Holly Shit Batman - Were going to NYC!!!!!

A little something to take the edge off.....

Uh...my family is going to New York. Next weekend.

I don't do anything at the last minute.  Nothing. Ever.

I'm rigid, structured and yes, the word "controlling" has been used in reference to me.

So this is completely out of my comfort zone.

And adventuresome. 

Help.

Back story:  My friend Dorothy, who just wrote a GREAT book, has been our business consultant for the past 8 years.

She let me write a two page essay about her which she included in her book.  (Thank you Honey!)

So she's booked on the Today show because THEY are brilliant and know talent when they see it!

And she's bringing me because...I'm a great example of a "before and after" organizing.  Not that I was ever NOT organized.

I'm no Hoarder, let me tell you.  This chick knows how to purge like nobody's business.  I have drawers and closets in my house which are EMPTY!

Have I mentioned my unnatural love for order yet?

But I contacted her to help me refine our systems and paperwork management in our Accounting office.

I kept working with her cuz I fell in love with her. 

She inspired and motivated me to develop strategies to grow our business (which more than tripled since Dorothy came around), taught me to CONTROL THE CHAOS of two kids, a business, and all the other exciting stuff that comes with a Big Life!!!

And I even lost weight, using accountability and prioritizing.  (Don't' get excited.  A Big Girl loses 20 pounds, and frankly? She is still a Big Girl.)

But really, who cares about Dorothy?  Let's talk more about NY.

So we decided to take the kids out of school for three days.  (Hey, I figure three days right before school lets out? They'll live.)

We cash out every mile we have ever earned (we used to make our house payment on the mileage credit card. Not that we ever travelled anywhere, but you never know. HAH! Ten years later we are GOING somewhere.)

Booked a hotel room.  (Jesus - that's a lot of dough for a tiny, little space.)

And off we go.  For three days in NY.

Which seems like a lot of work for a few days.

But you know what?

If my kids ever want to go to Manhattan and really explore it?

They can figure it out....summer camp, band trip, etc. 

But this was on our bucket list. 

And it was never gonna happen otherwise.

So bring it on.

We'll see a show.  Dine somewhere. See a sight.  Hopefully, at least walk through Bloomingdales and my kids will watch their Mom and their beloved Dorothy ON THE TODAY SHOW!

Maybe there's a museum in there.  Maybe Mommy will just need to put her feet up.

But we are having an adventure.

For now? I'm making a check list.  On a flip chart. And sniffing the markers to get me through.

I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up. No. Really.

It’s crush time in our family. Recitals, concerts, ballet performances and award ceremonies.

And I still need to fit in “martini” time.

So off we go on Sunday to the Piano Recital.

You know Sunday. THE DAY OF REST FOR EVERYONE WHO DOESN’T HAVE CHILDREN!

My daughters are amazing. But our video camera didn’t work. So I made my husband tape them with the iPad. Cuz that was far too humiliating for me. (It’s all nifty and sleek. But not when you are using it in front of 100 people at a piano recital.)

Clap, clap, clap. Yes, everyone was fabulous. Yes, you can have one cookie. ONE COOKIE.

Why?

Clenched teeth response: Because Mommy wants to GET HOME and put my feet up and watch TV! So how about no cookies? Cuz that’s an option also if you want to argue with me in public.

As we are walking out the driveway of the Rancho Mirage Country Club, I’m singing my daughter’s song and doing a little dance when POW!

I fall off my platform shoe.

The pain shoots up my leg like a gun shot. (No, I don’t know what an actual gun shot feels like, but I do watch a lot of crime dramas on TV.)

My first thought is: Oh fuck. I’ve broken my stupid foot again.

My second thought is: Oh fuck. I have to lie down immediately.

My third thought is: Hmmm, these rocks pressed into my cheek feel nice and warm. Uh, really warm actually. (It is Palm Springs after all.)

My fourth thought is: I feel my ass out on the street and my skirt is hiked up.

Fifth thought? Don’t really care about my exposed ass. Cuz I am never lifting my face off these rocks ever again.

And I can hear voices going in and out. “Ambulance,” “clammy,” "not conscious." (Hello. I’m conscious. I just can’t move or speak. Cuz maybe I’m being raptured a little bit after the others.)

