I ever even begin to fathom this world of sexy TP adjectives like “Jumbo” “Mega” and “Super sized..”?

For those of you of a certain age, perhaps the name Mr. Whipple will ring a bell. And right about now, I wished that I could request that Calgon and Mr. Whipple take me away from this almost unbelievable selection of TP. What I would give to squeeze a bundle of Charmin right about now…

But I digress. I simply wanted my well-known and dare I say, well-loved familiar brand of paper towels. My head was hurting and I decided I would have to wait until another day to begin to tackle the TP issue.

In their attempts to simplify the lives of us busy homemakers, marketers have created a plethora of choices that is overwhelming. Can we just go back to the good ol days when brawny wasn’t scrawny and paper towels were designed to be the quicker picker upper…please??

Stop, Look and Listen

2008-11-25T14:49:00.000-08:00

As I was trolling the web- web trollop that I have become, I came across the following and found it to be a wonderful idea. I share it with you my loyal readers as a way to reconnect and remember what can be all too fleeting a moment. So, this day of giving, remember to stop and listen- and maybe make a tape or video of those you love while they are here to help edit…

Source: (http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/us/AP-National-Day-of-Listening.html?_r=1)

NEW YORK (AP) -- After 25 years of marriage, there are still too many stories Gail Ostrow and her husband haven't shared with each other.
She hasn't heard the whole truth of what it was like in Vietnam. Or why, after the war, he retreated to 240 acres in Wisconsin to live without electricity and water. Or how he felt about not raising his son from a previous relationship.

''This is the man that I have lived with and loved and slept next to and been through some really great adventures and been through some really hard times together,'' the 64-year-old college professor said. ''But there hasn't been a lot of talking.''

''There are things that I want to know about him that don't come up in conversation.''
So on the day after Thanksgiving, Ostrow will sit down with her husband at their Bridgeport, Conn., home to interview him and record his words -- joining thousands of people nationwide who are participating in the National Day of Listening.

Launched by oral-history organization StoryCorps and scheduled for a day when families are more often dashing to take advantage of Black Friday sales, the event seeks to give people a reason to sit down with friends and family and have intimate conversations that can be preserved as heirlooms.

''Stopping on Friday the 28th and taking an hour to interview a loved one is the least expensive but most meaningful gift we can give one another,'' said StoryCorps founder Dave Isay, who said the idea was a response to the financial turmoil faced by so many Americans this year.

''This is the kind of project that can help us through difficult times by remembering what's really important, and that all of our lives matter,'' he said.

The national event is an outgrowth of Isay's StoryCorps program, which since 2003 has helped people record nearly 25,000 interviews at stationary booths in New York and with mobile operations traveling around the country. Participants receive a CD of their 40-minute interview, and all recordings are archived at the Library of Congress.

The memories and thoughts recorded Friday won't be stored so permanently -- Isay says StoryCorps simply doesn't have the staff and resources to make that happen -- but the real point, he says, is to allow families to preserve the recordings for themselves.

Such a do-it-yourself approach is more accessible than ever. People who may not even realize it often have digital recording equipment among their gadgets. Many computers can record sound directly, and even iPhones and some iPods can be used to record interviews. Participants can burn their own CDs of their conversations, or they can post them on online audio-sharing sites.
The experience creates more than a historical record to be shared with future generations. It can break down barriers and provide an opening for otherwise reserved participants to clearly voice their emotions.

When 29-year-old Seth Fleischauer recorded his interview with his grandfather, he heard the older man speak emotionally about their connection.

''I don't think that, up until that point, he had expressed his intimacy for me in that sort of way,'' Fleischauer said. ''That was a really important bonding experience for both of us.''

Now the New York schoolteacher sees the National Day of Listening as an opportunity to mark a milestone with his fiancee, as he interviews her following the first Thanksgiving that they host together as their own family.

And hundreds of miles away, 14-year-old Ally Stein will be interviewing her grandfather, hoping to repeat the experience she had last year when she quizzed her mother about her childhood as part of a StoryCorps-inspired school assignment.

The first time around, Ally got some surprises: Her mother, it turns out, was something of a troublemaker as a child, and she had stories about crushes, and boyfriends and mischievous antics.

''I did get closer with her,'' the eighth-grader said after class at her Fishers, Ind., middle school. ''I can tell her things now that I thought I couldn't be able to.''

The chance to preserve memories and emotions has proven a powerful draw. When the National Day of Listening was announced Saturday on National Public Radio, which has broadcast edited StoryCorps interviews for years, the Web site promoting the event quickly crashed as tens of thousands of people attempted to view the site.

It's not an unusual response, Isay says, noting that StoryCorps' traveling recording booths, which typically offer 100 interview slots per town, are frequently deluged with requests.

''We will often see 5,000 or 6,000 requests for interviews within the first three minutes,'' he said. ''We'll see people traveling hundreds of miles to come and record, and people showing up ten hours early for interviews. And I think it's because people think of this as an opportunity to leave a legacy.''

It is that wish to leave a mark that led Gail Ostrow's husband -- after repeated requests -- to finally agree to be interviewed, she suspects. ''He has a little more of a sense of his mortality'' after an emergency surgery this year, ''and maybe there are things he'd like to say,'' she said.
For Ostrow, always the quick talker and the interrupter in the family, it's a good chance, for once, to step back and let her husband take center stage.

''I'm really good at finishing his sentences, and this is an opportunity not to do that,'' she said. ''I know these stories are important to him. And I want them to be recorded. I want to sit there and I want to hear them, and I want to be able to give this to his son.''
------
On the Net:
National Day of Listening: http://www.nationaldayoflistening.org//

Oblivious to Oblivion

2008-11-24T15:24:00.000-08:00

Recently, the happy trio of Dear Husband, Dear Son and yours truly went out for dinner. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it was still an outing.

The place we went to is liberal with the use of sawdust- on the floor that is. And when one is waiting for one’s meal there are lots of shapes and designs that can be imagined in the hay colored flakes.

On this particular trip we managed to get a waitress with too many tables and not enough time. So, we waited. And we waited. And we waited.

My husband and son began chatting about the merits of a horse and mount for some game whose name I think was Oblivion. I tuned out after the second reference to morphing and found myself looking at a unicorn, grizzly bear and one giant llama all squirreled away within the carpet under my feet and around the table.

I wonder how much sawdust it takes to actually cover the floor. This I thought to myself.

For those of you who may not be initiated into the ways of the game let me give you a brief overview, courtesy of my trusty friend Wikipedia.

Oblivion is a single-player game that takes place in Tamriel's capital province, Cyrodiil. You are given the task of finding the hidden heir to a throne that sits empty, the previous emperor having been killed by an unknown assassin. With no true Emperor, the gates to Oblivion (the equivalent of hell in the world of Tamriel) open, and demons begin to invade Cyrodiil and attack its people and towns. It's up to you to find the lost heir to the throne and unravel the sinister plot that threatens to destroy all of Tamriel.

Sounds a bit like what is happening all over the world in my opinion. Which is what I was thinking when I noticed a bit of sawdust in the shape of the peace sign, the circle with a line dividing the circle in equal halves with two smaller lines one coming off each side of the line and making an upside down “V” shape of sorts.

As we waited ever so patiently for our food to arrive and my son and husband became even more animated over various elements of the game I thought to myself, “Why name a game oblivion?”

According to the online Merriam dictionary: Oblivion is the condition or state of being forgotten or unknown.

Hm…kind of like what we are to our waitress - her hungry, patient, paying guests. Now that I think about it, kind of like me…sitting quietly unobtrusively making pictures in the sawdust while talk of the Elders and weapons of destruction are gleefully discussed by my dinner partners.

Here comes our food…Oblivious to the state of Oblivion in which she our young waitress has left us, we forget talk of war and give thanks for our food being hot.

