TheDeeView

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

2012-01-05T18:17:00.000-08:00

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....

2011-11-19T09:22:00.000-08:00

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?

2011-08-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

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

2011-08-07T16:42:00.000-07:00

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 . . .

2011-07-31T16:28:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-24T16:34:00.000-07:00

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

2011-07-17T16:55:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-07-10T16:43:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-26T16:00:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-19T16:41:00.000-07:00

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.

Yippee! School's Out. Oh. Wait.

2011-06-12T16:45:00.000-07:00

The pressure really became unbearable.

Within a one week period in May, we had: a field trip to Sea World, the annual fund raiser for the elementary school (Spaghetti Night anyone?), two piano recitals, testing for my youngest (you know that Educational testing? It is four 2 hour testing sessions. I tried really hard to be Nice Mommy so she would go into the testing in the best mood possible. THAT was exhausting.); oh, and two birthday parties to attend. Which I was good with, cuz now I keep a couple of Target gift cards in my desk and say: You wanna go to the party? You had better MAKE A NICE CARD!

But wait, my compulsive list-making isn’t over. Cuz the NEXT week? We had four nights of full dress rehearsal for the ballet performance, an awards ceremony, a band performance, and the actual two days of the Ballet Show itself. Where, by the way, these little girls with all this make up? They sorta look like little sluts in tutus. Oh, and the special Walk to School Day sponsored by the County of Riverside, which I headed up.

There was the day when I logged onto the school website and saw that Blondie had a C. In Social Studies. Then there was my breakdown where I, let’s just say, over-used my vocal cords and developed an eye twitch. (The missing homework was instantly found!)

And not that anyone cares about MY schedule, but we had an All Staff full day meeting that week which I facilitate; my husband was out of town on business for two days (yeah right, it was the ONLY time he could go), leaving me to pull it all together, and then a special Award Ceremony for Volunteers. (I volunteer to stay home from the award ceremony!) AND!!!! It was the last episode of Oprah EVER! Which means I had to schedule that afternoon off my calendar to lock myself in the bedroom with tissue and a pitcher of Moscow Mules.

So really? School being out? Flipping Heaven.

Until I really think about it.

Cuz though I could use a break from all the pressure?

I could really use a break from the kids.

Summer Vacation. #shit

The Best Gift Ever

2011-06-05T16:07:00.000-07:00

I had a birthday recently. Uh, yes. Another one.

I had a very fun weekend with friends. But I always tell people – don’t get me presents. I know this is shocking and not at all in keeping with my greedy needy personality. Here’s “Why”:

1) I don’t need another scented candle.
2) I do love chocolates, but they make me fat…uh, fatter.
3) If you give me a gift, then I have to write a thank you note. It’s the law.
I don’t want to write a thank you note. I would rather you just hang out with me. (Cuz I AM fabulous company.)
4) I have enough stuff. I really do. So unless you can help offset my giant house payment on my upside down house . . .
5) For my 50th BD, I asked people to donate to my favorite charity. No one did.

So enough already. I’m old, I’m set, I don’t need more stuff.

Until I received the BEST GIFT EVER from my former Nanny.

A nice white box comes. I’m sure it is for my daughters. But I open it anyway. Cuz I’m the Mom and I can.

But, what is this? Do I see a single roll of double ply Northern Toilet Paper? Why, that is my favorite! And I do have a defining Life Philosophy which says: You can never have too much Toilet Paper stockpiled in Case of Emergency.

And underneath that? A bag of Cheetos?

I peruse the rest of the box with Orange Tipped Fingers.

Pop Tarts. Check.

Chapstick. Check.

Rosarita No-Fat Refried Beans. A staple for any healthy eating plan.

And underneath that? The special orange slice candies. With the word “Enjoy” written all over the container.

All wrapped up with a Loving Card.

Now THAT’s a great Birthday Gift.

There’s a gift that keeps on giving. (I’m referencing the toilet paper here, not the Cheetos. They are long gone.)

That was a present that made me feel seen, known and loved.

That’s better than a scented candle any day.

And I didn’t have to write her a Thank You note.

Just an email that told her I loved her and I missed her, cuz she really knew what mattered to me.

Who’s the Shrew?

2011-05-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

Dear God, my mother was a shrew.

Well, maybe not a shrew.

She was 40 when I was born. (I was 40 when my first was born.)

She was tired. (I’m tired.)

She was a yeller. (I, of course, NEVER raise my voice above a soft whisper. #lying)

She used to tell me I was a very intense child. (Okay, she didn’t really use the word “intense.” “Difficult,” “challenging,” “handful,” and occasionally the word “problem” came up.)

My youngest is a very intense child. By intense I mean . . . oh never mind.

(She’s one of those kids about which we say: If she had been born first, she would be an only child.)

My mom was a full-time wife and mom.

I was the light of her life. And, as an only child, the one who took the heat for EVERYTHING in her world.

She was a perfectionist. Her house was uber tidy.

And my mom was impatient. A lot.

As a kid I hated all this. I thought I will NEVER yell at my kids. I’ll be gentle, patient and kind. And I won’t ever let a tidy house come before a little fun.

I will be SUCH a better mother. Cuz it’s so easy. I’ll just do it ALL differently . . .

Because my children ARE the light of my life.

Okay. Well, I do like my house a little clean. (Let’s just say, Lysol Wipes are my BFF.)

The kids do drive me crazy when they leave their Lego out on the floor.
Okay – I yell when I find three week old yogurt in the bottom of the backpack. (Wait . . . was that yogurt?)

Oh Crap.

Let’s see:

Old. Check

Tired. Check

Impatient. Check

Rigid Household Maintenance Standards. Check

Oh Dear God. I’m a shrew.

Turns out... my Mother? She was a flipping saint.

Is everybody really having sex THAT much?

2011-05-15T16:36:00.000-07:00

I think my husband and I have a fantastic sex life. Until, of course, I watch something like "Grey’s Anatomy." Where everyone is getting it on like bunnies.

Hot, romantic, casual, funny, spontaneous sex.

And then there’s the Housewives of . . . oh any fucking city, with their silicone lubricated sex.
Jesus, there was even a bit on Regis and Kelly.

It turns out that everyone else is not just having sex constantly. No, it is some kind of romantic, sexy, hot interlude. There are chocolate covered strawberries, hot baths and rose petals.

My question? Where are the kids banging on the door?

You can’t toss me on the bed, cuz it’s covered with unfolded laundry. (Dear God – is it even clean laundry???)

Kitchen table ? Covered with the fucking science project.

And the fantasy that my husband will pick me up and carry me to some clean surface is kinda shattered. Do you know how old he is and how much I weigh? #arthritis #nothappening

Our lives are more like this:

Husband, home from work, late #taxseason, dishing out leftovers from last night’s takeout. I’m on all fours, sorting through the kids backpacks for the latest lost permission slip. If he leaned over, brushed my hair aside and tried to kiss my neck, I would probably topple over (cuz I’m kinda like a cow, I tip easily) and if he could finally get up off the floor (hopefully HE’S not injured, cuz he’s no spring chicken) I would be pissed.

I would be pissed because now I can’t remember who we decided is picking up the kids tomorrow. Cuz there’s the track meet, trying to be coordinated with soccer practice, and the other one’s ballet class and saxophone lessons. Just typing that makes my juices dry up.

Like I said, a real magical moment.

There are several factors working against me and this bizarre goal I have of knocking it out like bunnies.

Number One – I am old. Old and tired. Tired. Dead. Tired.

Number Two – Menopause is a gift that keeps on giving. Oh wait? It doesn’t give… anything – you know what I’m talking about. Now before the big moment we have to go to the store. Not for condoms. Cuz that ship has sailed. No. Now? We go for lubricant. (Sadly, not cuz I have a high Freak Number. You know, like you know, those Real Housewives of Atlanta, Candy Coated Nights!)

Number Three – Kids.

Number Four – Kids.

Number Five – Soccer practice, ballet, piano lessons, sax lessons, working with the tutor.

Number Six – How exhausted I am after soccer, ballet, piano, sax, tutor, showers, teeth brushing and oh shit . . . I guess they need to be fed dinner also? (So demanding, those kids.)

Number Seven – Work. Mine. His. All consuming. All the time.

Number Eight – My slight problem with TV watching. I mean if there is something new on Bravo that night …

Number Nine – The 10:00 p.m. knock on the door. "Mommy, I’m worried about something." "Mommy my leg hurts from soccer." "Mommy my sister is asleep and I’m lonely. How come you guys get to watch TV and we have to go to bed?"

Number Ten – Did I mention I’m old and tired?

So when I hear people talking about doing it a few times a week, I just want to scream: A week? Did I hear you right? Don’t you mean a few times a MONTH?

And by few times, don’t you mean .032?

Cuz me and my husband? We’re bunnies too. Just you know, the old ones you find in the petting zoo that have given up. #ButOhSoHappy

Happy Mother’s Day Mama.

2011-05-08T05:05:00.000-07:00

My Mama has been gone for five years.

And she wasn’t in the best place the five years before that.

She was my Mama and I loved her. And she loved me.

I was an adopted girl (just like my two daughters). My parents were 40. (I remember 40, that’s when we adopted our Blondie. And back then? We called her Baldie.)

I was an only child. (Something my oldest can only long for!)

And I was the light of my parents’ lives. And I knew it.

So here is the most important thing my Mother taught me, that I am trying to teach my daughters:

Things will always look better in the morning.

When all of us are falling apart at night, I ask my girls – What was it that Gammy always said? I knew we had it wrong when Blondie answered: “I’ll give you something to cry about—right, Mommy?”

Well, yes . . . that was one of the things Gammy said, but I meant the other thing she said ALL THE TIME!

This is the mantra in our house (the” morning” thing, not the “something to cry about” thing). So many things can trigger a bedtime meltdown. And my girls can have a bad time at bedtime also. (Bah da bing.)

And doesn’t everyone’s anxieties come out at night? Or is that just me cuz I watch too many scary, crime procedural shows.

My husband and I often lie in bed at night at 10:00 and worry about our business, or a staff problem or a client issue. I have to grab his hand and say, “Remember what my Mom always said! We can deal with this tomorrow.”

And in the morning? Nothing is as looming.

My mother gave me many other gifts: stability, music and dance lessons, great schools, a dog, a college education, freedom, independence and some (often misplaced) trust, along with a lot of self confidence. (The self-confidence thing? I may have been born with some of that.)

I knew who I was, where I came from and that I was loved. Loved AND the most important thing in the world to two people, no matter where I went or whatever stupid choices I made. (Hey, my 20’s were a little rough.)

These are the gifts I so desperately want to pass along to my daughters. Along with always remembering that “Things will look better in the morning.”

So on Mother’s Day? I say, “I love you, Mama!”

Happy Mother’s Day.

The Mommy Bus is Pissed

2011-05-01T16:38:00.000-07:00

First let’s talk about the Daddy Bus . . .

The Daddy Bus is supposed to leave at 7:20.

But Daddy is a pushover for his girls!

Cuz if you leave any later than 7:20, school drop off goes from serene to entering the Vortex of Death (otherwise known as the “Drop Off Circle”).

So back to the Mommy Bus.

I have said before, and I’ll say it again. I like to run a tight ship.

Which doesn’t always go my way with two kids, three big dogs and a couple of handfuls of employees.

I employ all sorts of techniques to keep things running: checklists, flip charts, computer task lists, notes on fridge and, of course, yelling.

So yesterday the Daddy Bus was sick. Something else I can’t control. (Just pull yourself up by the bootstraps, Man!)

So I’m going to run Blondie to school.

So when I tell her that I’m leaving at 7:20 cuz Daddy is sick? She doesn’t seem to really believe me.