Someone comments about how the pavement is melting under their shoes.

Me? The rocks are starting to feel really hot.
My husband? My hero? My knight on a white horse?

He just wants to load me in the car before we have to deal with the hassle of an ambulance.

Sweetly, “Come on Honey.” Clenched teeth, “Get in the car!"

I do notice from my special vista point down on the ground, that there is a small crowd gathering. And not everyone had a fresh pedicure. Just sayin’.

Wet compresses are brought. Fanning commences.

And there is a lot of talking about me in the third person. Like I can’t hear them with my face planted in the rocks. Did I mention the rocks are getting really warm by now?

So it turns out I could get up. Eventually.

Turns out it wasn’t broken.

However, emblazed in the memory of 45 piano moms is the indelible picture of my yummy ass. And by “yummy," I mean big, white, flat.

And you know what they were all thinking? Geez, it’s a good thing that lady down on the ground over there is not wearing a g-string.

And great. Another piece of the Mommy Mosaic.

Shit.

Ground Hog Day

Everyone else’s life is going on right now, slogging through spring fever.
But my burdens? Clearly they are greater than anyone else’s. Cuz it’s Tax Season in our house.

We have an Accounting Firm. My sweet @Taxes007 is a CPA.

So while I pride myself on being konked out in an melatonin-induced haze by 10:30 every night, our schedule has shifted.

I’m up at 10 or 11 when he gets home. Then we spend an hour catching up on the day. (Translation: I bitch non-stop about the kids. He tells stories about clients who discovered they owe tens of thousands of dollars. And the subsequent calls for the paramedics.)

So we go to bed around 12:30. But it turns out? 6:00 am comes at 6:00 no matter what special dispensation you may require.

(If you have not been through tax season with an accountant it is a little like being an elf on Christmas Eve. If they were bitter and liked martinis. )

It is just the time of year when I open my eyes in the morning and close them quickly thinking “I can’t go through THIS again”. Getting the kids up and dressed and out the door to school.

Then off to my Zumba or Pilates class, where I work so hard, suffer so much and accomplish so little.(All the while maintaining a constant low hum of moaning. Not the sexy kind either.)

I am still the Fat Girl in the class and that isn’t going to change. So why do I ever bother to go? Honey, I go through this just to maintain the Big Girl weight I’m at.

Then home to “work”. For the past few days that has meant calling up summer programs and trying to find activities for my kids, cuz God knows, I ain’t gonna spend ELEVEN FUCKING WEEKS entertaining them.

Then I do a little business (some days a little less than others ) then I grab a sandwich, read the paper and it is 1:30 – time to pick up Kid #1.

Then it is the uphill battle around homework and practicing both instruments. And every day this seems like a surprise to my daughter . . . uh what? Practice? Oh yeah. I’ll do it after I . . . (fill in the blank here).

Please don’t leave your shoes in the middle of the floor. (Now leaving them on the edge of the room isn’t really okay either.)

By eating your sandwich in the Family Room you are getting crumbs all over the freshly vacuumed black rug. Will you be pulling out a vacuum and cleaning that up? (Yes, the day I am thin I’m sure all these other long-awaited for miracles will commence.)

Is it really a shock on Tuesdays at 2:45 that the piano teacher is actually here? Knocking on the door? And is there a reason you are lying on the floor, reading a book, acting like the dogs aren’t in a barking frenzy cuz the poor man would just like to be LET IN???

But I know. I take a deep breath. Cuz I know after Tax Season it will be all better.

Fairy dust will fall gently from the Palm Springs sky . . . the children will light up like characters in The Sound of Music . . . my haggard, puffy-eyed husband will turn into Richard Gere. (What can I tell you? I think he is so hot. In that weird, Dali Lama-worshipping- vegan- zen kinda way.)

And I? I will be able to manage my eating. Pounds will drop magically off of my full figure. My patience will return (assuming there ever was any patience to begin with). I will no longer crave an alcoholic beverage on a daily basis. My double chin and poochy tummy will recede taking years off my looks.

Now when I awaken in the morning? I’ll stretch luxuriously, listen to the birds chirping and softy hum . . . The Hills Are Alive . . .

#CrockofShit

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!