Junk in the Trunk

2008-11-20T09:50:00.000-08:00

If you were to look in the back of my car you would notice a motley collection of things: tennis rackets, Trader Joe bags, a blanket, a first aid kit, flares, a yoga mat and swim kit complete with extra goggles and swim caps.

Indeed, it would constitute what I would collectively refer to as “Junk in my trunk” (JIMT).

So, imagine my surprise when my ten year old son came home from school and referenced the term ‘junk in the trunk’ but with a rather different meaning. He was sitting in the kitchen having the requisite afternoon snack and we were having one of those special mother-son bonding moments.

Trying to stay hip and cool I asked what he meant by the phrase ‘JITT’. He explains it as follows:

“It means too much in the backside,” he says munching on a cookie.

“Backside? Too much what?” I naively ask.

Taking a gulp of milk he looks up at me with his newly minted white moustache and smiles, “You know mom, when you have a butt that shakes and is really big and jello-like.”

“Uh huh,” says I completely trying to grasp what I have just heard my innocent little guy share with me.

As a mom in the year 2008 it is important that I try and stay au courant and be aware of the influences on my young son as he maneuvers the waters of prepubescence. So, I take a deep breath and ask in as nonchalant a voice as I can, “And what other terms are the children at school fond of these days?”

I explain that when I was in school a million years ago, peace signs and flower decals and hip huggers were the rage. It was groovy to be alive and every little thing was hip or gross or way out. I explained that the really big thing was to make chain bracelets out of gum wrappers.

He looks at me with his big brown eyes and raised eyebrows.

"That was a long time ago Mom.”

“Oh I know that,” I respond.

But I can share with him how hip I am when I think about my own upbringing which would have included a rinsing of my mouth with soap for even referring to the body in such a less than decorous manner. Now here I was having a conversation and discussion of the merits of the vernacular of body parts with my ten year old.

I was beginning to feel pretty in vogue.

“I even know what a grill is,” I told my son with a hint of pride.

“What is it then Mom?” my son asks as he stuffs a cookie into his mouth.

“It’s when rappers and other cool cats place a strand of metal across their teeth for some reason beyond fathom,” I reply.

Chipmunk cheeks and all my son smiles and shares his half chewed cookie. “I am not sure we would use the word ‘cats’ Mom” my son chastises me gently.

Taking another milk swig of milk, my son then swallows and asks, “That was my grill – pretty cool huh?”

We giggle.

And for those of you who may be interested. There is a website called urban dictionary which helps take the mystery out of words such as “grill” “tight”, “ice” “bad” and of course the legendary phrase “junk in the trunk.” I have provided just one of the choice definitions to be found on this very riveting website.

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=junk+in+the+trunk

junk in the trunk … used to describe a female with a disproportionately large gluteus maximus region in relation to the rest of her body. Scientists have discovered that, in this condition, any food eaten by the afflicted turns immediately to fat then migrates rapidly to the gluteus maximus. Research has found that this ailment is widespread throughout many areas of North America and is oddly prevalent in African-American females. While there is no known cure, as long as there are males of the species and alcohol remains readily available, these females are still well-received in society.

Sympathetic and Undercooked

2008-11-19T11:36:00.000-08:00

Sympathetic but undercooked – this is how I would refer to my most recent attempt at domesticity and such. Read on dear reader and you too will see why it is that I and almost anything to do with domestic tasks are such awkward mates. I am seriously beginning to think I need to go back to work full time. If any of you happen to know anyone looking for a writer who cannot cook…

Twice a year I undertake the task of buying bags of potpourri to place round the house - to make it smell fresh and awake. I like a house that is alive and not stale.

So, in an effort to undertake this leviathan task I recently made a trek to the neighborhood Home Goods for discounts on the pricey smelly stuff as my DH and others of his ilk sometimes refer to my attempts at making our home appear warm and comforting.

To my utter surprise and joy, I secured said potpourri without too much of a hassle and was on my way toward the exit when I happened upon some baking sheets stacked several feet high.

They were snuggled very closely together. And while previous entries on this blog have chartered the landscape of my limited baking abilities, I was nevertheless in need of a mini loaf pan – I had this grandiose plan of making such loaves for the teachers this holiday season.

So, being the bull in the china shop that I apparently didn’t know I was – I attempted to remove a pan from the top of the stack – not the middle or the bottom- that would be a disaster waiting to happen. The top of the stack is safe- or so I thought.

One minute, I was standing next to my cart brimming with bags of potpourri in spice and orange clove. The next I was knee deep in pans and bric a brac of every variety, shape, size color and clangability one could ever imagine. And I couldn’t escape. The nasty beasts of Teflon in pie pans, cake pans, muffin pans and things to which I cannot put a name were clonking me on the head and shoulders and landing in a very unceremonious pile at my feet.

Needless to say I stood there. Like a statue. Like a child ready to accept the yet unnamed fate of the nuns in the black capes and penguin gear prowling the hallowed halls rulers keeping time in the palm of their cold thorny hands and ready to pounce (I am dating myself here since I doubt such prehistoric teachers religious or otherwise exist anymore – at least I hope so…)

Thus I stood, a Rodin model in the making, gently rubbing the sore spot on my elbow where a lovely colored bruise of lavender was already beginning to show itself.

“May I help you ma'am?” I felt a warm breath smelling of peppermint on my neck.

I turned to see a short, wider more than tall middle aged man with a scruffy white beard standing with his hands on his hips and a grimace on his brow.

“I am so sorry,” I said in my most contrite and truly mortified voice – a cross between a squeal and a yelp.

“I was trying...”

“I can see what you were trying to do,” he said in a manly voice. He scooped up several of the pans and tins scattered in the aisle as if to get me and my cart out of there as quickly as possible.

I knelt down and handed him several of the pie pans and he thanked me and then took my cart and me and guided us toward the cashier.

“Have a good day ma'am, and ...”

I was sure he was going to say something like don’t come back again. Instead he said, “and be careful.”

I guess it is a pretty good idea – in my case.

The most unfortunate part of this whole event is that after all the hoopla of cooking paraphernalia everywhere- not a single mini loaf pan to be found. Not a one.

There is a reason cooking and I are at opposite ends of the spectrum.

Baker's Daughter

2008-11-17T15:42:00.000-08:00

I wish I could lay claim to the fact that I was a baker’s daughter and had all the wonderful skills that I presume come with claiming the DNA of a man who can cook and bake and tell the difference between a clove and a clump (as in garlic.)

But since I am a humble housewife of truly tiny domestic means, my baking has its limits – severe limits. Homemade flambé, tarts, chocolate mousse, pies and other such calorically rich creations will never grace the corner - never mind the table - of my kitchen.

I need to stick to what I can manage with the help of a Betty Crocker box and maybe an egg or two and a bit of water and oil. Anything else is really raising the bar to unforeseen consequences. Even with the cake mix coming from a box my abilities are truly challenged. I get the Tbsp and Tsp mixed up all the time...

It doesn’t mean I don’t try. I do. After all, what respectable mother doesn’t want to try and make cupcakes for her child’s classroom birthday bonanza? What doting wife doesn’t want to surprise her significant other with amazing treats that are out of this world and well…

As I mentioned, my baking has its limits. You may be wondering: Why is she bringing this topic up? Well, today being Monday, I decided to be a good mother and respectable wife and in addition to doing laundry, folding it and actually finding the mates to all the socks in the white load this time, I decided to make some gingerbread squares for my family.

I started with a package of gingerbread cake mix from the aforementioned goddess of goodness, Dame Betty. I read the side of the box to gauge the additional ingredients: 1 egg (large), 1/3 cup of oil, 3/4 cup of water and the gingerbread mix itself.