7:20. 7:21. Let’s Go!

7:22 I don’t care if you aren’t ready. Get your stuff and go.

7:23 Just put your shoes on in the car. And forget about combing your hair.

7:24 No sunscreen yet huh? Again, do that in the car. (Hey, it’s Palm Springs. She’s fair skinned. Sunscreen isn’t even a choice in our family.)

7:25 Complete meltdown. (Hers. Not Mine.) This is not FAIR!!!

7:25 If you’re not ready in the next 60 SECONDS the MOMMY BUS IS LEAVING.

7:26…0h well Blondie. You missed the Mommy Bus. The next bus leaves at 8:00 when you sister goes to school.

7:26…Hysterical wailing (Hers. Not Mine.)

Now the retarded thing about all this is that Blondie is dedicated to school. It is VERY important to my kid to get to school on time. She loves a routine herself. And the thought of walking into her Math class 35 minutes late? And having people LOOK at her? Absolutely horrifying.

But you know what? The Mommy Bus has a schedule. The next departure time was the elementary school Mommy Bus at 8:00 a.m. And that bus was a walking bus.

So Mommy walked them both to school. Blondie with the reddest blotchiest face you’ve ever seen. She is calmer, except for the little hysterical crying hiccups she’s got going.

Me however? I spent the day doing a little victory dance.

Here’s the good thing about this. Which btw, is another version of Big Picture Parenting. (Parenting that sucks in the moment, but has some promise of payoff in the future.)
Yeah, this morning sucked… for both of us.

But you know who will be the number one passenger on the Mommy Bus at 7:19?

At 7:19. Teeth brushed, hair brushed, sunscreen on. And she’ll probably even be wearing shoes!

Happy Birthday Pilates

2011-04-24T16:26:00.000-07:00

It has been a year ( and a tiny bit ) since I started Pilates.

I was the big, whale of a girl, laying on the mat.

It appeared that I was quite devout and religious.

Cuz there was a LOT of praying going on:

“Dear God in Fucking Heaven – HELP ME”

“God, I will give you anything, anything if you will transport me out of this room.”

“Holy Jesus, let the hour be over RIGHT NOW!”

Well, and there was this . . .

“WHAT? WHAT do you mean there are FIFTY MORE MINUTES LEFT IN THE CLASS?”

And the gentle sobbing. And the not so gentle sobbing.

And the breathing that sounded just like sobbing.

But hey, I’m a Big Girl, with some seriously messed up joints, so Pilates seemed like the only thing standing between me and some sort of assisted walking device.

So I just showed up. I swore. I wept. I swore. I prayed. And I cried inside.

I also believed that no one had ever suffered or endured such pain during exercise. (I actually still believe this to be true.)

So it’s been a year.

And I can do a lot more stuff. (Like touch my feet. Hey, for me the goals were somewhat modest.)

Though I still think the hour is over when it has only been 20 minutes.

I still pray for a divine intervention at least twice during each class.

And I am pretty sure the teacher judges Fat Chicks.

Who could blame him? My teacher worked for Richard Simmons for 15 years. That must do something to a man.

And may I just say, my teacher doesn’t exactly bring that upbeat Richard-Simmons-sunshine to our Pilates class.

But I’m sure, in my mind, that I’m the teacher’s pet. And I know he loves me. Cuz he keeps showing up!

And you know what? After a year of Pilates? I’m still a Fat Chick. And no, I have not turned 50 pounds of fat to muscle.

But I am a Fat Chick who can touch my toes! Hah! Take that Jesus!

April 15th . . . Well April 18th This Year

2011-04-17T16:03:00.000-07:00

Tax Season in our house is kinda brutal. Well, really it is a mixed bag.

We have an accounting firm, my husband is a CPA. So he’s working 7 days a week, some days 20 hours a day.

The good part of this? The bills start to get paid. (And btw, if you have been waiting for payment from us? Thank you. It’s coming. No, I swear, the check is in the mail.)

I try and hold everything together like a wife out of Mad Men. (Well, without the foundation wear. And the lovely manners.)

I try to hold our staff together by telling them I am there for them. (I’m not really, but I think it is so nice to say that.)

I try not to mention the fact that our shower appears to be leaking and has created a vast plaster buckling on the adjoining wall. Instead? I hang a rather odd, very large, king sized blanket beach towel over the oozing drywall.

And as soon as we are flush? (No pun intended – Dear God!) I’ll call the handyman. (And weep softly into my pillow that I won’t be getting an iPad, yet again.)

There is no leaving the kids with their dad and running a quick errand. My solution? I just don’t run errands during tax season. (So much easier to do without, rather than load the kids in the car with all their detritus and whining.

Oh wait…maybe that’s my detritus and whining. Well, no matter.)
Parent/Teacher conferences, music lessons, ballet, tutoring, birthday parties, medical appointments . . . I do it all without bitching. (OK, this is a total lie.

I bitch like crazy to anyone who will listen. Just not to @Taxes007.)

The training of the New Dog? Honey, don’t lift a finger. You just get your cup of coffee (from Starbucks people – I don’t make coffee!) and run along dear. I’ve got the new dog handled. (Vomit, crate break-outs, fence jumping, poop pick up, dog park tips, training sessions . . .)

And it was our wedding anniversary also. But I’m okay foregoing a dinner out or a celebration. No, no. Really. It’s been 15 years. Fifteen happy, wonderful years.

I understand the demands of our business. (Really, 15 flipping years and we can’t figure out how to get a little break during tax season???)

But while I am dusting in my girdle and heels, with a lovely stew on the stove, I count my blessings. (Translation: I’m LOOKING at the dust, I’m wearing a bad bra and stretched out yoga pants and the smell? The Carl’s Jr. I picked up for dinner.

And dammit! It smells great!)

But I do count my blessings. Thank God for tax season. We can replace our broken TV, get a decent bra and yoga pants, buy our little Glowie a new dress and our Blondie some new Lego. We can pay our mortgage payment (don’t get me started on how upside down we are in our house, I’m Blessing-Counting dammit!). And we will get some family time (which will be so much better when we have a TV!!!)

I can go back to bitching at my husband. And @Taxes007? He can get some sleep!!! So much better to enjoy his delicious dinner. From Carl’s Jr.

Tax Season – Holy Fuck

2011-04-11T16:06:00.000-07:00

Tax Season is different in our house.
I know that you are panicking and experiencing all sorts of procrastination agony.
You’ve rediscovered afternoon soap operas rather than look for that envelope with the receipts.
That new Oprah network has some mesmerizing shit on it if instead you should be putting together your mortgage interest for the year. (Which is painful, cuz if you’re like us, you are paying interest on a HOUSE THAT ISN’T WORTH SHIT any longer. But I digress.)
And all of a sudden you’ve taken up a new zeal for housecleaning. I understand that speaks to how agonizing it is to put your money shit together and FACE FACTS.
But in our house? This is Hell Week. Except Hell Week lasts 8 weeks.
This is the time where I get to experience the intimate joys of being a single parent.
Cuz Daddy? He’s doing the Green Lightshade Thing. Every day. And night.
And me? I’m trying to hold everything together and “not bother Daddy.”
By hold together? I mean yell at the kids more, wish I hadn’t gotten that third dog, try to be in two places at the same time. (Ballet/Soccer; Band Concert/Dance Rehearsal-- you get the picture.)
There is weeping. “I miss Daddy.”
And it appears the children miss him also.
It is long hours.
When my youngest wrote a story about the seasons for school, she wrote that there are five seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall and TAX Season.
For her? It is an immutable Law of the Universe that for a couple of months a year, everyone hunkers down with a siege mentality and goes without sleep. (But not without nourishment. Oh No! There is PLENTY of BAD FOOD CHOICES being made!)
But Hey! This is OUR season. You know, the season where we make the money to pay our bills.
Honey? I’ll see you on the other side…The other side of April 15th.

My Webpage and My Ass

2011-04-03T16:32:00.000-07:00

I work with a Social Media consultant in our business. She, luckily for me, happens to be my friend. And, she’s a little geeky. By “geeky”, I mean she understands things like “coding”, “search engine optimization” and “google analytics”.

And I like her anyway.

The other day she wants to tell me there is a problem with the coding of our website. (I don’t know what she actually said. It was all said very quickly and in Croatian, I’m pretty sure.)

Partway through the emergency phone meeting, (let’s just say I was involuntarily doing Kegels from the fear of how much money this “problem” was going to cost me), I stop her and say: Uh, you need to slow down. I don’t understand. And it might be very helpful if you took a brief moment to tell me my ass looks great right now. (In these baggy, worn-out Yoga pants.)

She pauses. (Cuz she can get very wound up when she speaks her own special Computer Nerd Language.)

I hear her little brain processing . . . processing . . . processing.

Then she responds: Your ass looks FANTASTIC!

And we move on. Well, she moves on.

I move to cut another check.

But every conversation we’ve had for the past four days? She slips a compliment about my ass in somewhere.

And I’m finding I’m much calmer about the problems and the cost of solving them.

Now, if I can just train my kids to do the same thing, when I am yelling at them about picking up their shoes!

Can you imagine? “Mommy, by the way, have I told you today that your bottom looks really, really pretty in those black stretch pants you wear every day?”

Uh, yeah. That would work for me!

The Goddamned Dog and My Outdoor Shower

2011-03-27T16:12:00.000-07:00

So we love our new dog. No really.

Well, some days we love her more than others.

I have written in the past about my obsession with bathing outdoors. It’s kind of a romantic, under the stars, “this is the life” kinda of thing. Well . . . that and some sort of claustrophobia in the house.

Actually our regular shower is lovely. Like something out a magazine. If you like slippery marble floors, I’ve got the Hot Ticket for you.

Every time I step into this large, glass encased shower, I’m pretty sure I’m slipping to some sort of head or joint injury. It’s a death trap I tell you.

But I digress with an analysis of my indoor bathing phobia.

So I make my kids shower outside a lot of the time (hey, it’s Palm Springs!).
Imagine the glory of a bathroom without wet floors, steamed up glass, wet toys dripping all over everything.
But my kids, who are NOT very tall, always manage to take the shower massager/shower head thingie down. They leave it laying on the ground. Cuz they leave everything they own on the ground. Why wouldn’t they leave my shower head there too?

But back to the dog. So she’s romping in the back yard. She’s like a gazelle let loose for the first time on the savannah. I’m mesmerized watching her. Until I realize she is running around with my shower head IN HER EFFING MOUTH.

I don’t know who to yell at first. The girls? For their carelessness? The dog? For feasting on one of my favorite objects in the world?
So after something like that, what do I need?
Hello! A nice, relaxing shower.
So I make my husband go outside with me, cuz that’s just the kinda of relationship we have.
The shower head is toast.
So he’s going old school. He’s got the hose and his thumb. He’s spraying me down like we used to water the lawn.
Of course, he thinks this is hilarious while I’m busy screaming: “Not my hair, you Moron!”
But I love my husband. And I love my dog. (And yes, even my children who can’t pick up a damned thing.)
And after I get the new shower head today, there may be another shower in my future today. Under the stars. Blissfully alone.

The Interview Where I Lost My Mind

2011-03-20T16:45:00.000-07:00

We are looking for a CPA to work in our Accounting Firm. We have three offices now and a rapidly growing client base. My husband is just one guy, and God knows, I have needs.

We needed to find another Accountant.

So we cull through resumes. (Hello, is the “Cover Letter Thing” completely obsolete? Cuz I really long for you to tell me something about why you want to work for my company.)

One person in particular has a great skill set. And an MBA to boot. This makes our hearts race a little faster. (That and the stairs up to our office.)

And maybe his cover letter was a little odd and stiff, but hey, when you see the Hot Guy on Match.com, you don’t ask if he’s living with his mom. You just let crap like that slide. Cuz Baby, it’s all about the fantasy!

Sadly, because we are overworked and needy, we start fantasizing about him. No, not sexual fantasies. (There is no CPA hotter than my husband.)

But fantasies about how this Magical CPA guy is going to solve all of our needs: He’ll be in two places at the same time; he’ll charm the most difficult of clients; he’ll knock out tax returns faster than a speeding bullet; he’ll bring in so many new clients we won’t know what to do with all our money!

And all this, while championing our business and our values.

And then: The Interview.

I usually run a VERY tight interview ship.

But . . . for this fantasy CPA, I’m like the giggly school girl. I’m shuffling my papers and I think I see fairy dust twinkling from the pages.

I do my little song and dance at the beginning. You know, flip the hair, lick my lips, bat those Latisse lashes. I was working it. I asked my first question, waiting with baited, minty-fresh breath for his answer.

He opened his mouth, and answered. And answered. And answered. And Dear God, he answered some more.

Saying the man wouldn’t fucking shut up is an understatement.

He makes John Kerry look pithy.

I realize at some point during the answer to the first question-- the FIRST question, let’s be clear-- that I've left my body and am hovering in the corner of the ceiling thinking to myself: Help!!! Get me out of here!!! What the hell is happening???

This guy won’t shut the fuck up. So finally I wedge my way into his answer. And by “wedge,” I mean I just start to talk over him.

And I say, in the interest of time, maybe you could just jump to the bottom line, you know, in the interest of time. (Inside I’m still screaming – HELP ME.)

But as he is into his fourth minute of “cutting it short” I still can’t let go.

Cuz remember, this could be my Magical CPA! He still could be. I swear. Just wait. I know at any moment he’s going to bring this home.

It was like being held hostage in a basement on Criminal Minds. Except of course, I could get up and walk away. But then what about all my dreams and fantasies about my Magical CPA?

Then he proceeds to tell a story about a job he didn’t get, cuz they thought he wasn’t interested.

YES! I exclaim. I too thought that from your oddly perfunctory cover letter.

I’m waving the three sentence letter in the air, animated for the first time in an hour.

His response? “I pride myself on being short and direct in all my communications.”

WHAT??? (I’m still oddly waving the letter in the air.) You did NOT just say that???

All of a sudden my lovely crossed ankles, leaning forward posture, fake but hard worked-for look of interest in my eyes, is OVER. My legs fall apart, my mouth drops open, my head flops back in a seizure type movement.

Turns out my Magical CPA is still just a figment of my imagination. #Dammit.

My Daughter’s Night as a Cheerleader

2011-03-13T16:39:00.000-07:00

My Daughter’s Night as a Cheerleader

My 7-year old wants everything Big Girls have. Even boobs. She is just that kinda kid. Heels, jewelry, lip gloss are all things she covets.
(Boobs, you may ask? Well, several times she has stuffed tissue into her ballet leotard and pranced in front of her mirror, checking out her “curves.” Try to understand this – she weighs 36 pounds, if we weigh her right after a big meal.)

Now my 11-year old just wants to be 11. She wants to play Lego, read books, climb trees, ride bikes and play with the dogs. And if she could do these things in grungy old clothes – so much the better. But I digress.

So Glowie gets a chance to go to a Cheerleading Camp with the high school girls. (If you could just tremble slightly when you read the words “High School Girls,” all the better.)

Then she got to Cheer at the High School Basketball Game during Half Time.
I was a wreck.

For one thing, I weep when a new jar of peanut butter is opened. My children are constantly bringing me tissue and saying: “Aw, Mama.”

So the weeping started before the pretty Senior came out and sang "The Star-Spangled Banner." What pipes that girl had. A little National Anthem, a little Pledge of Allegiance and I’m a blubbering wreck.

And just sitting in the stands looking down at Glowie vibrating on the bleacher, wedged between those beautiful big girls, I was a one woman snot-fest.

All I can think about is: if this is what she wants and loves, how do I help her build the skills to have a chance to do this in high school, which is only 7 years away.

So while the boys are playing basketball and while the cheerleaders are stomping and cheering; while my Glowie is lit up from inside; me? Well, I’m making a plan:

• Sign up for gymnastics lessons.
• Don’t quit Ballet.
• Find out at what age kids can wear contacts.
• Don’t delay calling the orthodontist. (Glowie’s mouth is going to be some kind of $10,000 mess, not including jaw surgery – egad!)
• Put some protein powder in her morning instant breakfast.
• Start investment fund for giant hair bows.
• Type up Plan of Action.

And suddenly the buzzer rings. It is not the buzzer on the floor of the gym. It is the buzzer in my mind that suggests I may want to move out of the way.

Cuz any minute my Helicopter Mom whirly-bird is going to land.

Wait-- I can feel the breeze. And I think I hear the gentle whoosh, whoosh, whoosh sound of the blades.

Cuz God forbid, my daughter should just get to be a 2nd grade kid getting an exciting night with the Big Girls. Nah.

Bring it on General Petraeus! Any battle plan you’ve put into action won’t hold a candle to mine!

Gooooooooooooooo Glowie!!!

You Know You’ve Got It Good When . . .

2011-03-06T16:28:00.000-08:00

You Know You’ve Got It Good When . . .

I’ve got it good.

I knew I was living the good life when I got a TV in my bathroom. To me, that is the mark that I’ve “made it.” It is also how I fit in so much TV watching into my very busy daily schedule. Now bathing is NOT so tedious any longer when I can do it with "The Real Housewives!"

Now, I’m not a “shower me in diamonds” kinda girl.

Well, there was my engagement ring. I did want a diamond for that. Actually, when my husband asked me: “If you ever get married again, what kind of diamond would you want?” I replied without missing a beat: “I want a diamond as big as my head.”

I was quite clear about this.

And boy, did he deliver! I have the mother of all diamonds (hey, I’m not talking the scorned-wife-of-Kobe –Bryant-big, and Liz Taylor isn’t actually crippled with envy).

It’s big to me and it makes me happy.

This year, after 15 years of good marriage (note that I don’t say “happy.” You don’t get “happy” for 15 flipping years. But you can have “good.” If you have a great therapist!) my husband bought me a diamond necklace.

Prior to this I never gave a shit. But I LOVE this necklace.

So I have a TV in my bathroom, a diamond necklace, a house (that the bank, ever so mercifully let’s us live in) and all the vodka money can buy.

I may have a titanium spine, a ceramic hip and a kid that will be riding in a car seat until she goes to college. I may have problems with ah, shall we call it, over-rigidity?

But in the Big Picture kinda way?

I love my husband, my kids are in a good place, it is the most beautiful time of the year in Palm Springs.

So what you may ask, what could I possibly want for my birthday? This girl that has it so good?

An iPad.

Cuz I always want something. #Dammit.

Science Project – Another Family Killer

2011-02-27T16:25:00.000-08:00

Oh shit. Science Projects are due . . . tomorrow.

Now, of course I’ve been down this thorn-filled road before. Many times before.

Okay – NINE times so far, and still counting.

And at first, I had a Fire in my Belly for these projects. And there were awards received. And Mommy was proud.

Though this is a child-driven project, let’s be real. The parent has to come up with a concept that they can stand. We’ve done the carnations with food coloring one a couple of times. (Two kids, two different schools – how bad is that?) Who do you think buys the carnations, the food coloring and the Science Project Board?

And let’s talk about carving out time for this “learning experience.” It feels so big and looming in my head that I’m filled with a sick stomach for the entire month that it's due. I don’t actually DO anything about helping the kids work their stuff through, I just feel guilty.

Science Projects are a lot like being back in college. You know how you would go out and party instead of study for a midterm? Feeling dirty and guilty the whole time you were partying? (And then there was the Academic Probation . . . but let’s leave that for another story.)

So adding “Mommy guilt and dirt” to the Science Project checklist IS important.
And then there is the typing of the hypothesis, the method and the conclusion. I always disclose on the Board that the “typing was done by Mom.”

But Hey!!! Last night my older daughter was able to do the typing for my younger daughter. This Science Project says “typing was done by my sister, Blondie.”

Last year was the first year I really started to give up on this stuff. I was fatigued-- in the moment, and in a big-life way.

So I let the teenage babysitter help on a Saturday night while my husband and I went out for martinis. Genius, you might think to yourself.

Well, all except for the fact that last year was the first year my kids didn’t get even a lousy “honorable mention” ribbon. Wow, that stung.

It stung, but not enough to change the game up this year.

So the babysitter was here over the weekend. There was colored paper, glue, a concept AND a hypothesis.

I had a lovely petite filet and my martini was shaken, not stirred.

I’m not holding my breath on my Mother of the Year Award. Not this year, at least.

But next year we are going to roll up our sleeves. We are really going to pre-plan.
Next year, there will be a timeline and a schedule. We will pick our project early and make a list of supplies IN ADVANCE.

Next year, we will be really well stocked-- okay, maybe not the science boards, but dammit we’ll have vodka.

Next year. . .oh, who am I kidding?

If we only had a Lab.

2011-02-20T16:11:00.000-08:00

We spent last summer going back and forth to the mountains.

It was a summer filled with envy.

I hate this about myself. But I have it. Envy. Sort of like: Keeping up with the Joneses syndrome.

We bought a little trailer (do not insert the word “trash” here) in the mountains. You know, to get away from the Palm Springs heat. (Which I always told people I didn’t mind the summers here. The truth is? Summer sucks.)

Okay, EVERYONE has a boat. Well, we can’t really manage the cost of a boat. (Bitterness Alert.) So we bought a couple of used kayaks.

You know, so we could kayak out into the lake and look at all the multi-million dollar houses that we will never live in. (More Bitterness.)

I have no car bitterness however, cuz I have one of those family vans with the auto sliding doors. That totally rocks. But I digress . . .

And we can take our dogs with us. And we have two great dogs. Both rescues. One old, one young. Great dogs. No really…

But EVERYONE in the mountains, you know the people with the boats and the docks and the big fancy lake houses – they all have Labrador Retrievers. Or Goldens. They all have these cute, big, goofy dogs that swim in the lake and ride in the boats and fetch sticks from the shore.

Now we aren’t getting a boat, or moving up from our trailer (didn’t I mention you are not even to think the word “trash” here!). But dammit, we can get another dog.

So I spent the entire summer on every flipping dog rescue site in California. And the Western United States. Trying to find a water dog for my family.

(I think discussing the 6 page applications I filled out for all the different rescue sites is a separate blog I’ll save for later. A teeny weinie bit of bitterness here.)

Cuz I am just sure, if we had a third dog, our lives would be perfect.

My kids would be angels all the time, our business would flow like delicious maple syrup (okay, I’m hungry right now), the plumbing issues in our house would dry up like something in the Sahara. (Hey, I live in Palm Springs, that can’t be too much to ask.)

I would be thinner and more flexible, my younger daughter would calm down (that is code for TALK LESS), my girls would get straight A’s just for being themselves, homework would get done easily and there would never be a pair of stray shoes left anywhere.

I would never be tired and irritable and yell at my kids.

Our staff would run into work every day and beg to work extra hours for no pay, AND they would tell us how fabulous we are.

Our clients would pay their bills the second they received them, and never complain about anything.

Why, if we just had a Labrador Retriever, we would have more joy in our lives every day. I just know it.

Cuz this Lab? She will be able to pick up her own poop, right?

UPDATE ALERT!!!

We got her, our beautiful Lab puppy. A lovely little rescue girl.
It happened so fast. My vet saw an ad on Craigslist. She ran over that day. The dog was fabulous, so she snatched her up. We then all piled in the car (by “all” I am including my two daughters and TWO dogs), drove to the Rose Bowl to do the handoff under the dark cover of night. (Very drug-deal-like. Not that I would know. But I have watched a lot of drug deals on TV. )

Of course, we didn’t think about the fact that this was two days before the Rose Parade. It was a little, uh, crowded in the parking area. (Not the wide open spaces that had seemed like such a good idea two hours earlier.) But there she was! Our little water dog, already wanting to run after sticks!

Now our lives will be complete. The envy is over. We will never need anything ever again. Well, except for the fact that it turns out? She doesn’t pick up her own poop. KIDS???

My Husband. This is a love story. No, really.

2011-02-13T16:49:00.000-08:00

A Valentine's Day Post...

People often ask how I met my husband.
I advertised for him in the Los Angeles Times. (Hey, this was before online dating. Cut me some slack. I’m old.)
I wanted someone who was a Gentle Man, a sweet talker, a mover and shaker, someone who had done a little therapy. (Ok, I really wanted someone who had done a lot of therapy . . . cuz I’d been down the marriage road once before and I didn’t want go through that again.)
And there he was . . .the perfect guy. At least that was how he sounded. But just in case he wasn’t "The One” I set up dates with a bunch of guys. Cuz I do like to hedge my bets.
But he came out of the gate hard and strong. First date? Ivy at the Shore.
No “let’s meet at the park” or “let’s grab a cup of coffee.” This guy instinctively knew to feed me a foody-licious meal right from the get-go.
And then I cancelled all those other dates.
Because he told me he wanted to build an empire with someone.
And I found those the hottest words ever spoken.
In the past 15 years we helped raise his son, bought and sold a few houses, and moved a few times.
We started our accounting firm. And we grew our accounting firm.
Together, we shepherded my father to his sweet death and we took care of my mother with dementia. And when my Mama got really sick and she needed to be lifted and moved at 1:00 a.m., my husband was the one lifting her with gentle love.
We adopted both of our beautiful daughters.
We went through hell when our baby girl needed major skull surgery as a baby.
I had 10 surgeries in 10 years (you know, just to test that “for better or for worse, in sickness and in health” line).
We made a Vigil party for my mom with my closest friends when we were waiting for her time to come. And her time came. And Greg was there.
And we adopted some dogs. And some of them died. So we adopted some more. Cuz we do love our dogs. (We are NOT cat, hamster or bunny people. We do have parrot fish in one of our offices, however.)
Then we moved again. Moved our business, our lives, our daughters’ schools.
And we built a new community, made new friends and found new ways to be part of the community.
And we just kept growing that business.
I started a blog and put our lives “out there.” And he continued to support me and believe in me.
And I got in fights with friends, broke up some old-time relationships, made new friends. And we did it all together.
It’s been 15 years. And I have to say, I thought I had it made when I got a TV in my bathroom.
But really? I had it made 15 years ago, when he saw that ad.

I love you Honey. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Soccer – The Sport That Ate My Family.

2011-02-06T16:47:00.000-08:00

Soccer.

Every family does it. At least once.

Some families do it with more zest than others.

We are one of the families that does it with less zest.

My Blondie, 11 years old, has a lot of athletic ability. No aggressiveness though.

So we thought Soccer would really play to her strengths while helping her through some of her shyness, and timidness.

And now we have no family time.

Cuz there are those practices two times a week. (And I get it. I shouldn’t complain.

She is practicing on a dark field in PALM SPRINGS! There is no ice, no biting wind, no snow.) And those game(s) on Saturday. (Where you must wear sunscreen, have plenty of water and need sun-protective headwear.)

However, when you add that in with Glowie’s ballet, each girl's piano lessons, saxophone lessons, after school activities, homework . . . well, it feels as though there is nothing left.

Like a leisurely Saturday.

But, no worries. Cuz it’s almost over.

Except Blondie’s team is undefeated. And now they are in tournament play.

And what parent has secretly wished for their kids team to lose . . . so it can be over.

But since Blondie has been working so hard on improving her game . . . she has been selected to be on the Select Soccer team.

Meaning this is not almost over. Oh no.

Why, we have only just begun.

#Dear #God #Help #Me

I'm in love with...

2011-01-30T16:56:00.000-08:00

@AndyCohen!

Because if you hadn't guess by my Tweets, I am a BIG Real Housewives fan. By “big” I mean, not only a full-figured girl, I don’ t miss an episode. Of ANY of them. And I’m not choosy. DC? Jersey? NY? Orange County? Atlanta? Beverly Hills?

If there’s a new season of Housewives running, I’m watching.

I’m also watching “Watch What Happens Live” with Andy Cohen. At first I was watching cuz I couldn’t get enough dirt on these chicks, but gradually, over time, I have developed a little middle age crush on Mr. Cohen.

Okay, I think he is totally HOT!

Love his cute body, his shy ways and the way he has learned to “go for it”. Oh, and he squints those cute crossed eyes when he’s reading off of his blue cards. Dear God,

I love that in a man! (It makes me feel less alone.)

And could this guy know any more about extensions, weaves, injectables, and rhinestone false eyelashes? And still maintain his Manly Man ways about him?

So Cooper Anderson. Move over. There’s a martini swilling, lip smacking, bitter mother ready to claw her way (or body slam) you to get me one of those Andy Sweet Kisses!

My Mazel of the Week? Andy Cohen. Doing just about anything.

Kisses!

But back to my obsession.

#1. Kelsey leaving Camille. When I first heard? I thought: YOU BASTARD! What a shit! (Really? A 29 year old blonde?) That poor, poor Camille. I totally felt for her.

#2. Three episodes later . . . Kelsey? Why didn’t you call me? I would have helped you pack!!! I would have rented the U-haul!!!

#3. I have a total girl crush on Bethany. I love a “call it as I see it” chick. I love you Bethany!!!

#4. Where’s the Real Housewives of Palm Springs? Cuz I could so represent the Fat Chick/Fat Chic! I’m calling Pheadra now to find out who deals, I mean supplies her with those Rhinestone Eyelashes!!!

#5. Andy – call me!

Obituaries and Shoes. A Story of My Life . . .

2011-01-16T16:20:00.000-08:00

Wow, it is just now hitting me, that this is the worst part about being a Mommy. (As you know, I think there’s a litany of things that suck about being a Mommy. So, if I say it’s going to be the “worst”, go with God – it’s gonna be bad!)

Now, fabulous girls in your 20’s or 30’s, you may not relate to this, but anyone who gets winded walking the kids to school or orders Spanx in bulk is probably going to know just what I am talking about. I am at THAT middle age; middle age where I am obsessed with death.

Five years ago, I wondered why they even ran those Obituaries in the paper. Really, they could have used that space for another column of Dear Abby, or Ask Carolyn. You know, stuff that is actually interesting and relevant to my life.

Then a few years ago my eyes started to linger. These seem like interesting little narratives of people’s lives. Now? I read them compulsively.

If someone has passed away, you know from untimely accident and they are younger than I am, I feel that I’ve been given a gift: “I have gotten three more years than that Poor Sap.”

But this obsession with death, and the concern with exactly how much longer I will live, kinda affects my parenting.

Cuz it isn’t quite hard enough to parent, now I look at my kids everyday and wonder “Will I see them through to college?” Can I live until they have incorporated all the life lessons that Mommy has to give?

And then the question comes into play, what if I live a long life? How much therapy will they need if I live 30 more years? And do I have to pay for that therapy? College and therapy? Will this affect my future shoe budget? And at my age, can I expect to even need cute shoes much longer?

I know this is supposed to make me treasure all the moments we have together.

I do have a consciousness about remembering we’re in a golden moment in a golden period of our lives.

But that doesn’t mean I enjoy one fucking minute of The Witching Hour. (You wanna know about homework, juggling jazz, ballet and soccer check out. . . http://thedeeview.blogspot.com/2010/01/witching-hour_27.html

Or the “She’s looking at me” “Make her stop looking at me!” Or the hysterical weeping over not getting their way every minute of every day of their lives.

I just want that weeping to be about stupid shit. Like an owie on their finger or the fact that we were out of hot dogs or the WII game is cheating. #again

Well, maybe I should stop reading the Obituaries. Hell no. Never gonna happen.

But I am probably going to buy some more shoes. Cute shoes. Cuz I’m an eternal optimist.

I have an unnatural relationship with my couch

2011-01-10T07:39:00.000-08:00

So when we got our little trailer in the woods, we needed a couch. I took great pride in finding one at a local consignment store. It looked really good: clean, neutral color, kinda puffy. Cool.

Look Honey – only $250 dollars for a SLEEPAWAY sofa! How great is that?

Now can you make it fit in your truck and haul it up to the mountains?

Never in my life have I been so tortured in a sitting position.

This couch hated us. It would literally push its cushions and our asses to the floor.

Or you would start out sitting, but find yourself slumped in a very odd position, only your neck keeping you “upright”.

So, then you would try lying down. Uh. Well, only if you can “rest” with one foot on the floor.

We tried everything. Propping up the front legs, removing some of the stuffing, velcroing the cushions.

This “bargain” was sheer torture.

So we went to Macy’s furniture department during a sale.

And found a couch. A big, beautiful, comfy couch.

But due to our recent “couch misstep” I was leary. So we left.

And went back with our Kindles and iPhones, explaining to the saleslady that we would be needing some “time” with the couch before we could make a decision.

We bought the couch.

The only problem now?

I love this couch so much, my husband has to get up in the middle of the night (while I’m sleeping IN THE BED) to lie on it.

My children aren’t allowed on it, while I’m on it. It turns out, I’m on it a LOT. (Hey they’re kids – they can sit in chairs or the window seat!)

The best part? It’s leather, meaning just a quick wipe with a cloth and Voila! Mommy’s drool stains are gone!

I love my couch.

"Decisive"

2011-01-03T15:59:00.000-08:00

well, uh . . .

Every year, my girlfriend Dorothy @EcoOrganizer, says to pick your word for the upcoming year.

Last year my word was “Out There”. (Okay, two words for me. I’m rebellious like that.) Which was really fun. Until it wasn’t. Then my word(s) were “Never Mind”.

But “Out There” did become a defining value by which to make choices. I went to Bloggy Boot Camp and tried to buy everyone off with gifts. Gifts of cheetos and vodka. Really, is there a better way to garner affection? That was a scary, yet successful way to experience being “out there”.

I was definitely more “out there” in my business and the way I made decisions, as well as in my volunteer work with the school Site Councils.

But I did struggle last year. I struggled with being overwhelmed a lot. As a business chick, as a mom who figures I can never get this shit right, as a volunteer (trying to figure out when my opinion mattered and when it didn’t’) and in my creative pursuits (writing a book, my mosaic artwork, working on my one woman show).

So I decided this year my word would be “Decisive”.

We even wrote each of our words on a Christmas ornament (hey, the box of ornaments was half off at Rite Aid). Blondie wrote: “Fun”. Glowie wrote: “Family”. Taxes007 wrote: “Patience”. (Read into that whatever you would like!).

I wrote: “Decisive”.

And then I panicked. Seriously.

I was afraid that wasn’t the best word to define my life for a whole year.

So I also wrote: Health, Strength (working the Pilates thing), published author, fun (I’m a rather driven and uptight person when not under the influence. And even then . . .) and adventure (cuz I’m a little agoraphobic about things like travel or going places too far from my house.)

So there goes everyone’s ornament up on the tree. Each person’s name, the year and their word. My ornament however looked like it had been hit by a group of crazy taggers.

But dammit. This decisive thing? I’m gonna make it work.

I hope.

Happy New Year.

And tell me your word!

X-mas 2010 Our Best Ever!!!!

2010-12-19T16:23:00.000-08:00

Why?, you might ask. Three words: Sleep Away Camp. It wasn’t easy finding a camp that would take a 7 year old. But I’m good at persevering when my own sanity is at stake.

The girls went to Camp in our local mountains where they played Paintball, took ballet, did archery, drove quads, went swimming, had midnight dessert parties, Glowie performed a ballet duet and Blondie, our quiet kid, won Camper of the Week.

While the girls were in Camp, Mommy and Daddy went to Napping Camp. No awards were given and we were not asked to demonstrate what we’d learned for anyone else. It was awesome. The goal next year? Two weeks of Napping Sleep Away Camp.

Normal things happened. And we celebrate normalcy these days:

Blondie graduated from the 5th grade, with as many honors as a 10 year old can carry out of a School Cafeteria. They even had a 5th grade dance, which was really just the same School Cafeteria filled with over-excited 10 year olds screaming and running around like lunatics. Oh, just like our house at 3 p.m. Including Mommy screaming at the aforementioned 10 year olds.

We are nothing if not creatures of habit: Ballet and Jazz for Glowie (and the two annual performances that she lives for); Soccer for Blondie (and the practices and games that suck a family dry). Piano for both of them (lessons given here in the house, making this the sanest thing we do).

This year Blondie added Saxophone to her repertoire, but she’s pretty sure if she could just play the trumpet her life would be fulfilled and complete.

This was our fourth summer here in Palm Springs. I have come to a startling conclusion. Summer in Palm Springs sucks.

We were so fortunate to have our little trailer in the woods. We went up and down the hill on a regular basis while holding things together at the office, and time spent this summer up in the cool mountains was the best and most amazing experience of our lives.

Here’s what we’ve discovered we love about Palm Springs: Fall and winter. It is gorgeous. So we have celebrated the beauty by taking up hiking. Now by “hiking” I mean we go up a trail for 20 or 30 minutes, then we turn around and come down (in some cases, scoot down.) But who knew there were waterfalls just a couple of miles from our house? It’s heaven. (Though hard on the joints. Greg’s and mine. Not Blondie's or Glowie’s.)

Blondie loves Middle School. It feels so independent. I love it too. Especially the part where I can check her grades from the comfort of my own computer, any time I’d like. (Independence only goes so far when you are in the 6th grade.) Good grades, good friends, Band and a longing for a cell phone. She’s a normal 11 year old. But I think she is extraordinary. She has a sweet heart, she is so hard working and disciplined. She is our gentle soul, and in this family, we need her grounding!

Glowie loves 2nd grade. What’s great about Glowie? She loves everything. If there is a morning when Glowie doesn’t wake up happy, loving, joyous and excited? I know that she has the flu. She loves her teacher, her dogs, her friends and well . . . EVERYTHING!

Both my daughters have been our teachers. Glowie reminds me to quit sweating the small stuff and remember the joy. Blondie teaches me about deep, quiet abiding love.
We are blessed.

Happy New Year.

The Magic Dress

2010-12-17T11:19:00.001-08:00

So, a long time ago when my kids were really young, I had a rather interesting view of fashion. I loved the brand Fresh Produce and Jamz. You know, I was trying to live some sort of beach lifestyle, even though I lived in the desert.

Though I still love my yoga pants, back then? Yoga pants were what I wore to parties or fancy dinners, just with a nicer top.

You know, something silk, box cut, enormous, with a (now) kinda embarrassing print on it.

Hey, there were no Stacie and Clinton back then. And on my own? Scary bad.

So anyhow, I had this dress I had ordered through a catalogue. A “swing” dress if you will, T-shirt cotton, with some extremely bold fish graphics. I felt so free and breezy in this dress. You know, like the model who is laughing, face to the camera, and she skips, her back leg bent up in the air with joy? That was me. In my mind.

I wore it when our friends Daisy and Dennis would come to dinner. I wore it to run errands around town, I took in on vacation. Flip flops, high heels, leggings. It was the go-to dress.

And it also had magical qualities.

Cuz one day I was hiring a babysitter for my oldest daughter, who was 1 year old at the time. So I put an ad in the local paper. And a young girl came for an interview. She was 17, graduating from High School. She was planning to attend the local Community College and study nursing.

There was something about this girl I truly loved. She was smart, you could see that right away. She was loving, but not over the top.

She also really needed a job and the money.

When I asked her about tidying up after herself and the baby, she told me her Mama ran a tight ship and she wouldn’t think of NOT picking up.

And she knew how to clean. Again, her Mama had rules and requirements.

I asked her to start . . . right that minute. So out to the swingset she went, with little toddling Blondie.

And while I watched them through the kitchen window, my hands in the pockets of my Magical Swing Dress, I felt peace. Not just the kind of peace you get when someone ELSE is entertaining your toddler, but peace like you just met “the one”.

Now did she turn out to be the “one”? Well. No. And yes.

Cuz a couple weeks later she informed me that she wasn’t really going to the Community College. She has a full scholarship to a prestigious women’s college back east. But she was afraid if she told me the truth, I wouldn’t hire her. And she was right.

But she became “the one” in so many different ways. She spent all her summers and breaks home with us. She and her family were there for us when Glowie was born, and needed major surgery. She went on vacations with us.

She was a passionate, beautiful, bright young woman and she loved my daughters and they loved her. Whatever I could “snag” of this sweet girl… well, we couldn’t get enough.

Sara has been in our lives for 10 years. We have watched her graduate college, get married, get a master’s degree, work on her PhD. And now she is pregnant.

And you know what a pregnant woman needs? A really comfortable swing dress. With bright colors. And Magic Powers.

Maybe some day she will find her own Sara. And then her life will never be the same. Thank Goodness.

But when she is interviewing? Have I got the outfit for her!

P.S. I love you Sara.

24 hours in Glowie’s Life. Help me!

2010-12-12T16:33:00.000-08:00

So I’m waiting to pick up my Blondie, my older daughter, at Middle School, when my phone rings.

“Oh Shit,” I say to the Mom I’m talking to, “that’s the elementary school. This is NEVER good!”

I’m waiting to hear: “Blah, blah, blah . . . Fell off the monkey bars again.” OR: “Blah, blah, blah . . . projectile vomiting.”

No.

What I hear is the principal, identifying himself all formal-like saying: I have Glowie here in the office with me.

Uh. Okay. Is it a skinned knee or the next version of the swine flu? And why is the principal calling me?

Glowie is being “counseled” today about the choices she made on the playground. A little boy wouldn’t stop knocking down her sand castles. (Hey, my kids don’t get to the beach much. #never) So she stood up, all 34 pounds of her, and kicked the crap out of some kid who double outweighed her. Of course then the little boy turned around and shook her silly.

So they both got called in. Parents were called. Recesses were missed.

I apologized and thanked him. I also told him we would be discussing this at home and there would be some kind of consequence or follow up. Cuz that’s the right thing, right?

So I have a conversation with her about choices. What could she have done? Well, she asked him to stop and he did it again. She told the playground lady, who told him to stop, but then he went back and did it again.

“I just wanted him to stop Mommy.”

Yeah, I got it kid. And I want to be thin. Sometimes you gotta work with the circumstances you’ve got. Sometimes, my Little Glowie: You need to walk away.

So she has to write a letter to the principal and to the little boy, apologizing for making the choice that she did make.

In the privacy of my bedroom? There was a small victory dance being done. Cuz I LOVE a kid that solves problems and stands up for herself.

But of course, kicking is wrong. #stilldancing

Btw, the next morning? Glowie was receiving an award for being the Author of the Month. She wrote a five page essay about our family values. And she didn’t mention the word “martini” once.

Gold Star Baby! Gold Star.

Fuck You Minimum Days!

2010-12-05T16:46:00.000-08:00

Can we talk about Minimum Days and how they are destroying my life?

(Well, not destroying my life, but certainly putting a crimp in my daily Mojo.)

Really, how many of these things do we need to have?

When will I write my blog for God’s Sake?

And also, Dear School District – is there some fucking reason why you can’t put the Middle school and the Elementary schools on the same MINIMUM DAY SCHEDULE?

Cuz really, there is nothing I love more than getting my older daughter out the door and to school at 7:20, then home to get the little one ready and out the door at 8:15, come back home, go to work, THEN PICK UP THE MIDDLE SCHOOLER AT 11:30?

Are you flipping trying to KILL THE PARENTS?

Where’s my Minimum Day Mrs. Superintendent??? Where’s my MOMMY IN SERVICE DAY?

I could use some group support and training. (Or a spa day. Just sayin’.)

Frankly, I’d like a school day that ended at 4:00 p.m. for both schools.

(Really, that is a lie. I really want a school that ends at 5:00 p.m.)

(Still lying. 6:00 p.m. would be even better. But I don’t want to supervise homework when they get home.)

I don’t know whether to put a “Potty Mouth” alert at the beginning of this blog, or a “Over-Use of Capital Letters” alert.

Hey. I’ve got feelings.

I’d share more with you, but I have to pick my kid up. AT 11:30!!!

Dear Viagra People,

2010-11-28T16:35:00.000-08:00

First, I want to say: Thank you so much. I love how much you care.

And being important and cared about really matters to me.

And, there is nothing I love more than an intimate relationship with a friend, where we get down and dirty and talk about the REAL stuff: you know, sex; the real truth about menopause; how desperately I want to get on the Biggest Loser so I can be away from my family for three months; how my husband is sometimes just the teeny, weeniest bit of a moron; and then again, more stuff about sex.

And I love a friend that reaches out and really turns her caring into ACTION.

So thanks for all those emails. (I have become phone phobic since the inception of Twitter, etc.)

And thanks for caring about me and my, ahem, special relationship with my husband.

But can I just tell you something? We may be old, we may be fat (okay, I’M the fat one, but we are both OLD DAMMIT), we may be tired, overworked and cash poor, but THAT part? Uh, it still works. And by works? I mean we have still got a major THING going on!

Sometimes I feel guilty for how much I love and adore my husband. And how hot I am for him after all these years. (Okay, NOT every day or anything!!! Let’s not get ridiculous here.) And yeah, I no longer ride him like a bucking bronco (okay, I was never really “bucking”, but hey, I used to be on top).

So Viagra Drug Companies? We’re good. Well, for today.

So maybe keep those emails coming. After all, we are only getting older . . .

Thanksgiving Dinner

2010-11-21T16:34:00.000-08:00

Yeah, that slaving over the turkey, getting up early, two days of prep, running out for last minute ingredients on Thanksgiving morning?

I’ve watched people do that my whole life.

Me? I set a nice table.

My husband used to drive me nuts, poring over the Thanksgiving editions of Bon Appetit and Gourmet magazines.

“Honey, what do you think about using chorizo and fennel in the stuffing?”

“Uh, is that what they use is Mrs. Cubisson’s? Cuz that’s my favorite, just like my mom used to make.”

(Hey, I wasn’t cooking, so chorizo and fennel it was.)

Four years ago, when we moved here to Palm Springs, my husband pulled out all the stops. Three days of prep and cooking, a beautiful feast for my in-laws and our best friends Daisy and Dennis. We sat outside, under a gorgeous sky, with a fire glowing in the back yard fire pit drinking VERY decadent Pumpkin Tinis. (See the recipe below . . .)

And then, everyone went home. Three days of work, a glowing immaculate house, for a 30 minute meal and a 2 hour visit.

And don’t get me wrong. It was DELICIOUS! But our feet hurt for days (yes, I stood around and watched – MY feet hurt too!). We were exhausted.

The next year we got take out from Jensen’s, the fancy local Grocery Store. Last year we went to a restaurant. This year? Anyone heard of Dream Dinners? Cuz we’ve already placed our order.

And cuz we are using paper plates? I will actually have time to be Thankful. (Thankful that my feet don’t hurt!)

#yummy #realpumpkinfilling #happythanksgiving

Pumpkin Martini Recipe

2 oz Vanilla Vodka
2 oz Crème de Cacao
1 tsp Pumpkin Spice (yes, from a can!)
¼ cup Half and Half or Whipping Cream (!)
Shake in a Martini Shaker filled with ice. I swear to God – it’s better than you think!!!

I Overparent. Big Picture Parenting Part 3

2010-11-14T16:13:00.000-08:00

I overparent.

I know I have a tendency to be a helicopter mom. One of those moms who hovers over their kids making sure everyone is doing everything to help them have their best life. (Hey, I’m sorry, I watch too much Oprah.)

But today, I hit my limit.

Cuz all I do is tell my kids what to do. And all they do is ignore me. So I talk some more. And get ignored some more. Then I get pissed that they aren’t listening to me. Instead of just shutting up.

So this morning I got the message loud and clear:

We aren’t going to listen to you.
We aren’t going to find our library books.
We aren’t going to remember our lunch.
We aren’t going to turn in the library books that we did find, cuz we don’t really give a shit about the fines, even if you make us pay them. (Hey, it’s not like we sacrifice food and shelter to pay that fine.)

We are going to put our clean clothes in the hamper, cuz it is easier than opening two drawers and putting them away.

Okay Kids – Thanks for speaking so loud with your actions. I’ve got it.

Let me be clear:

I am not hosting that pool party that we’d talked about with that lovely family with the three kids, so you both have playmates for the night.

Which is great, cuz now I don’t have to pick up the house or make pigs in a blanket.

Oh, and Goodie – I don’t have to swiffer up the spilled juice off the floor the next morning.

I am not calling the hair salon to get you an appointment to get a haircut before school starts.

I am not meeting with the principal about how to make your transition to Middle School better. Work it out on your own.

And you know what? I just might forget to pick you up this afternoon. Why don’t you ask me 100 times? And I’ll ignore you 100 times. Cuz that seems to be the way the dynamic works in this family.

Okay, I will pick you up. But not at 3:00. Why don’t you just sit there in the 100 degree heat and wait a bit. See what it is like to come out of that double gate and not have Mommy standing right there, ready to give you a big hug and see how your day at went.

Cuz I hear you. This is NOT a two way street. We are NOT a team. It is all Mommy, all the time.

So God and Twitter help me! This week, you are on your own. Mommy is on strike.

Big Picture Parenting. I need a drink.

Uh . . . Face waxing is dangerous

2010-11-07T16:47:00.000-08:00

So I had a weird week. By “weird” I mean I think I’m falling apart.

I went and got my face waxed. Now a year ago I would have asked WHY?

But now that I’m 51 and on hormones, uh, it appears there is a dramatic uptick in the growth of facial hair.

So the hot flashes are contained, but there is a wooly mammoth on my flipping face.

Also, I started using Retin A this year. Oooo, it makes my skin look lovely. (Maybe I just think it’s lovely cuz I can’t really see it through all that fur. Well, that and my eyes are shot too.)

It also makes the skin kinda thin. So I stop using it 5 days before my waxing.

Turns out, that wasn’t quite enough. Cuz when she waxed my face, my skin came off with the wax. Well, parts of the skin.

So I have scabs all over the lower part of my face. Hmmm.

Then I go to the knee doctor cuz since I’ve been trying to exercise more, I hurt my knee.

Torn meniscus. OhhhKayyy.

Then on Friday morning, I wake up with an eye infection. How do I know it is an eye infection? Cuz I went to the doctor. With my scabby face and yes, I was limping.

So here I am in my quest for fitness and beauty:

Blotchy face. Limpy/Gimpy. Red swollen eye.

Yeah – I rock.

And I need a veil. #helpme

Palm Springs Pride Parade – A Love Letter

2010-10-31T22:28:00.000-07:00

What do I love about a party? Besides me in Party Garb?

Well, there’s the Balloons and the Bar (by Bar I’m referring, of course, to the Omelet Bar!)

There are the People I Love and the People Who Love Me. Then there’s the People Who Don’t Know They Love Me YET!

And a photographer – on my payroll! (Dude - I had better not see that double chin, or that double tummy.)

I get to have a Drag Queen. When is THAT ever a bad thing?

Our Party for the Palm Springs Pride Parade is the melding of my love for my over-the-top false eyelashes and Bloody Marys.

(Hey, if you are a Mimosa kinda of Girl . . . or Guy . . . or Guy-Dressed-As-A-Girl . . . or vice versa? Have at it. I like my morning cocktails SALTY!)

And Dear God: There is unlimited bacon.

And my children love the Budweiser Clydesdales and the Dykes on Bykes.

Of course this event is totally about getting clients, marketing our business and outreach.

But I get to wear false eyelashes. Over-the-top ones.

Yes, it’s all in a day’s work. #Accounting #PalmSpringsStyle

Halloween. Wait. What?!?

2010-10-24T16:34:00.000-07:00

Halloween – Wait, What???

Halloween checklist:

Order costumes.

Wait, don’t order costumes until I find a discount coupon.

Wait, Glowie has changed her mind 10 times. What flipping costume DO I order?
(For those of you who creatively make your own costumes at home? I honor you, and secretly resent you.)

Think about actually taking them to one of those Halloween stores.

Nah, look for the online coupon.

Order cupcakes for the Classroom party. (I order them from Albertsons. What? Some people actually BAKE the cupcakes?)

Wait, what about my costume? Nothing in the garage “old costume” bins fit anymore. (Thank you Menopause…your gifts just keep on coming.) Wait, I can still fit into the Mrs. Potts costume. Oh, wait, with the hot flashes THAT is not going to work.

Enter “Plus Size Costume” into my search engine.

Go to Costco and buy sunscreen. Cuz Halloween in Palm Springs is like nothing you’ve ever experienced. (By “never experienced” I do mean: Hot as Hell.)

While I’m there, get the Halloween candy. Try to get things I hate (sweet tarts) so I don’t inhale it all before the actual Trick or Treaters arrive at the door.

(Sorry Kids, Mommy is menopausal, too fat for her old costumes, too hot to wear Mrs. Potts and as it turns out? Very, very hungry.)

Now that I have kids at two different schools, how will I be in two places at once? Well, the older ones, they probably aren’t doing school parties.

Whatever costume I order, I have to be able to wear it with tennis shoes, cuz I always help with the Costume Parade.

Camera. Check.
Video Camera. Check.
Safety pins. Check.
Valium. Check.

Wait. WHAT???

HALLOWEEN IS ON A SUNDAY????????????????????????????

I think I hear angels singing . . .Thank you, Sweet Jesus. No school. No parade. No cupcakes. No uber-sweating.

Just trick or treating. AT NIGHT. (No sunscreen!!!)

Hello Mrs. Potts.

You know you are old when . . .

2010-10-17T16:05:00.000-07:00

So my husband and I were having a spa day. You know, a romantic, amazing day, where we say: we should do this more often.

You know what that looks like: We‘ve done this two or three times in the last 15 years.

But no matter.

Now, you know you are old when you are in the ladies’ facilities and it seems like a good idea, while there is no one there, to take a delicious steam.

So I go into the steam room. There’s a light switch but I decide not to turn it on. I’m going to luxuriate in the shadowy darkness and just let all the poisons (and fat – right?) melt out of my body.

I’m going to be a lean, mean, fighting machine after this. I lay down on the towel on the little bench, naked . . . sort of letting it all “hang out”. (Dear God – how literally accurate that term is for me now.)

As I’m laying there I think: What if I have a stroke or a heart attack? I’m all alone. The light is off. Even if someone poked their head in, it might look like I was “resting”.

I could be laying there with a high blood pressure induced aneurism and NO ONE WOULD KNOW!

So this is what it is like to be 50. (All right, fuck me, 51.)

I left the steam room. But it’s okay. We’ll be back. In about 5 years. Maybe in the interim I should interview for a “Steam Buddy”.

Those f-ing boys.

2010-10-10T16:32:00.000-07:00

My 10 yo daughter, Blondie, is such a sweet kid. She was so shy when she was younger. Take that shyness and add to it she is the Big Sis of a little one who has had some serious health problems and she was a little slow to bloom.

(Not that her ship has sailed at age 10.)

But our little Blondie started to explode last year in 4th Grade. All of a sudden she is shouting out answers in class, bringing home extra science books to read (hey, let’s be clear, I still HATE Science Projects) and becoming some sort of an amazing Math Whiz.

So we are proud. And she works hard – this isn’t a freebie for her. Homework, discipline, really engaging teacher …

Then we go to Parent Teacher Conference (where mercifully, the chairs are normal sized) and find out, that though she is doing really well, the teacher feels she isn’t working up to her potential.

After a few hours at home, finally the crying comes. (And it comes so much more often now that she is 10 – I’m dying here.) Turns out the “popular” boys (I prefer to call them the “asshole” boys, but that’s just me) are degrading her and calling her show off.

If anyone tells on these boys, they call you a snitch. She is terrified of being labeled as such. My husband and I, not so much.

I wanted to drive my helicopter onto the school yard and cut off their heads. My husband, who is the calmer, wanted to have them kicked out of the school district and make sure they never get into an Ivy League School.

The 10 yo? She just dumbed herself down.

Calmer heads prevailed. At least the martinis helped.

There are always going to be some fucking boys telling my girl she is too smart. So Ya! One more thing to parent around. I’ll tell you how it goes. (Stay tuned, for the love of God.)

I'm a Kayak girl. Well, not really. HELP!!!

2010-10-03T16:04:00.000-07:00

My husband is my valet. My kayak valet

We had big dreams of buying a boat this year, those took a dive along with the value of our home and the ever escalating rate of our credit cards. (Damn you Citibank-but that’s a separate blog.)

But after bitterly watching others head out for evening cruises, music blaring, ice chests overflowing with beer, the kids prancing in delight, dogs taking the position in the bow (that is the front of the boat right?) like something out of Titanic . . . well, we couldn’t take it anymore.

So we started researching Kayaks. Cuz we were going to get on that flipping lake somehow, dammit.

After dealing with some really odd Craigslist people, many phone calls, more research, deals were negotiated.

(Hey, we negotiate deals for a business, but nothing got more of my attention than these Kayak buying plans. Did the price include paddles, how about throwing in the life jackets, is that dog of yours available?)

And then we had it. We brought home our first of two kayaks. Hearts hammering, palms sweaty, it was like falling in love all over again.

Until it was time to actually “get in”.

And btw, once you are in? The kayaking part? A lot of fucking work I tell you.

But back to the getting in.

So every time we go kayaking I require my manservant to help me. By “manservant” of course, I mean my husband.

Because there is the packing up: the vests, the paddles, the water bottles, the towels, the SEATS! (And I could write a whole separate blog about my new “kayaking” wardrobe, complete with crocs, which we refer to now as our “kayak” shoes.)

Then there is the several block haul to the lake.

And then the real fun begins. The dock is old and seriously splintery. (By seriously, I mean there is a visit to Urgent Care in your future. )

There is the squatting down and unlocking, then untethering the two kayaks. Then tethering back the one that isn’t going on this trip.

There is the putting in the seats.

I’m telling you, from the time I said: “Can you help me get the kayak in the water?” an hour has now passed.

Now there is the getting in part. I’m sure I’ve told you, but I have terrible joints. It’s sort of a congential gift from God – back surgeries, titanium spine, hip replacement, torn knee ligament . . . so the bending down and getting in? Ya, it’s like something out of Laurel and Hardy. Not that I’m old enough to know who they are. (Shit.)

So getting from the dock, down into the kayak seat in the water? It seems impossible.

So I turn around three times like a dog before she lies down.

I panic a little bit.

The whole while my ManServant is holding the kayak next to the dock, trying not to snap at me. (Cuz that could put his career as my ManServant in jeopardy, for God’s sake.)

Then I sit on the towel on the dock (with help – ground sitting is not really easy for me) and I try to slide (I believe “plop” is the better word) into the kayak.

But I’m a big girl and I go with FORCE. So my husband … uh, manservant is stretched out across the dock (no towel for him – he’s manly) trying to hold the kayak even so I don’t capsize before I have even begun.

As the kayak fills with water, covering my specially clad ass (I wear “swim shorts” from the Solar Protection Clothing Store), I grab the paddle he is handing me, and off I go.

My kayak valet, of course, sits on the dock until I return.

Cuz you don’t think I can get out of that thing by myself do you?

Thanks James. I mean “Honey”.

Power of the Tooth Fairy

2010-09-26T16:15:00.000-07:00

I recently discovered the POWER of the TOOTH FAIRY in my youngest daughter's life. She has lost three teeth so far . . . and as time has progressed, you may notice that the Tooth Fairy is becoming just a LITTLE BIT more stern and emboldened. I hear she drinks also . . .

Dear Glowie,

Congratulations on your FIRST TOOTH! You are officially a big girl now.

This is a very important and exciting time in your life – you are finally starting to grow up!

You are a very good girl. You have a lot of spirit and love in your heart. Keep being a good student, listen to your Mom and Dad and your teacher. You are also a very loving sister. Your whole family is so lucky to have you!

Brush your teeth every morning and every night!

Love,

The Tooth Fairy

May 25, 2010

Dear Glowie,

Congratulations on another tooth! You have lost two teeth in one month! Wow!

You have such a big heart and you bring joy to so many people, every day. I am so proud of you.

Be a good girl and follow the rules! Your Mommy and Daddy and your teacher, made these RULES because they LOVE you and they want you to DO WELL. I love you too!

Brush your teeth every morning and every night!

Love,

The Tooth Fairy

Dear Glowie!

Congratulations on losing another tooth. You are the most amazing little girl ever! You have such joy in your heart and such love for everyone. The world is a better place for having you.

Be a good girl and brush your teeth every morning and every night.

And don’t lie to your Mommy about brushing your teeth! I want you to be the healthiest and prettiest little girl in the world. Lying is NOT pretty! I love you.

The Tooth Fairy

As you can see the Tooth Fairy might need a Martini! #maybetwo

Back to School. Stalking is a skill set.

2010-09-19T16:32:00.000-07:00

When I first started getting into Twitter, I followed all the big Mommy Bloggers. Nothing would be more exciting than getting a response, or horning in on a conversation one of them was having.

Until one night.

I told one of the women, in a tweet, that I thought she was fabulous, and I was stalking her with orange stained Cheetos fingers.

I laughed at my cleverness, until I logged back on to see that a couple of these big Mommy Blogger chicks were having a conversation about how they hated people who used the word: “stalk”.

Gulp. One even posted a link about a teacher that was killed by a stalker. (They didn’t note in the article if Cheetos had played a role in the murder.)

Wow. I felt terrible. Cuz I hate that kinda stuff.

So I went on to post an apology.

But I couldn’t. Cuz these two women had BLOCKED me! Not for using the “f” word, or bitching about my kids, but cuz I had manifested my adoration for them by telling them I was Twitter Stalking them.

Fast forward one year.

I still don’t use the word stalk much. Cuz I’m scared of the backlash. (Though anything that has to do with Cheetos and Stalking does make me laugh.)

But I have discovered that my stalking skills are a real boost to being involved in my childrens’ lives.

When we moved to Palm Springs, I checked out the local school, by assuming a semi-squatting position in the bushes (bougainvillea of course, kinda thorny) so I could watch the families and their kids interact with each other on their way into the school.

I actually wept, when I saw a Daddy and his little girl ride bikes to school. Then the Dad rode off, carrying that little pink bike on his shoulder.

I saw the PTA ladies talking to everyone.

I wanted to be part of that group.

So I straightened my legs, and walked into the group. That welcomed us (and my petrified, at that time, 7 year old).

So we signed up.

Every day (sometimes from the bushes, sometimes from out in the open) I watched these mothers embrace my daughter, a brand new student coming into the school in the 3rd grade.

And our lives have never been the same.

In case you want to know who I am? Drop by the middle school this week. I’m the mother who walks in the odd crouching position, hovering outside the 6th grade classrooms.

I see many touching acts of kindness. By kids and adults. Every day.

Cuz stalking? Baby, it’s a skill set.

Saturday Mornings

2010-09-12T16:24:00.000-07:00

We had a summer filled with Saturday mornings.

Then School Started.

Which for some reason meant I got up at 4 or 5 am to get my work started, before I got my kids up at 6:15.

It seemed like a great plan for the first three days of school.

Ahem. Cuz any plan that includes Mommy only getting 5 or 6 hours of sleep a night is sure to be a good one right?

I must have been running on some kind of adrenaline high. Cuz I had business dinners, I was super efficient, and I even wore undergarments when delivering my daughters to their schools.

I signed up to be the school crossing guard one morning a week. Cuz in that weird, over-awake, sleep-deprived state, holding a giant metal stop sign while other mothers tried to run me down seemed like pure genius in the moment!

We are in the process of a couple of business deals. I’m negotiating, figuring out terms, supervising due diligence., developing strategy for each deal. Well, why don’t I just say it? I’m a goddess.

And I’m purging. No, not throwing up, cuz that would be wrong. I’m throwing out all the old school work from last year, going through old photos, last years handbooks, etc. Again, an odd manic state has overtaken me.

And then there was the schedule.

Get the girls up, so my older daughter can get to Middle School by 7:30. (Bell rings by 7:40 and she has to get her Sax to the band room first. We are pretty sure she is the next Clarence Clemons.)

Then bring the 2nd grader home. Feed her a second breakfast, then walk her to school at 8:00. After crossing guard duty, I get home at 9:00. And I’m sweaty. Cuz the first week of school, temps hit 115. (Don’t touch the monkey bars, no really, NOOOOOOO.)

Then, Blondie gets out of school at 1:50. ONE FIFTY. Dear God in Heaven. HELP ME!

So my work day now ends at 1:30.

Except for those two evening meetings. Which meant I didn’t get home until 9:00.

So the next morning I get up at 4 am to get started on my work.

6:00 am exercise classes . . .

By Friday? Flat on my face. Efficient? Not at all.

A smiling crossing guard? Uh, NO! (Really, you need to smoke, talk on the phone AND try and run me down, all at the same time. Now I know why the office lady complimented me on not hitting anyone with the Stop Sign.)

On Friday I got very little work done on our next potential acquisition. (By “very little” I do mean I moved the papers around on my desk. And evened up the corners of everything.)

During my exercise class I lay on the mat in the fetal position.

I did however buy a couple of items from Lane Bryant online.

I looked at Labs available for adoption.

And I did bathe. (Did I mention walking my kid to school when it was 90 degrees BEFORE 9 am?)

But the mania was gone and it was replaced by a heaviness in my limbs.

Saturday morning? Slept til 7:30. I’m a new woman. Ready to . . . crawl back in bed and watch some TV.

Back to school? I gotta come up with new plan. Carpooling anyone?

Back to School. Shit

2010-08-29T16:43:00.000-07:00

Back to School is this week. Usually each summer I am counting the days until school starts.

Hey, in Palm Springs, when it is 115 out, you can’t really say: “Kid’s! Stop it! Go outside and play.”

(And what? Don’t get on the swing set, cuz you’ll sustain 2nd degree burns?)

So usually, with clenched jaws and the help of a teenaged girl who can take them to the water park, we get through. Cuz it turns out, none of us do well with a lot of unstructured time.

But not this summer.

This summer we discovered the mountains and kayaking and lake swimming. (Can we talk for just a minute about that ooglie stuff that you have to walk through in the lake to start the actual swimming?)

There has been fishing (catch and release Baby – I don’t want those suckers in my house . . . even if my house is a trailer), reading, movie watching and crawdad catching.

And we finally discovered the magic of being able to say: “Enough! Go outside and play . . . in the creek!”

And on our last weekend at the lake? They met other kids (trying not to judge the other trailer park people here). Imagine, kids coming over and the four of them running off in a pack to the lake, to kayak in the cove and chatter incessantly amongst themselves.

Heaven. I read three magazines and didn’t brush my teeth that day. The liberty of it all.

Now? I don’t want summer to end. These gorgeous summer days without the routine of homework, reading tests (AR tests? Anyone else?), hurry home from school to get to piano/ballet/soccer/jazz/sax (fill in your own list of endless frickin’ activities here).

WTF? School is starting?

Shit.

Tiger Beat. I know it’s wrong

2010-08-22T16:44:00.000-07:00

My daughters have discovered magazines. In a big way.

During our first magazine shopping experience, I bought a Seventeen with Selena Gomez on the cover. Hey – she’s on the Disney channel. Why not?

OMG! When we got home and I saw the articles: Making out with my Boyfriend; Teen Pregnancy – I Kept My Baby; My Boyfriend hits me.

Oh Shit! Well, I just ripped out every inappropriate article. And handed my shocked daughters back a magazine that had about 20 bedraggled pages in it.

American Girl is just right for my little Glowie, but still, we wanted MAGAZINES. (It this the part where I tell you about my love of People and O Magazine? Will you think less of me if I add in that I read Newsweek too?)

So my older daughter wanted Car Magazines, National Geographic and Science. She’s a very sweet, serious kid.

Glowie however wanted anything with Justin Bieber on it. So I bought a Tiger Beat.

And that magazine was GOLD! GOLD I tell you! She read, QUIETLY for more than an hour. And she did this over and over again for days.

Then later I heard them fighting over it. The Tiger Beat. The magazine my older daughter sneered at. She’s no Justin Bieber fan she wanted me to know!

But locked in the quiet of their room together, THIS is the magazine they can’t get enough of!

And there are Tiger Beat knock offs. Who knew?

So if they do their chores, their homework, have a good attitude and pick up dog poop with a smile on their faces, they get magazines.

But all they really want is Tiger Beat. Sorry National Geographic. Sorry Discover.

Hello Justin.

Connected . . . Weird

2010-08-15T16:16:00.000-07:00

It is effing hot in Palm Springs in the summer. You think you understand, but unless it is blazing into the 110’s and above . . . uh, you don’t. And don’t tell me it’s a dry heat either. Cuz Baby, that is a load of crap when it is 123 degrees in the shade!

I now understand why the summer population drops to like 204 people. (But hey, you don’t need reservations to dine out!)

So we envision our “Vacation Getaway”: You know, where we unload the car, breathe in the mountain air, and take the kids and the dogs for a walk? Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Hey, the stock market had taken a dive, so I thought that we’d be able to sweep in and pick up a lovely mountain cabin for mere chump change. Baby, we are gonna be in like Flynn – I just KNOW it!

Turns out, I was the chump.

Oh yeah, you can pick a little something up. Of course it was a recently abandoned meth lab which needs “tender loving care” (i.e. calling the Haz Mat Team).

And did I mention the “Lake” thing? Turns out if you don’t buy a property with “Lake Rights” you can’t do shit in this place, except maybe stand somewhere and watch Other People boat, fish and swim. #longingly

So we gave up.

Until my husband read an ad in the local paper about a Mobile Home for sale.

“Uh, I’m not getting a Trailer DUDE!” (Cuz you know, I’m snotty like that.)

Then he read me the price. Which INCLUDES Lake Rights. And a dock.

What? Holy Cow! Mecca Baby – Kids, get your coats, we’re going for a drive!

Then we got there. The trailers were kinda close together, so I was worried about people hearing my constant yelling at my kids, you know, so they wouldn’t bother the neighbors.

Or, yelling at the flipping dogs to shut up. So we’d be the people with the loud kids and the barking dogs and the harridan that was always YELLING at everyone.

Shit, all I needed was a cigarette hanging out of one side of my mouth while I yelled. (I want you to know, I quit smoking cigarettes out of one side of my mouth DECADES ago!)

Then we find this one little trailer, all by itself, on a hill. And I had heart palpitations.

Cuz I could yell and my kids and my dogs and no one would call Social Services OR the SPCA.

But what really sold me? It had a little outside shower . . . I have some bizarre, unnatural love of bathing outdoors. Claustrophobia mixed with a healthy dose of exhibitionism and there you go. I was sold.

So we bought this little Trailer in the woods, bought a tempurpedic bed and lots of bright colored paint and carved out a little piece of nirvana.

And this weird thing has happened to us in this 700 square foot place. If you leave your shoes out, it creates a Level 5 Hoarding situation.

But oddly enough, we feel more connected as a family in this tiny little place.

We can hear each other breathe, uh . . ., all the time. We can hear the kids playing down in the creek. We take walks together.

There is no Wii, but we did get Satellite. (I didn’t say I was a Saint, did I?)

And there is fishing (May I just say: Thank God for the Kindle, cuz that fishing shit is BORING.)

There is something precious about being snowed in, and something magical about being out on the deck in the summer.

And when we go back to our big ricocheting lives in Palm Springs, we yearn for our time together in the mountains.

Weird, right?

I’m not bendy anymore . . . Not a sex story.

2010-08-08T16:07:00.000-07:00

So we bought a kayak.

We had this whole fantasy about buying a boat, but now that our house isn’t worth shit, but our payments are huge, the kayak seemed like the way to go.

But here’s the problem. I’m not bendy like I used to be.

Some of this is age, some of this is weight. (Hey – you try flitting around in heels carting around a couple of hundred pounds. There I said it.)

But most of this is my shitty bones and joints. Four back surgeries, a hip replacement, a major spinal fusion (uh, is there a minor spinal fusion?).

So this old girl can’t twist and turn. Shout yes. Twist and turn, not so much.

Now, the kayak. It would be the “getting in” and the “getting out” which is at issue. By “issue” I mean it is a near engineering impossibility. But I perservere. Cuz I’m an idiot like that.

There is screaming and weeping. And that is just from the guy watching me from the dock. So two big guys (one is my hunky husband) hold the kayak, cooing reassuring words at me (that would be the other guy, my husband had his jaw clenched) that it’s really stable and it won’t tip over.

After three near fatal attempts, I manage to land in and NOT dislocate my fake hip. SCORE!

A lovely evening kayak trip, enjoying the scenery and the fact that I am getting exercise SITTING DOWN! Whoo hoo!

Until it is time to get out of the kayak on another dock.

No extra set of hands and reassuring words. My husband needs to hold the kayak, so he’s not really available to help me.

Many attempts, I’m softly weeping, my husband is starting to get stern, cuz it is getting dark and I’m pretty sure I’m spending the flipping night in the kayak. Which btw, is no longer that comfortable. And don’t you think they could have told you that it fills with water so your ass is soaking wet?

I manage to slide my ass out of the kayak, with trembling arms across the splinter filled dock (no more will be said on THAT subject).

Even getting up off my back (yes, that is how I scooched across) is almost impossible cuz the dock is so narrow. So I’m standing there watching my husband get out.

And I watch, as in slow motion, the kayak moves away from the dock with his legs in the boat and his arms gripping the edge of the dock.

I’m transfixed (which is a nice way to say: I don’t move to offer an assist) as his ass ever so slowly descends into the lake and the kayak gently floats away.

I would have rushed to his aid, except I thought I was going to have a stroke myself. Why? Was I terrified for my dear husband? Well . . . uh, no. I couldn’t get any oxygen cuz I was laughing so hard.

”You know Honey, they say endorphins are good for you, right?”

Uh oh . . . I may have just peed my pants – just a little bit.

A Couple Hours in Glowie’s life. God Help Me.

2010-08-01T16:00:00.000-07:00

On the 4th of July we went to a party by the Lake. Little Glowie had some mixed feelings about swimming cuz she thought the lake/seaweed stuff might try to get her.

Perfectly understandable. So the TaxMan walks her to the dock, cuz she wants to jump in and swim to the beach. But she panics and can’t.

Then I take her, pretty sure the reason she didn’t go is cuz her dad pressured her. Nah, she won’t go for me either. But she does eventually go with some other kids. All 34 pounds of her 7 year old self.

Off the dock, into the lake, swimming (the dog paddle, cuz hey, she’s not putting her face IN THERE).

And then, she starts screaming. Just loud, scared, did I say loud? Screams.

So I say, in my meanest, hissingest Mommy voice that everyone can hear – Glowie – stop screaming. Look at me and swim. You can scream when you get to shore. (Hey, we could have jumped in any time, but this was going to be a win for her dammit. And I didn’t really want to jump in there with all that lake/seaweed stuff myself!)

A few more blood curdling screams and cries and the lake stuff touched her legs. But she kept her eyes on me and in she swam. And we had our joyous moment, celebrating her bravery, her willingness to push through the fear and really accomplish something.

Whoo Hoo! So while she is in the outside shower, and I am holding a privacy towel up and begging her to HURRY UP, I try tucking the towel into the shower thingie. And I knock a huge piece of dry, rotted wood down – ONTO THE TOP OF HER HEAD. So I’m holding up the broken piece of wood, while now standing in the shower myself, while holding my screaming kid up to me, telling her how sorry I am that that happened.

She is screaming the words: Goose Egg.

Yes Baby, you are going to have a goose egg. One helluva Goose Egg. Mommy is so sorry.

Clean, dried and happy.

During dinner, she silently gets up and stands right off to the side next to me. I am telling a story and gesticulating wildly (cuz how else do you tell a story?) and my elbow cracks into her face.

Oh Baby, Mommy is so sorry. Oh Honey you were so close and I didn’t see you. Hugs, hugs, hugs. But now I’m starting to get Glowie-worn-out.

Now we go to this little hill to watch the Fireworks over the lake. Glowie wants to play patty cake (do you know this one? Lemonade, Ice Tea, Coca Cola, Pepsi???). Our friend Dennis says: Come over here Glowie and teach me.

Lemonade. Clap. Iced Tea. Clap. Coca Cola. Oops.

That patty cake had a little more power behind it (hey, Dennis IS a former Marine – he really puts some muscle into Patty Cake, Dammit!) Chloe lost her balance and pitched over backwards, ready to plunge down the hill.

It is only a last minute grab to the bottom of her t-shirt that Dennis is able to avert disaster and keep Glowie upright. There is more screaming, more comforting, more holding.

Now she’s got a goose egg, a black eye, and a torn T-shirt.

So when I say my little one is a handful and people say, ah, she’s not that bad – she only weighs 34 pounds, how could she be a handful?

People … This was just three hours in the life of Glowie and her Mom. And people wonder why I have all these odd nervous twitches.

Hurry Up and Get in the Car!!! Oh Shit!

2010-07-25T16:50:00.000-07:00

So this morning I am running my kids to day camp. Which is a nice way to say that the local Parks and Rec will take your kids, for $50 a week and provide fun child care. You know, so you can work and hopefully make more than the $50 it costs to send them there.

I had an interview at my house in an hour, so the morning was filled with screams of “pick up your stuff” and “if you don’t remember your bathing suit – YOU WON’T BE SWIMMING!”. You know, cherished morning stuff.

As I pull the car out of the driveway I look down and see I forgot to change my shoes. I have on a lovely summer paisley print dress with pink and yellows. So lovely.

And my shoes? Enormous zebra print orthopedic shoes. Well, no matter I think. I have to get them to camp.

So I march them in, and hold myself high amongst the other mothers, some wearing cute kahki pants and delicate flip flops, one mother wearing a sex secretary skirt and 5 inch heels. But I hold myself like I look amazing. Cuz that’s how I try to roll in my orthopedic shoes.

I wonder why one of the mother’s that I was trying to chat up kept looking at my lovely and voluptuous bosom. Hmm . . .

Well, I get home and realize the rather “orthopedic” bra that I chose was completely exposed in the dress. Like the neckline of the dress was below the cups.

Old lady bra, ridiculous shoes. Lovely interview dress.

I plan to look amazing when I go back for the 3 pm pick up! And by amazing I mean my bra won’t show and I’m leaving the zebra comfy shoes at home.

Sleep away Camp. This one’s for Mommy

2010-07-18T14:36:00.001-07:00

My kids are 10, Blondie and 7, Glowie. I have been dying for a break from them for about . . . 10 years. We’ve had a weekend away here and there, but never a week.

A week without my children is the stuff my sweet dreams are made of!

So I call around and find a sleepaway camp that will take 7 year olds along with our 10 year old. And off we go, in May, to spend a day there, with the kids, to check it out.

Ah, a little piece of yummy in the mountains. A lake, ATV’s, paintball, riflery, archery, roller blading, water skiing, ropes courses, well the list goes on. And on – cuz it’s that kind of place. (I believe they refer to it as HEAVEN!)

On the day of the orientation Glowie asks me if we could just leave her right then. Forget the rest of first grade – she was READY for camp now!

So we cancel our family trip to San Diego and start the enrollment process. You know: the forms, the questions, the medical documentation. And I do all of it without a complaint. Cuz I’m getting a flipping week off!!!

The big day comes, the duffel bags are packed, the checklists have been checked and rechecked (no reason not to take my hyper-anal behavior at home and apply it to camp). Everyone is in the car.

For once, we let Glowie just chat and chat and chat about all the fun she’s going to have, the friends she’s going to make, how late she is going to stay up, and the freedom she is going to have. (You just keep talking Baby – cuz Mama is counting down to her freedom too!)

Blondie is quiet, cuz she is shy and this is harder for her.

In we sweep: there is music playing and dozens and dozens of excited and amazing camp counselors greeting us and ushering us through the process.

We walk them down to the lake, set them up for some lunch, meet some more kids and counselors.

Ah, Blondie really doesn’t want us to go. Glowie however flips her hand up at me and says: Mom – shoo! Goodbye.

I’ve waited 10 years for this day. As we walk back up to the car (everything is hills in this camp – get me out of here!) I keep sneaking peeks back. Glowie is holding court and Blondie is holding her head down.

I am sick. Sick I tell you, to leave my kids at camp.

We drive away while I weep (not so gently).

And I spend the rest of the afternoon of my “vacation” with an incredible sick feeling in my stomach. Is this what the empty nest feels like? Cuz I’m miserable. If I feel like this for the whole week, it is going to suck.

And I’m totally rethinking that whole “commitment” to college thing. Maybe they should just stay home.

Then I have the first of many, many naps. Then I have the first of (well) many, many cocktails.

Then I log onto the camp website and see the pictures of them, laughing, eyes sparkling, having so much fun.

And I feel better. Now THIS is the vacation I dreamed about.

Where is fucking Mary Poppins when you need her?

2010-07-11T22:51:00.000-07:00

Look, I’m old, I’m tired. I need a nanny. Cuz as you know, the parenting thing is way harder than I thought. Meaning, without help, I would be dead. