Martinis, Tinkle and Excitement! My Book is Here!!!

Ahhh!!! I did it. I wrote my book, in-between napping and yelling at my kids. Okay, okay - there were cocktails too. But never enough . . .

The Dee View is published and OUT THERE!

Me however? I’m so excited (and nervous) that there is a little tinkling going on. #oops

I’m so proud I should be strutting like an Amazon Goddess. (Chapter Four.) But really? I’m hiding in a corner in my closet!

So if you want a little bit more of The Dee View: A Bitter Mommy in Search of the Perfect Martini – check it out! http://tinyurl.com/TheDeeView

99 Cents. My Honeys! I’m giving it away! (OK – not the first time I’ve said that.)

Cheers! Dee Dee

Blog Vacation....

So sorry I have been away, working on my book.

Yes. Book. #yikes

Will be back in January a published author with a brand spanking new book for you all :-)

See you then!

Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving, Holidays, and any birthdays inbetween!

Overbudget . . . Really?

So my husband and I are going over our personal finances. Now this is what we do as a business . . . we are accountants. (www.GregBartonCPA.com) We almost NEVER do this for ourselves!

We are looking at numbers. (Yes, we spend too much on dining out. Thank you, Master Card.)

And there are some things that aren’t adding up. As I am a control freak highly motivated person I need things to line up.

My husband, the CPA, says: No – this is the correct number. I ran everything. You are going to have to accept this is what you spent on clothes for you and the girls last year.

I go into my closet. I count tank tops. (Yes, there are about 20 of them. I live in Palm Springs. And I like a variety of colors. Some were on sale for $11.00. Though I never wear the olive green one.)

Wait. Do I have a secret closet somewhere else? Secret even from me? But well stocked with chic expensive plus size wear?

If I have spent thousands of dollars on cute clothes, dammit, I want to know where they are!!!

I keep trying to figure out where all this money has gone. I am a big girl, and I do like to look FINE when we go out. I need work clothes, yoga (i.e. Mommy) clothes and cocktail clothes. I need clothes to wear over to someone’s house and clothes to go to a party.

I need swim suits, mountain vacation clothes and Nikes. And I do like a cool pair of wedges. (Thank you @Zappos.)

But I’m still not finding all these big bucks worth of clothing.

I lose sleep.

I talk to my girlfriend Dorothy @EcoOrganizer.

I worry about early onset Alzheimer's.

I go back to my husband and challenge the numbers.

I think that maybe I am having episodes of blackout shopping.

I ruminate to my husband: the girls have very modest clothes, skinny jeans and uniforms. How could this be?

I ask: “Honey, do you think those fancy French cuff shirts and fancy pants are factoring into this at all?”

Then one night A WEEK LATER, @Taxes007 comes home and mentions, in passing, “Oh, by the way, that clothing line item number? It was off by $7000.00. Made a little error. ”

He continues pouring himself milk like he hasn’t a care in the world.

I have a small stroke in my left temporal lobe.

“What? You swore that number was right!”

You killed me for a week. I didn’t sleep. (I did however manage to eat. I was stressed.)

He shrugs his shoulders.

Then I log onto Zappos.com. Cuz there are a pair of Steve Madden Wedges calling my name.

Let’s see who has the stroke now. #victory

Foundation Wear

You would think at some point, in a tired old mom’s life, vanity would wane. Hmmm…not so much.

Actually it’s worse. Cuz I look so bad I need all the intervention I can get.

Now sure, I’ll wear Spanx on a special occasion. By “special occasion” I mean events that involve the word “Millennium” in their title.

But that’s about it.

Until we had our All Staff meeting in May. One of our out-of-town staff shows up looking like a Viking Goddess! WTF?!?

I can’t stop raving about how amazing she looks. (And it is really rocking it for me, cuz she’s a yummy, mummy with a, um, curvaceous way about her.)

So she confesses.

“You know why we were late getting on the road this morning?”

“Ah, no?”

“Cuz I had budgeted the time to pull on these high waisted spanx. But the waist cincher? See this thing (pulling up lovely coral blouse, and drapey pearl beads) and all these hooks?”

Gulp. “I see the hooks. There are a lot of them.”

“Well, I didn’t budget time for the fact that I COULDN’T SEE THEM UNDER MY BOOBS. So I’m late.”

“You mean you drove 2 ½ hours in that shit?”

“Yes. And I think I may be having a stroke.”

“Well that’s okay Honey. Cuz you look AMAZING.” (I do notice she is starting to speak out of one side of her mouth . . .)

Now I’m wearing a waist cincher . . . to pick my kids up from school.

And I look amazing.

But I did sprain my ankle . . . so I do need all the help I can get in the figure dept.

Cuz flats and ankle brace . . . not my best look.

But my waist? Tiny. Like Scarlett O’Hara’s. #delusional #lying #stillarealwoman

I feel guilty and dirty . . .

Now I’m sure you’re thinking this must be because I didn’t switch off Cinemax when it went to “NIGHTTIME” #yikes

I know you’re thinking that I’m banging the handyman. (Although after he fixed that last leaky sink I’m not saying it didn’t cross my mind.)

Or I’ve been holed up in the pantry snorting crushed Tylenol. (Wait, do you think that does anything?)

But no, unfortunately...The activity that has me feeling shameful and dirty and guilty like I’m failing my family, my daughters, our business, the Unified School System and the entire County of Riverside is . . .

Sometimes I take an hour (or uh . . . two), sit outside and read a book.

I know this will be shocking and horrifying to you but, sometimes I even nap. And drool.

If you ask me what I did that day? I’ll tell you I was super-busy working and getting stuff done.

I will also tell you that I am super-exhausted. (Do you think I’m anemic? Or have cancer? Or some kind of thyroid condition? . . .) Uh, I’m a menopausal mother.

How’s that for a diagnosis BLUE CROSS!?!

Yes, this is the life of a helicopter mom. I am driven.

I drive my kids, myself and my family. So what would happen if anyone finds out about this horrible situation, this lapse in judgment, this SLACKING in the middle of the “work” day?

I got up a 4:00 this morning to get my work done. By 11:00 I sat down to read the paper and fell asleep. Of course I couldn’t doze long cuz I had to pick up my kid at 1:30. (Please read with a “holier than thou” tone. Thank you.)

Oh, and don’t forget, I work Saturdays. Well, go ahead and forget. Cuz you can trust me to REMIND YOU!!!

See, it is VERY important to me that you know HOW VERY BUSY AND PRODUCTIVE I am, every day.

It is such a lie.

There are days when I look at my desk and I look at my To Do list and I whimper.

And I walk away.

Some days I feel so overwhelmed that I rifle through the pantry scraping Cheetos dust out of one of the bins. And drink maple syrup from the bottle. And make lots of quesadillas with tons of hot sauce. (Thank you La Victoria!)

There are days when I move shit around on my desk, sigh heavily and then put on a Crown of Thorns.

Which, by the way, a Crown of Thorns? Super uncomfortable to nap in.

If you see me with downcast eyes, unable to meet your gaze you’ll know my Dirty Little Secret.

But damn, wasn’t “Slammerkin” a really great book? #slacker

Working it out . . . Twitter Style

My early were passionate. At least that‘s what I thought.

In the early days on Twitter, I made some friends. I was making relationships friends and ending my parental isolation. All was good.

But every now and then, I would get on my soap box. #fuck #ididitalot #enthusiastic

Some days I’m mad at the crazy Real Housewife. (Hey, you fill in the location of your choice – there’s one lunatic on every show. #Kelly #Danielle #NeNe.)

You know Angry Birds? Well, I was the Angry Tweeter.

Do you remember the Super Bowl game when CBS took the Tebow ad, which was a smarmy play against abortion rights?

Well I committed myself to sit at my computer from 8 am to 8 pm. I didn’t own a laptop. That is dedication Man! Crazy and dedicated.

I tweeted all day things like: Fuck CBS, Pro Planned Parenthood, Give to NARAL, Get your laws off my body. (Okay – not literally my body cuz uh, I’m a little older now than I was during my Radical Feminist College Chick days. I’m still Radical. And still a Feminist. But it turns out I am no longer agitating for myself, personally. #menopause.)

It was a long day. (Listening to my husband shout at the game, laugh at the commercials and enjoy loud sounding Ruffles-Like snacks.)

But dammit, I was educating people. In a very hostile manner. All 800 of my followers.

Shortly therafter, 750 followers.

Cuz I was going to change the world, one Bot at a time. (That was before I discovered Twit Cleaner.)

And don’t forget all those followers who were following two people from three years earlier. Yeah, I really changed policy in America that day.

But now? I’ve learned my lesson. I’m here to relate and hopefully entertain.

However, every now and the . . . #birther #FuckDonaldTrump

Bikram Zumba

Ahh, Zumba. I was just sure adding a Zumba class to my work out routine would change my life. And it would be so easy and fun!

Cuz I’ve got my Pilates groove on now for better than a year. (By “groove” I mean I show up twice a week to pray for the class to be over or to have a massive heart attack and die quickly.) And don’t get me wrong. Pilates has changed me. My kids don’t have to tie my shoes for me anymore.

But I’m a Big Girl and I need some AEROBICS in my life.

Enter . . . Zumba class.

So I go to this over-crowded, not super-expensive gym and join. Just for the Zumba. (Arriba! Arriba!)

And they hold the class in this corner of the gym that has NO VENTILATION.
And it is crowded. Cuz Palm Springs chicks want their ZUMBA.

And believe it or not, there is an ongoing dispute over whether or not to TURN THE FAN ON! (WTF? It is Palm Springs, People. It’s a 100 flipping degrees out.) Cuz some of these delicate flowers are afraid they might catch a cold. From the fan.

So it’s crowded. And it’s hot. And there’s no air.

Why, now that I think about it, let’s just refer to it as Bikram Zumba.

So during Bikram Zumba, I look around the room and realize I am always the biggest or 2nd biggest chick in the room. These women look amazing. And they are wearing tangerine pants with ribbons dangling down their legs.

Me? Well I do love to try to rock the Fat Chic, but in BZ (that’s Bikram Zumba to you!) I just wear my standard yoga pants and a big, hangy down, T-shirt. And a giant sport bra. Cuz that’s how I roll. Or bounce, as the case may be.

And I can’t manage the fancy footwork. So I try to swing my arms with Zest. But it is crowded. So I invariable slap someone. #oopsie

And I can’t seem to make any friends in this class. Is it my tomato red face combined with my bad attire? Is it the flailing arms while my feet don’t move? It is the fact that I keep running to the clock in the other room to see HOW MUCH LONGER THIS SHEER HELL AND TORTURE WILL CONTINUE? Is it my witty jokes about how I hope I don’t need an ambulance soon?

No matter. Cuz whatever the deal, I keep showing up. And flailing. And sweating. And shouting Arriba!

And all that Latin Music? It makes me want a margarita and a shredded beef taco with a crispy shell.

And cuz I’m dehydrated? Make my margarita a double, with salt. Arriba!

Mommy, Do You Remember the Naked Ladies?

I am a mosaic artist. I make stuff with little broken shards of tile, ceramics, glass etc. Put all those itty bits together and you can create something very cool, when it is whole.

I think my kids are going to have a certain set of memories about their Mother. Little bits and pieces that make-up the whole.

Dear God. Help me. Help them. I’m sure posterity won’t be kind . . .

Ah . . . there’s the blowing my top over the forgotten homework (Visualize hair pulling: Mine, not theirs. Though if pulling their hair might work, I’d try that too.) What?!? You forgot again??? Blondie, that is three days in a row. What is it going to take? You want Mommy to go to school with you tomorrow. In my sleepy sweater? Cuz I’ll help you remember to bring that homework home . . . you get the picture.

There’s the age old favorite and constant lament: Really? You can’t pick up your shoes? You were going to die without these Ed Hardy’s and now you can’t be bothered to PUT THEM AWAY??? I’m throwing them out. I swear to God you can go to school barefoot…

There is the one of Mommy losing her shit as the dog sails over the 6 foot wall into the neighbor’s yard, AGAIN. “Shit! Dammit! Someone get that dog! Be careful of the electric fence – which doesn’t seem to be working. Glowie – call her! She’ll come for you. I don’t know why she won’t come when I call her? (Uh, hysterical voice and wild, frightening gesticulating arms perhaps?)

It helps to know they will have one good memory.

My Blondie and I were hanging out in the pool the other day. By hanging out I mean I was laying on a raft with my Kindle in its Ziploc baggie (cuz that’s how I roll People!!!) while my daughter gently pushed me around the pool, stopping every now and then for me to have a sip of wine.

But I digress, as usual.

Blondie says to me . . . Mommy, do you remember the day the Art Studio Ladies came over and everyone went swimming in their bras and panties while they drank wine and ate cheese and crackers?
It was a lightning bolt moment for me.

Because of course I remember (I’m not that far gone . . . yet). It was a magical night in Palm Springs, this cool group of arty farty broads, who just decided the night was too beautiful not to slip in for a swim.

We were all bobbing around in our underwear, wine glasses held aloft. We were talking trash and giggling and admire (or thoughtfully looking away) from each other’s . . . ahem, undergarments.

Blondie’s comment struck me because . . . it was a story that I WANT my daughters to remember. I want that to be part of the “mosaic” of who their mother is . . . you know, someone not afraid to shed her clothes for an evening swim. Someone who drinks wine and eats cheese. (Cuz the wine sounds so much classier than all those martinis.) Someone who hangs with a group of bohemian, arty women who often look at me like I am a nutcase when I talk about my parenting overdrive.

Women who love beauty and will sacrifice pretty hands to make it.

Women who wear amazingly bright colors and fabulous drapey scarves and huge, bizarre dangly earrings.

Women who can talk about anything, cuz they are safe in their group. (And yes Ladies, I am sorry I can’t shut up about the trials of menopause.)

And women who don’t think twice about shucking off their clothes to have a magical moment.

Yes My Little Blondie. I remember. But what really matters to me is that YOU remember who your Mama is. Or at least who I want you to believe I am. #hope

Today and always.

#chicksrule

Protect the Nap

I feel that I’ve written about napping a lot. However, no one seems to understand.

I’m not dancing around the elephant in the room. I’m not speaking in soft, dulcet tones. No people. I gotta go for it. And talk about THE NAP
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I work. Well, sorta.

I run our business. At home, in my dirty yoga clothes. (And btw, why aren’t they called Pilates pants. I don’t actually DO yoga.) But I’ve taken you down THIS road before. See my Bathing Blog . .

I do go into the office on occasion. And then I look very nice. No seriously. And I smell fresh too.

Oh wait, digressing again.

I can work with a consultant, run a conference call, make major financial decisions, run a complex marketing program, develop and instrument an acquisition plan, all from the comfort of my own home. I give EXCELLENT phone.

Let’s be clear. We don’t have a dining room. Seriously. I have a huge office with a giant desk, credenza, office machines, two little girl desks, big plants, giant wall calendars. We eat at the kitchen counter. Or outside. (Hey, this was supposed to be part of the Palm Springs lifestyle. What doesn’t get mentioned is that it is too cold to eat outside 4 months of the year and too flipping hot 6 months of the year. But for 2 months, we can dine outside. And let me tell you, it is HEAVEN!!!)

And like every other mother, I coordinate soccer schedules, ballet rehearsals, costumes, uniforms, music teachers, after school activities. (Not play dates. I hate play dates. They are sooooo much work dealing with everyone else’s kids . . . I mean calendar.) http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

I set medical appointments (unfortunately, I see lots of Doctors and so does my little Glowie … see Fuck you Mr. Doctor , and Glowie’s BD ) I schedule many different summer camps (it turns out my family doesn’t do so well with lots of unstructured free time. And Mommy does need to work – even if it is done in bad clothes.)

I sit on a committee for the County of Riverside, I’m the Site Council president and I do occasionally attend a PTA meeting where I decide I’ll never do this again and write another check.

I manage all the people it takes to keep my house running. Everything is broken all the time. Hey, we are accountants NOT contractors. We can’t fix shit in our house. Water heater, electrical issues, air conditioning, hard wood floors popping up (what the hell is that about?), and of course, we are putting several plumbing contractors’ kids through Ivy League Universities. Not cuz we are generous like that, but cuz we like our toilets to work. #divas

To say nothing of the pest control people and the carpet cleaners. Three big dogs, two kids and my carpets all have piddle stains on them. Which I have the carpet people come and clean. And the piddle stains come back in two days.

And there’s blogging. And Twitter. (Thank God. Ok, only on the days where people say nice things to me.)

So let’s get back to where I started.

I try to lie down during the day. For an hour. Or more. Instead of napping I am typing this.

But if you call and say wanna go to lunch? I’ll probably say no, I’m very busy.

But really? I’m Protecting The Nap.

Summer Vacation

I may have overdone it.

But then the thought of spending endless amounts of unstructured time with my kids creates a blowback experience in my mind. By “blowback” I mean there is internal screaming. Oh wait, you could hear that? #oops

So in my compulsive, over-fanatical way, I scheduled summer. Cuz hey, it’s Palm Springs . It will be 115 out most days. I can’t just say, "Go play outside and leave Mommy alone." There’s that whole second degree burns on their hands from the Swing Set issue.

Two weeks of Museum Camp. (Kinda pricey, but they keep them from 9 to 4.)

Then there is a special Outdoor Classroom Camp thing at the Aerial Tramway. That sounds cool. Literally. It is 30 degrees cooler at the top of the Tram.

Then there is Band Camp. Sleepaway camp for Blondie and her saxophone. One week.

But what do I do with Glowie that week? Find a sleepaway camp? Put her in Parks and Rec camp? Without intense structure and ongoing social stimulation, Glowie won’t survive. Which means, neither will I!

Maybe she could do a three night sleepover at someone’s house? Someone that I never want to speak to again. Cuz they won’t be talkin’ to me after that.

We are doing a mountain getaway over the 4th of July. At the lake, with the dogs, and our friends. Not restful, but busy. We like busy. Well, I like napping. But with two kids, three big dogs and friends . . .

Then they are both going to sleepaway camp in August. It promises to be the highlight of my year life.

And during our August mountain time, there is a UK Soccer camp. You know, where you drive 45 minutes to get to a camp that lasts three hours. Just long enough that you should drive home. Where you go potty, have a cup of tea for 30 minutes, then get in the car and go back to pick them up.

I could buy a car for what this summer is costing. Well, a used car. With a lot of miles. And old. Very old. But nonetheless, a summer schedule is not free.

But being on the go? It’s better for our kids. That whole sitting around the house, coming up with creative ways to entertain themselves? That always leads to a lot of yelling. And mess. I hate mess.

Or video games and TV. And that makes me feel dirty after the first few days.

And the only thing I like dirty is my martini.

Bam. I’ve got a plan. Bam. I’ve got a schedule. Bam. I’ve got multi-colored markers on the calendar. Bam. I have to go lie down.