I opened the box and lifted the bag containing the cake mix out of the box. I used a pair of scissors to snip the top of the sealed bag in which the said mix was safely ensconced. I then attempted to pour the mixture into a ceramic mixing bowl. And as I delicately and ever so carefully attempted to pour the powdery mixture into the bowl, I had an urgent need to sneeze. I turned my face far away from the food preparation zone and BAM! out came a sneeze of gargantuan proportion.

If any of you have ever tried to hold back a sneeze – well, you know exactly what I am talking about when I say that my sneeze was strong and steady and the violent jerk of the hand holding the said bag with cake mix landed well beyond the intended mixing bowl.

What to do? After managing to get the cake dust into my eyes and realizing that trying to wipe it off with my other hand was not the brightest of ideas, I managed to somehow salvage about three quarters of the bag and then began to hunt for a large egg. I looked in my refrigerator to find a brown egg nestled safely in its little egg holder on the right side of the second shelf.

It didn’t look especially large; neither did it look especially small. Given that it was the only egg in the refrigerator it would have to do. And thus, with a mutter of “Desperate times, desperate measures,” I carried forth in my domestic undertaking of being a goodly wife and mother.

I added the water and oil and secured a wooden spatula to help me mix the liquidy mess into a consistent color as directed by Dame Betty under the “instructions” section on the box – right next to the “What you will need" ingredients list.

Right about now I was beginning to think that what I needed was a cup of strong coffee and the assistance of Jeeves, the all –assuming butler to the P.G. Wodehouse character Bertie Wooster.

I next tried to break the said egg using the side of the ceramic bowl with a one-two-three – slam- there was a yellowish goop moistly in the bowl along with bits of shell floating carelessly along the stream of mocha colored powder.

I tried to remove the eggshells with a spoon and alas, that is when things really went north – or is it south? Those little devils evaded me every chance they could- If I dove left they scampered right. For every duck they had a subsequent weave.

I thought that if perhaps I stirred the concoction together I would be able to easily remove the shells since they would be inconsistent with the intended consistent texture I was about achieve with a few flicks of a wooden spatula.

Ha! It is now 3:15 p.m. in the afternoon. I have managed to bake the gingerbread squares and now have twelve little pillows of egg, oil, water and mix cooling downstairs in the kitchen. While I was able to remove the biggest shell offenders, there were several ruthless nits for whom the bell now tolls. Sigh…I figured a little extra protein never hurt anyone.

Maybe I will give a prize to whoever gets the first crunch- an extra kiss to my husband or son…who shall it be…stay tuned…

p.s. Lest you think that the accompanying photo is what my gingerbread looks like..HA! I 'borrowed' this lovely pictures from the website:

www.doriegreenspan.com/.../choc_gingerbread.jpg

Stumbling toward...

2008-11-14T12:50:00.001-08:00

I stumbled across the advertisement above the other day and found it to be of interest for a couple of reasons.

1. The allocation of the big big billion dollar number for the bailout of financial institutions is just that – a big number.

2. There seems to be a gap between where and how the allocation and approved funds will be used within the financial sector as recently as yesterday.

3. The monies are available but it seems that perhaps there is a lack of folks to oversee and figure out how to use the approved funds.

4. I wish I was able to beg for money, get the money and then worry about who would oversee its use after I had it – which means theoretically I could use at least part of it at my discretion and worry about the consequences or figure out a way to justify the said use at a later point in time….

Maybe I am just a tad cynical…I am sure all of the funds will be properly and appropriately dispersed in due time…

The terms accountability, integrity and reliability are not exactly terms I have associated with the financial industry, but I suppose I should broaden my horizon.

BTW, do you know anyone looking to buy ice in Alaska…sand in the desert perhaps…

Blessings

2008-11-13T08:30:00.000-08:00

My son and I were in Target the other day, when we noticed a young girl looking rather swollen sitting in an electric wheelchair with a striped cap on her head and a tube snaking across her lap.

She was with an older woman who was walking beside her talking about various gift ideas for the holidays.

When we had safely gone out of earshot my son asked, “Mom, did you see that girl in the wheelchair?”

“I did,” I responded.

“What do you think is wrong with her?”

“Well,” I answered. “I am not sure honey. I can guess that she has that cap on her head because she has undergone some kind of chemotherapy or radiation and her hair may have fallen out.”

My son grabbed my arm and looked piercingly at me with his cocoa colored eyes.

“Is she going to die?” he asked.

“I don’t know dear. Hopefully she will be cured, but who knows?”

We were in the toy section of the store and the shelves were bulging with items: Legos, dolls, blocks, Nerf guns - the supply and the shelves seemed endless. Things and more things. Brightly colored boxes enticingly calling to children big and small: “Buy me.”

“That must be really sad for her mom,” my son said in soft voice.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, I am sure it feels really bad for the little girl. I mean she looked about my age Mom. But imagine how a parent would feel watching their child suffer and be so sick. I think it is harder for the parent.”

I looked at my son, tousled the top of his toffee colored hair and gently kissed him on the cheek.

“You are an amazing little boy _____________.” I said to him. He looked up at me and gave me a smile.

We finished our browsing and made our way to the exit. We saw the girl once more and she had several toys on her lap and a smile on her face.

My son and I looked at each other and instinctively reached for each other’s hand as we walked out into the early morning sunshine.

Did You Know...

2008-11-12T15:26:00.000-08:00

It is that time of year, when sugar plum fairies start dancing way too early, Jack O’Lanterns go bye bye and too many poor turkeys are given last rites. The post box is stuffed with a myriad of glossy papers all designed to seduce and wrangle hard earned dollars from tight fisted old ladies like me. And given the economic free for all that Wall Street had with what pennies were once in the stock market, well, let us just say that catalogue reading is truly an experience not to be missed. And it can be very entertaining. So sit back, grab a cup of tea or lemon spritzer and enjoy, enjoy…and keep your hand firmly on your wallet…

(As taken from the holiday catalogues gorging themselves inside my post box…)

Did you know…

…Personal Luxury has finally reached its peak?
Centrally located, just steps from the Eagle Bahn Gondola, the Arabell at Vail Square takes luxury to a whole new level…to its butler service, ski nannies and ski valets. (I have heard of ski bunnies, but ski nannies is a new one on me…)

… that you can discover the magic of the vines. The ultimate pairing of luxury and science in skincare. (The almighty vines – so much for the grapes of wrath…)
…Introducing le coffret d’initiation allows you to experience the powers…for the first time…(imagine that…)

…Regent luxury has arrived in style…in a place where timeless memories and contemporary indulgences are part of every day, the idea of luxury is only the beginning, at the Regent Bal Harbor Resort the pinnacle of contemporary indulgences has been reached…(and here I was thinking a cup of hot coffee was my decadence…)

…Any television can change channels. This one completely changes television…(I had no idea!)

…Now you can experience the future…Cellular cream platinum rare precious skincare for the precious few (what about the rest of us plebeians- guess we will have to settle for a few parchment lines and hope for the best…)

…at the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains the transformation begins (to what? A toad? A princess…curious plebian minds want to know…)

…that nothing comes between you and the ocean but the 16th fairway (I read that as freeway and was a bit concerned…)

The privilege of privacy has found a home along the glorious white sands of Maui’s south shore…(and here I thought privacy was a part of the bill of rights – silly me!)

…that after seven years of research Guerlain unraveled the enigma of the extraordinary longevity of the orchid to create the imperial orchid molecular extract…and now we can discover the “world’s most exclusive secret” (sheesh, to think I have been in the dark all these years…)

Three things Elizabeth Locke cannot live without: “Red lipstick, my cabochon emerald ring, and my laptop.” (And here I am happy with a tissue, a lip gloss and a stick of gum…)

The following adjectives were pulled from the pages of thebook. We will leave it at that.

You open thebook and on one page are the words: in red 18 point font (I am guessing it Times New Roman but this is only a guess):

SO radiant!
SO natural!
SO brilliant!
SO handsome!
SO timely!
SO perfect!
SO bold!
SO dramatic!
So chic!
SO memorable!

I am often perplexed by how these drop dead gorgeous models look to be in sheer agony as they stare at the reader with droopy lids a pouty mouth and a handful of jewels or purses or shoes or clothes draped on and over. I know that if I ever had that much bling etc. in my vicinity I would be grinning from ear to ear, left to right, top to bottom…

Time to go check to see what treats the post person brought me today…

A Day In the Life of...Me

2008-11-10T15:04:00.000-08:00

I love reading The New York Times and seeing the daily nuances of politicians and celebrities: what they had for breakfast, what size coffee they drank whether it was black, de-caf, specialty; who they spoke to, what they did, what they bought at the grocery store, what they wore - I mean it is truly an exercise in riveting ribaldry when I look to find news and other worldly elements and well, I am given an education on the names of the rabbits and the kinds of dogs celebs and polits are looking for. Who woulda thunk? On the front page of a paper no less.

So, in the jest of a good humor monologue, below is a day in my life, me: c.a.thorson, part time pr gal, part-time cook and scullery maid, full time mom and woeful wife, part time launderette with a really bad track record on socks and a host of other sundry job titles.

My day:

First off when I pop out of bed it is probably pretty frightening. It was a bit cool last night so I pulled out all stops and put on my polar bear flannel PJs – doesn’t get more seductive than that let me tell you. I think my husband had stripes on his flannel PJs- we are truly a hot fashion forward flannel family here. So after hopping out of bed, with associated creaks of various joints I might add, the snap crackle and pop of the rice crispy cereal has nothing on me, I made my way to a quick stop at the loo. We will leave it there.

Then there is a two minute gargle with Listerine (Are you not just engrossed in this amazing minutiae of details- aren’t you just riveted by this point?) Then my day really kicks into high gear:

6:00 a.m. up with the birds, morning sun salutations and deep cleansing breaths, a few downward dogs and cobras to get the blood flowing.

6:30 a.m. Pack lunch for Dear Husband (DH). Dear Son (DS) has a four day holiday – which means no school today or tomorrow which means no need to pack a lunch.)

6:45 a.m. – empty dishwasher and put clean dishes and cups and cutlery away.

7:00 a.m. – sweep floor and remove chairs from kitchen in order to prepare for the task at hand: Washing the floor!! It doesn’t get better than this folks. I love love love having a clean floor and it is well past time. After three buckets of steaming hot water I declare the floor clean. I should add that my entire downstairs consists of travertine which looks nice when it is not replete with sticky spots of Gatorade, dried bits of lettuce and who knows what else.

8:15 a.m. receive morning kiss from DH before he trots off to work. DS has been diligently working on a study guide for an upcoming test on the human body and its various systems. In between the slosh of the water in the bucket I feign interest in knowing what the purpose of the skeletal system is: "Support" is his answer. All I can think of is creaks. I keep this to myself however. "What is the purpose of the respiratory system Mom?" He asks. "To prevent me from having a heart attack?" I question as I attack a stubborn stain at the bottom of the kitchen sink.

"Um, no, it is to help you breath - take in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide," he informs me. "Good to know," I respond.

I could go on with the extremely fascinating take on my day, but I think you all have pretty much zoned off…sweet dreams dear readers…sweet dreams.

I am off to attack a few porcelain pots….

The Wrong Direction

2008-11-08T17:16:00.000-08:00

We had a swim meet today. It is usually guaranteed to be a half day event. Which leaves the other half of the day to complete chores: grocery shopping, laundry, miscellaneous errands - like the dry cleaners and holiday preparation – in this case preparing for Thanksgiving and the family and friends who will help us share the day.

My hope was that my DH (Dear Husband) would happily escort me on my trip to the lovely large warehouse known as Costco in this part of the world. It is such a huge place that I need the support and encouragement and raw brute strength of my dear dear husband in undertaking this task.

As host and hostess we are in part responsible for beverages, which means cases of things like water and soda and perhaps a bit of alcohol. In other words, heavy items: that need to be picked up, placed in cart, placed in car and then transported to home and into the house and disseminated. This fair maiden requires Sir Galahad and his steady hand.

So I had these big plans. I hoped to get a head start in the myriad of things that need to be done to help celebrate this happy and enjoyable day. So I thought. So I hoped.

While I was getting laundry started (necessitated in part from the swim meet where towels and bathing suits sometimes as many as four or five depending on how cold it is outside (we can’t have our child stay in a cold suit when it is cold outside) require a washing.

Well, after starting the aforementioned load and then turning my attention to my husband who was I thought, changing his clothes after a long warm morning in the sun, I entered the bedroom to find him not in the right direction. I mean, I was hoping to find him ready to undertake the outing I had planned for us- which as my dear dear husband he should be able to read my mind. The fact that I didn’t mention my plans to him does not count. I am a female. Enough said.

But alas, his direction was anything but vertical – more along the planar – one dimensional horizontal frame one could say. With the most curious of sounds emanating from his blow hole – excuse me - nose.

If I could have figured out a way to record said sounds and upload them to this website I would have….

Alas, the right direction – out the door, off to errands and productivity was not meant to be.

What is it with the male species and directions? Whether asking or following…questions to be pondered…perhaps as we stroll the aisles of Costco we shall discuss and dialogue – assuming he ever wakes up from his slumber….

It's the thought that counts

2008-11-05T16:34:00.000-08:00

It’s the thought that counts…Or that’s what we are taught as youngsters - to say thank you and please; be polite and do kind deeds for others.

Remember birthdays with a card or in these days, even an electronic email or text message. When someone is ill or under the weather, let him or her know you are wishing them good wishes. It is the thought that counts.

So we are taught, and so we would like to believe.

These thoughts were running through my head as I made a list of the upcoming birthdays in November and December: twelve. So I am not sure where exactly my thoughts were when I unlocked my car door the other morning after a quick cup of coffee at a local Peet’s. As I tossed my purse onto the passenger seat and sat down in the driver’s side the reality that I had forgotten my sister’s birthday echoed loudly in my ears: “Don’t forget L’s birthday!” (Make that thirteen birthdays in November and December.)

Sitting in the driver’s seat looking out the front window I noticed it was covered in what looked like honey colored glue – sap - a bit strange given that the car wasn’t parked under a tree. It wasn’t even parked under a lamp from which a rogue crow could drop his bombs. Bits of yellowish goop in the oddest shapes, one looked like a candy corn, another like a pee-tinged boot in miniature. I didn’t remember my windshield being so dirty.

As I stared out the filmy window I glanced over where my purse was lying on the seat and wondered what had happened to my car seats, which were leather- albeit a tad bit worn, but leather - at least the last time I had looked which had been a mere thirty minutes ago. These were a beige fabric of some kind. Definitely not my familiar leather seats, milk stains and all.

Then it hit me, as in really hit me. My head started pounding and my stomach started a topsy turvy “uh-oh” dance. I realized that I was sitting in the wrong car. I grabbed my purse and keys which were still in my hand and scooted out of that car as fast as I could. I used my remote keyless entry button to try and locate where my car was since this car wasn’t it.

“Beep Beep.” There it was. The familiar sound.

Two cars down – there was my trusty jalopy which from the outside looked like the one I had just exited. Had I looked closely though I would have noticed my car had a slightly dented front door from a too friendly shopping cart.

I digress. I was discussing the importance of good thoughts and kind wishes.

Which brings me back to the point at hand.

In my attempts to be thoughtful and remember birthdays and other events, I am prone to a state of multitasking madness. Recently, for the above mentioned sister who shall not be named, I did manage to get her a card and a Starbuck’s gift card. I did indeed manage to get the card in the mail and delivered to her on time. She of course emailed me to thank me for the kind thoughts and the empty Starbuck’s envelope. This message was delivered via text with a frowny text face that looked something like this: -(

In my haste to make the post I neglected to actually put the Starbuck’s card inside its respective envelope. Sigh…my heart is in the right place. It’s just these bits of grey matter that sometimes get tied up in knots of the most horrific proportion and well…

Another time I was trying to send a birthday card to my DH’s (Dear Husband for those of you just joining) younger brother. I had bought him a hand-made chocolate bar that read Happy Birthday. I had planned to mail this along with an actual card. At the same time I needed to send a Get Well card to a friend of the family’s who had been in a bad car accident.

I had bought her a chocolate Get Well bar and again with nothing but best intentions did the unimaginable. You can guess what happened.

The birthday boy got the Get Well chocolate and the under the weather gal got the Happy Birthday chocolate.

Of course my DH's mother was kind enough to let me know of my unfortunate mishap. I ended having to send apology cards to both folks for my mistake. At least each of them got chocolate – at the end of the day- who cares what it says- at least that is what I am told by those I know who are chocolate aficionados (of which I am not.)

Now that I think about it, I better make sure that congratulations note I planned to send to a local city official on winning re-election didn’t actually receive the condolences card intended for my work colleague….where did I put that envelope.

After all…it is the thought that counts.

A New Day...

2008-11-04T15:36:00.000-08:00

The United States elected its 44th president and he is a black man. He is a Democrat….His name is Barak H. Obama. And he was chosen to lead the American people on Nov. 4, 2008.

We have reached a new point in time where black and white can truly be considered brothers and sisters. Amen.

I am proud to say for the first time in a very long time - that I am an American - for the fact that the U.S. has taken down yet another barrier, removed the blinders and let a man speak and stand on his own regardless of his skin color. Regardless of his religious views. Regardless of his purse strings.

For this I am proud. This doesn’t mean that we have reached a grand state of Nirvana. But rather, a new plateau. A new opportunity. And for better or worse, experienced or not, we have a new elected leader who promises that change is a good thing. I agree that change and hope are linked irrevocably.

I stay away from politics. It is too messy and thorny an issue for me. However, historically, a landmark has been achieved. I want to bask in the feeling and let my son realize the significance of what he is witnessing in his lifetime.

We are turning the page and are about to enter a new chapter that has not yet been written. That has not yet been documented. And we together as members of this society can help write it. That is an exciting concept.

May the hope and inspiration that has infected so many of us continue to be contagious and buoy us through the ups and downs of the coming months. We are witnessing a change that is truly a step in the right direction.

Next it will be a woman and then it will be….

Hope will carry the day….

The Etiquette of Potty Politics

2008-11-03T15:39:00.000-08:00

Recently, my son came home from school and asked me who I was planning to vote for in the upcoming US Presidential Race.

At the time of his question I had in my hand two socks that were not original mates. I was standing in the laundry room - my second home. And I was futilely trying to match up pairs of socks that had gone into the washing machine as happily married couples and now were in a serious state of dryer divorce and I was trying to play family sock mediator…

“Gdunk.”

My son dropped his backpack on the couch and came over to plant a wet kiss on my cheek. Bits of dried grass were stuck to his forehead.

I kissed the top of his sweaty head, and removed the dried strips of mottled grass and decided to not ask how nature’s blades had glued themselves to his forehead. Some things are better left unanswered.

“So Mom,” repeated my DS (Dear Son for those of you just joining this very merry bat channel of blog-lite). “Who are you going to vote for?”

What to do…how to answer.

“Well,” I began a bit hesitantly…"Voting is a very special privilege as you know. Our forefathers fought long and hard wars so that we could have the right to vote in a county where we could voice our support or dissension without fear of retribution. It is an honor to be able to vote.”

My son, with freckles sprinkled across the top of his nose like bits of cinnamon on whip cream didn’t like that answer. He wrinkled his brow and said, “Well, that’s all great Mom, but who are you voting for? All the kids at school are saying McCain should win or we will have higher taxes.”
“Really?” I looked at him and my reunited socks and said, “Who is talking about voting at school?
“Everyone,” he said.

Frankly I was shocked. Call me old fashioned. Heck, call me prehistoric; archaic. My son is ten. T-E-N. He isn’t even old enough to vote. Of course he is starting to pay attention to what happens in the world besides who won the baseball or basketball game. But as a parent, I believe he needs to be able to make informed decisions with good facts and information that he is rationally able to process.

Now he is a smart little guy but he is still just that – a little boy. I am in no hurry for him to grow up and establish the jaded sense of the world that follows when one talks politics.

“A lot of the parents are telling their kids that McCain has to win because he is the better candidate for us,” my son stated.

“Indeed,” said I.

“So Mom, who did you vote for?”

“Well, you see dear, voting is a very special honor and privilege. But it is or at least it should be a private matter, like going potty. For example, when you go to the bathroom do I ask you if you went poop or pee? Or how was your bowel movement?”

By now my son has managed to finagle a bag of pretzels from the snack cabinet and was sitting on the couch happily munching and reading a book called “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” his momentary interest in my political leanings long forgotten.

“I don’t need to go to the bathroom,” he said. Selective hearing had taken over.

Kind of like in politics. Everything is a bit selective. And best left within the privacy of the loo- if one wants to have any friends – at least in my case…

Don’t forget to flush…

Twas the Night...

2008-11-02T14:52:00.000-08:00

'Twas the night before election and all through the city
were mumblings and grumblings - some actually quite witty
“I don’t like her teeth”
“I don’t like his smile”

Nothing was sacred, all was up for debate.
Hair color, skin tone, a candidate’s weight…
And on they did ramble and on they did grouse
Alto and Soprano - more lion than mouse.

From every nook and every cranny
The folks they did come
An untapped potential, a candidate uncanny
They came short, and tall
They came one and all…

The eve of the day when a new chief would be named
With a new set of shoes to be polished and blamed:

For the world as it was, for the world as it should be
For the things they would and would not do
It was the time to pass the torch from zero to one to two...

And from my perch high in the window I watched the sight unfold
As the muted and the silent came face to face with the bold:

There was Palin and McCain and Biden and Obama
There was donkey and elephant and even a llama
But wait who is this? Nader and Gonzalez
Barr and Root…

Has my brain gone soft have I somehow gone moot
As in moot for a point whose sharp tip I can taste
Here’s McKinney and Clemente and Keyes and Drake
Think quickly, make haste…

Peace and Freedom ring in my ear
Green, Independent, Libertarian - now I can hear
The hope that maybe just maybe
Ezekiel and Jonas have nothing on me
And this graveyard of politics someday find the key
To set us free…

Somehow…someday…someway…

Harvest Time

2008-10-31T15:40:00.001-07:00

October 31st means two things in our family: a pillowcase full of candy and an opportunity for me to share the importance of etiquette with the neighborhood children.

My husband is chartered with trolling with our son and several other family friends here in our little corner of the world. They try and scheme to figure out how many houses they need to hit in order to reach a sizeable mother lode - and that changes by the year. I haven’t been keyed into this year’s expected return on investment (ROI.)

I on the other hand, am placed in the all-important role of dolling out treats to good little witches and goblins. I have a plastic cauldron that I stuff with every imaginable sugar treat known to the shelves of Target, our local retail community. And for the next two to three hours I will answer a series of doorbells and knocks and feign fright and plop a handful of sticky, chewy, gooey, chocolaty candies into waiting containers of every shape, size and color imaginable.

I generally enjoy seeing the faces and costumes of the children. As long as they say, “Thank you” all is well. If in their exuberance of the moment they forget their manners, I am of course more than ready with a smile and a gentle, “You are welcome” which usually elicits the intended if not belated, “Thank you” that is sheer music to my ears.

Needless to say DS (Dear Son) and DH (Dear Husband) are far far away trekking through the hinterlands of the neighborhood with pillowcase and gruesome masks whenever I am on Halloween duty. They think I am the wicked witch of the east and the abominable snow monster all rolled into one.

Why do I take such effort to help pass along the good graces to the next generation of potential parents? Well, I will tell you. Several years ago a little girl of eight or so dressed in a confectionary blur of blue and pink that I believe was supposed to be a princess outfit, rang the bell and instead of saying, “Trick or Treat” as is the generally accepted and established custom here in Southern California, proceeded to try and place her hand directly into my cauldron -- which I quickly moved out of her reach.

“Excuse me,” I said in a humorous voice. “Aren’t you supposed to say something first?” She gave me a look. It was a look as if I had green mucus spewing from my nose or something.

“Give me my candy,” was her reply.

“Indeed.” I said looking down the pathway to see whether her accompanying parent or handler might nudge this woefully off the path child back toward the center.

No such luck.

What to do? I pondered this as a gaggle of ragged looking six year-olds dressed up as a band of pirates ran up the walkway threatening to knock over the etiquette-challenged little girl.

“You are supposed to say, ‘Trick or Treat,’” I shared with her.

She looked at me big eyes the color of Blue M&Ms.

I placed a handful of candy into her pintsized yellow purse.

Well, this child may not have figured out how to say ‘Trick or Treat’ but she had no problem demanding in a loud voice, “I want more.”

Not seeing any parent willing to claim this child for their own and within a few feet of being torn apart by a fierce looking group of pirates about to embark upon a mutiny -with me as their intended target I did what any sane and rationale person in a similar situation would do.

I turned the young lass around and sent her back from when she came.

And so this year, I am armed and ready.

I have a sign that reads: PLEASE REMEMBER TO SAY “THANK YOU”- IT GURANTEES A HIGHER RATE OF RETURN…I figured if the little ones don’t get it then the parents responsible for these little ones will and will pipe up with, “Don’t forget to say thank you Junior….”

Did You Know that…

Halloween did not become a holiday in the United States until the 19th century, where lingering Puritan tradition restricted the observance of many holidays.
American almanacs of the late 18th and early 19th centuries do not include Halloween in their lists of holidays.
The transatlantic migration of nearly two million Irish following the Irish Potato Famine (1845–1849) finally brought the holiday to the United States.
Scottish emigration, primarily to Canada before 1870 and to the United States thereafter, brought the Scottish version of the holiday to each country.
The main event for children of modern Halloween in the United States and Canada is trick-or-treating, in which children disguise themselves in costumes and go door to door in their neighborhoods, ringing each doorbell and yelling "Trick or treat!" to solicit a gift of candy or similar items. (CAVEAT I would like to add that children should say thank you when they receive a treat.)
Scottish-American and Irish-American societies held dinners and balls that celebrated their heritages, with perhaps a recitation of Robert Burns' poem "Halloween" or a telling of Irish legends, much as Columbus Day celebrations were more about Italian-American heritage than Columbus per se.
Home parties centered on children's activities, such as apple bobbing, and various divination games often concerning future romance. Not surprisingly, pranks and mischief were common as well.
At the turn of the 20th century, Halloween had turned into a night of vandalism, with destruction of property and cruelty to animals and people.
Around 1912, the Boy Scouts, Boys Clubs, and other neighborhood organizations came together to encourage a safe celebration that would end the destruction that had become so common on this night.
School posters during this time called for a "Sane Halloween." Children began to go door to door, receiving treats, rather than playing tricks on their neighbors. This helped to reduce the mischief, and by the 1930s, "beggar's nights" had become very popular. Trick-or-treating became widespread by the end of the 1930s.

Antique Shop

2008-10-30T13:05:00.000-07:00

Soft golden sunlight peeks
through a moon shaped window
tucked high in a corner of the room.
Outside, a rooster cock-a-doodle-doos.
Inside, dust sprites land silently
on the honey colored oak tables.
Old and scuffed,
they sag
under the weight
of candles, plates, spice jars
and other bric-brac.

The air is wrapped in a blanket of
lavender, lemon and rosemary.
The doorway, framed with gnarled
and knobby beams,
the color of ash,
holds plump and prickly reed baskets
hanging from big black nails.

Mounted to the ceiling
a wrought-iron chandelier
looks down with crystal snowflakes
scattering rainbow flecks here and there.
The walls, the color of ochre
cool to the touch,
display strands of yellowed parchment:
birth certificates, diplomas, wedding licenses -
framed in glass, hung on hooks
beckoning one
to stop and remember.

The Royal "We"

2008-10-29T12:11:00.000-07:00

My son came home from school yesterday with his usual chipper self front and present.

“Hello Mama” he yelled in a loud and clear voice. I was upstairs in my office and looked forward to this afternoon ritual and music to my ears- as cliché as it may be.

“Hello Nana,” I answered dutifully. We were prone to using nicknames for each other. Mama stresses the accent on the second syllable – try it- you might like the way it tumbles across the tongue versus the more staid Mama with the accent on the first syllable – a more lummox like gait across the plain of the tongue.

“How was your day?” He asked before I got a chance to ask him first. I skipped down the stairs to greet my 52” package of wholesomeness.

“It was fine,” I answered. “How was yours?" I asked.

There is such comfort in the regularity and the rhythm of what we so often take for granted in the routine of everyday life. And I am guilty of sometimes forgetting just how wonderful these tidbits can be.

I was expecting him to reply with his usual “It was wonderful...”

So I was thrown a bit when he responded with “Well, it was great but we forgot that it was oral speech day for me. We need to sign this slip for Miss A.”

“We?!” I asked in a rather incredulous voice. “We?!” I repeated.

“Well you know mom, you always help me find a topic and remind me to practice,” said my experienced son of making his mom feel guilty. My son gave me a Cheshire cat grin. When did he get so tall I thought to myself? He was now up to my shoulder. Was I shrinking?

“Uh huh,” I said in a rather ruffled feather voice.“Miss A. was surprised that I forgot to do my presentation; she says I am always so on top of things.”

“You mean “we’ are so on top of things don’t you?" I asked. By this time my son had tossed down the twenty pound hernia producing backpack that lay with its bulging belly on the couch while he was rummaging through the refrigerator for an afternoon snack.

“Do we have any cheese sticks?” He asked grabbing a bottle of water from the top shelf. I went over to my sweaty dog little guy and planted a kiss on his moist cheek red as a cherry tomatoes from his speed drill ride home on his bike.

“Do we have any cheese sticks?” he repeated for my listening pleasure. There it was again - that little two letter imp of a word - a vowel and a consonant – a very rigid first letter coupled with a circular fluid second letter: W-E.

Did you ever imagine that two letters could have such a multitude of meanings? I thought to myself. My son was humming to himself as he plopped down on the couch and picked up the book he had been reading at breakfast, “Diary of a Wimpy Kid.”

“Don’t forget we need to send back my permission slip for the field trip on Thursday,” my Dear Son – heretofore known as DS reminded me in his 'I am in control of the situation’ voice.

“Yes dear,” I sighed and went in search of a cheese stick in the refrigerator.“WE” was particularly useful when applied to anything remotely related to homework. There are a plethora of examples that come to mind:

1. “Mom, we need to do my spelling definition.”

2. “Mom could we go get a milks shake before swim practice today?”

3. “Mom, could we work on my social studies tonight after dinner?”

The list goes on and on.The word “We” however is anything but regal when the she-monster of the house – aka – me – Mom- tries to finagle a culture enrichment out of the young lad and his dad – heretofore known as DH – as in Dear Husband.

The eyes roll back in the head and mysterious aches and pains suddenly take hold whenever I mention a family outing to the Getty or the Simon Norton or even a fun adventure filled place like the San Diego Wild Animal Park.

Suddenly, the almighty “We” of fame to matching socks and lunches and afternoon snacks and evening vittles is a solo party of U-N-O– a three letter sad word – whether in English – one – or Spanish – uno – and probably a host of other languages the meaning is clear.

The royal “We” has an audience of one.

Sleeping Beauty

2008-10-28T12:07:00.001-07:00

I do not sleep well. Never really have. It is something I have learned to accept. I mean, I prefer to be busy and not have to be lounging around anyway. But I do need a few hours every night to refuel if you will. The challenge for me is getting to that wonderfully deep state of REM. ‘Calgon take me away...’

Imagine if you will being propped up in a nice big cloud of pillows and a few soft lights with the television in the armoire at the other end of the room perfectly positioned so really one just points and clicks and voila the magical squawk box starts squawking. There am I on my side of our California King and my husband is on ‘his’ side and usually in charge of the remote control. For good reason as will become clear in a moment.

“He who shall not be named” – aka my better half- recently has taken to watching a truly riveting series that makes one think. The problem is that when he is ready to sit down for a nice evening of intellectual stimulation I am ready to hit the land of feathered fluff and try and grab a few hours of hopefully uninterrupted sleep.

We both begin the evening after the dinner has been prepared and consumed, after said cherub has been bathed and has completed his homework and has been tucked safely into bed. Now here we are ensconced in our bed. Me in my extremely seductive flannels and my husband in his nightwear which shall not be named....

After a few spontaneous yawns I do a few cleansing breaths to get me to a calm and centered point and sometimes resort to planning the next day’s riveting schedule of cleaning, laundry, working and general maintenance issues. And usually, within an hour or so of truly deep thoughts I am able to sleep for a bit.

But sometimes, my brain just doesn’t want to cooperate. The old gal has a mind of her own and while my eyes are brick heavy and unable to budge; all my brain matter is full throttle all circuits open and speeding down the highway of overactive imagination and to be done lists or what to worry about now lists. It means, the brain is endless in what she decides to concoct at the end of the day. I am too busy doing something close to nothing most of the time but somehow when I am weary and looking forward to some unrequited down time- forget it. A grim outlook for sleep indeed....

Well, thanks to the efforts of my darling husband I found a cure almost a guarantee to a restful few hours of sleep. It comes in the form of a talking head and is better than any sleep aide I have ever come across. Of course a glass of wine in addition to the aforementioned talking soothing head is a most delicious combination.

I speak of a show that my husband stumbled across in his web browsing. He web browses like I window shop – but somehow my window shopping is so much more fun. To each their own- caveat emptor. With all due respect to the narrator of this riveting show called “Connections” the synapses in my brain have begun to connect much quicker to the land of slumber. I owe the man a debt of gratitude.

Without fail, as soon as the brilliance of the narrator James Burke begins his soothing explanations of why we have levees and why sand is important, I simply try and focus on what he is saying and all of the amazing factoids he is passing on. But alas, the only connection I am able to make to his impressive narrative is a one way road to a deep slumber – including – ahem- the occasional deep sounding sleep as my husband is fond of sharing with me the next morning after a restful night of sleep.

What is exactly is Connections you ask? Well, let me share....according to the all knowing websute wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Trigger_Effect_(Connections) describes Connections as follows:

Connections was a ten-episode documentary television series created and narrated by science historian James Burke. The series was produced and directed by Mick Jackson of the BBC Science & Features Department and first aired in 1978. It took an interdisciplinary approach to the history of science and invention and demonstrates how various discoveries, scientific achievements, and historical world events built off one another in an interconnected way to bring about particular aspects of modern technology. The series is well-known for Burke's impeccable narration (especially its dry humour), historical reenactments, intricate working models, skillful use of classical music (most notably Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi, or "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana), and shots on location as far afield as Penang (Malaysia). The popular success of the series led to two sequels, Connections² in 1994, and Connections³ in 1997, both produced for TLC.

For those you hungering for more....All three Connections documentaries are available in their entirety as DVD box sets.

And should you still be hungry for more.... Burke also wrote a series of Connections articles in Scientific American, and published a book of the same name, all built on the same theme of exploring the history of science and ideas, going back and forth through time explaining things on the way and, generally, coming back to the starting point.

A Myst-style computer game with James Burke and others providing video footage and voice acting was released in 1995.

Burke produced another documentary series called The Day the Universe Changed in 1985, which explored man's concept of how the universe worked in a similar way to the original Connections.

Sleeping Beauty never had it so good....

Open Letter to My Magic Carpet

2008-10-27T11:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Magic Carpet:

I had faith in you. I trusted you. I mean, I really trusted you. I couldn't read a map if I tried and there you were, a beautiful shade of ruby red promising to take me on the whirlwind ride of my life. And I fell for it - you with you satin ways and soft silky tassels.

You said not to worry - you were a pro, you had been in the business for decades. I was young - I should live a little. See the sights, see the world. "Enjoy the ride." Those were your exact words. You would be my personal chauffeur.

I knew I should have checked out your references. I should have stayed where I was. At least I knew where there was. I was spitting out news releases and coaching wayward executives on not what to say to the media. I was in control of my life. I had a career. I was on the fast track and then - Bam! Splat. You came along and said you had a great idea. I would have to let you drive but hey, since I was always a better back seat driver well, why not I thought? What did I have to lose? Hindsight…oh for a bit of hindsight.

"Hop on," you told me. "The time is now. The world is your oyster and it is yours for the taking." Was I gullible! I'm allergic to oysters - I should have known better.

What about maps or directions or planning I asked. You laughed and told me not to worry. You would take care of everything. All I had to do was jump aboard, hold on and we would take flight- you and me - we would seer across lands and oceans and I would view the world as never before.

So much for reading maps. I mean, at least when I get off the main road I can find my way back. But you- you - well you certainly did take a wrong turn. And what a doozy it was.

Boy, did you pull the wool over my eyes. No pun intended. Could you perhaps at least have given me a bit of notice? A bit of warning that we - or me to be more exact - was coming in for a bumpy landing?

Suddenly, my journey toward corporate career success was waylaid. You, my trusted Magic Carpet unraveled on the branch of an oak tree and left me stranded in the middle of motherhood and middle age - without a manual.

Sheesh. One moment I was helping management get the egg off their face for saying things that they were told not to say and the next moment, I was changing diapers, tackling mountains of laundry. Soiled miniature shirts tattooed with the most curious of colors and designs - it is enough to make one color blind. And on top of this I had to try and figure out how to get a sock on a ten pound bald, squirming, toothless little person.

Boy oh boy, was I wrong about you Magic Carpet !! Did you ever give some thought to auditioning for a Hollywood movie? You would be perfect - you can tell a lie in any shade of grey, white or black and still look amazing. You are ready for Hollywood my friend.

The next time - if there is a next time. I am staying firmly on the ground. Leave the magic carpets to the genie in the bottle and the cat in the bag. No more up in the air rides for me. I am keeping my feet planted.

Speaking of which, don't look to me for a reference. I've got my hands full with trying to help my son figure out how to attach this fiddly bit to this other gadget and then make the 1,000 piece Lego creation work...

Sincerely,

Lost in Legos

A Place that Lives

2008-10-26T12:56:00.001-07:00

If I close my eyes and breathe deep, I can return to a place that lives - for the moment - only in my mind. And if by chance, you find your way in this magical place, please give my regards to the inhabitants of the city of Cortona located in the heart of Tuscany. Tell them La "Signora Americana" sends her regards.

I can, for a moment, pretend that I am back in this charming medieval town tucked into a corner of Tuscany where it has remained unscathed by modernization and technology. Perched high on a hillside, this walled city claims to be 3000 years old. It is a small tight knit community of 1,600 that proudly traces its ancestry back to the time of the Etruscans; a place where tradition and art blend together in a delicious gazpacho.

I imagine that I am back at the Hotel San Luca with its wrought iron black gate and welcoming windows. Small and cozy, it is my respite from the daily grind of life as I know it here in the States. From my bedroom window I can see red tiled roofs that seem to climb on top of each other rubbing shoulders with turrets and bell-towers in a span of a few meters. The old and the new - side by side.

I can recall the voice of Vincenzo, the caretaker of the grounds, who greets me every morning me with a "Buongiorno Signora" and a steaming caffe latte. "Grazie mille" I answer with a smile and grateful outstretched hand. He is a wizened little man with deep jowls, an easy smile and the bluest eyes I have ever seen.

Often Vincenzo can be heard humming or whistling Italian ballads. His voice is sweet and rich. Vincenzo knows I am a strange bird, a solo bird really, who prefers to take her morning caffe out in the Piazza Garibaldi rather than in the parlor with the other guests. He and I have come to be friends and every morning I count on this Italian relic for a smile and a warm drink. He knows I write - or pretend to - and he actually helped me translate from English into Italian a little piece of verse I had composed. It was a small poem I had written about the allure of Cortona and how something about the city just seemed to tug at my soul then and now.

Usually mornings find the city shrouded in a blanket of grey mist that moves slowly and dreamily across the sky. The sun tries to peek through but without success. By afternoon however there is a stage before the eyes with enchanting views of the landscape surrounded by Lake Trasimeno and the Apennines.

One sees a vast and beautiful patch work quilt of green fields, regal Cyprus trees standing at attention and purple and yellow valleys swooping gently across the land. As I sip my hot drink, I hear strands of Italian music and morning greetings of "buongiorno" and "ciao" wafting through the air. I smell the rich aroma of caffe floating by on an invisible cloud. Fresh bread beckons from la panetteria around the corner. I look at my hotel from across the Piazza and see the green clapboard shutters being thrown open here and there like eyes suddenly opening wide ready to take in the adventures of the day.

A sleepy tabby cat guards the entrance to the hotel. I watch all this and feel as if time just saunters, softly, quietly, dreamily. Sitting on one of the old stone benches in the Piazza Garibaldi I watch the city wake up. The mothers - in three inch stilettos - take their children to school, walking easily across the cobbled stones and plant generous kisses on cheeks and head of tussled-hair cherubs.

Old woman in bright colored kerchiefs, handmade sweaters and support hose, wheel little carts effortlessly through narrow streets on their way to market. Large men with big bellies and bigger voices make their way to the nooks and crannies of the city where they will spend hours reading newspapers and nursing a caffe with il panino. There are a few cars small and compact that make their way up and through the Piazza but it is mostly feet and strollers that one notices in the early hours of the morning.

Sipping my caffe latte I listen to the chatter of the birds clearing their throats in the boughs above me. Everyone seems to know everyone here. Mid morning I take a stroll through the city's narrow, stone-paved alleyways down to the city's main street, Via Nazionale. It is here in this main square with its impressive medieval town-hall that much of life in Cortona takes place. Here people shop for groceries and chat without ever stopping to look at a watch. The tower bell in the Town Hall will ring when it is lunch time. Life here rolls across the landscape. Every morsel is tasted and remembered.

I watch a teenage boy with droopy lids and baggy pants give his father a big hug as they cross through the square. In turn, the father plants a kiss on his son's cheek. It is not a sight I would find easily in the States - a teenage boy hugging his father in public.

The history of thousands of years still present and part of people's lives; respect for things old, wearing wrinkles with pride- nothing plastic- authentic - real- fresh bread- nothing bought in a bag from a store pre packaged- (well some things like paper goods) - the simple act of just being and enjoying the moment - seizing the moment. This is what I love about Cortona. This and the little things that mean a lot. I can see and hear little children running around the square chasing pigeons and skipping across the brick sized cobblestones.

Each stone is a timepiece unequalled. Centuries have crossed this square and still, the echoes of laughter fill the air, music to the soul really. I walk along and see the pigeons paying little heed to me- I have nothing to offer. I dream and wish I could be there tasting the sweet butter with il pane in my la pasticceria.

I wish I could sit high on the buttressed wall in the square of Via Nazionale and listen to the children coming home for lunch laughing strolling arm in arm fresh-faced and young and care free. But now, I must open my eyes, take another breath and return to the laundry and the grocery shopping in the real world of the moment. Tomorrow perhaps I will plan another visit to la dolce vita.

Roderick the Fowl Beast

2008-10-24T12:44:00.001-07:00

I have heard of the chicken that wouldn’t die but I have not heard of the chicken that wouldn’t cook. Yet, that is precisely what happened to me not too long ago.

I had decided to try and ‘cook’ a meal for my husband and son: roasted chicken, summer squash and small baked red potatoes. I put the chicken in the oven at 4:00 p.m. The instructions on the bag in which said chicken came suggested baking at 350 degrees F for approximately one and a half hours.

Now this wasn’t an especially big chicken, it was not much larger than a hen actually. So, at 5:30 p.m. I took the chicken out of the oven to examine said poultry’s state of consumption-readiness. Using our trusty Sharper Image digital thermometer (with new AAA batteries) I stuck the aforementioned fowl to see where we were in the temperature department.

The instructions on the bag in which the bird came said that the internal temperature should be 180 degrees F. Much to my chagrin, the thermometer read a measly 140 degrees F after 90 minutes. I decided to stick the chicken back in the oven for another thirty minutes. At 5:55 p.m. my husband who has asked to remain nameless on this blog, breezed through the door with a pleasant, “Hello darling!”

Trying not to show my utter lack of control over the evening meal gave him my biggest grin. “You’re home early,” I squawked.

“A little,” he said. He planted a kiss on my cheek and then went to help our son with his homework while I prayed to the cooking goddess to hurry up and cook the bird to which I had now given the name Roderick.

Of course there was no real reason for constructing such a name, but I thought that by anthropomorphosizing (is this even a word? and if it is does it apply to once alive animals soon to be devoured by humans as opposed to the more typical assignment of humanistic characteristics to live animals?)

In any case, Roderick was the name I had given the bird in the oven that I was desperately trying to cook for my husband and son. Lest there be any doubt, this chicken was definitely male- I knew this much from our brief interlude.

Well, two hours passed and I took Roderick out of the oven to have a look see at his internal temperature - 152.7 degrees F. I was stumped. The potatoes were cooked- in fact they were rather shriveled and resembled dried figs more than roasted potatoes. But at least they were cooked! The vegetables were cooked, steamed to perfection.

But said Roderick- he was no where near being cooked- despite being poked and prodded in a host of different places, the thigh, the neck, the breast, the back- I began to feel like a mad scientist about to dissect a victim, except that I was losing my cool and beginning to curse at the beast under my breath.

“Okay,” I announced to the hungry lads playing a game of chess in the family room who were patiently munching on some carrot sticks and a few nuts to quench the thirst of salivation, “Just fifteen more minutes and we should be ready.” By this time our son had his finished his homework. The time was now 6:15 p.m.

Needless to say, fifteen more minutes did nothing to bring Roderick into the realm of ready for consumption. And by now I was about to cry. There was and is a reason I dislike the kitchen and this was just one more chapter to add to my horror stories of cooking.

Roderick was a big blob of gooey, liquid mush and rather unappealing. My dear husband being the kind and understanding man that he is came to my rescue with a “Not to worry honey. I still love you and I applaud you for trying.”

Talk about being made to feel worthless- a wife who can’t cook a chicken- a chicken mind you- not Chateaubriand or king crab - just a chicken....

Did I mention that I detest cooking? Did I mention that I have no appreciation for the supposed art of cooking?

Did I mention that the unsightly Roderick was quickly relocated (with the help of my husband) to a trash bin along with the rest of the proposed evening meal and that we went to Taco Bell?

The moral of the story: don’t pretend you can cook when the chicken won’t cooperate.

Vile beast.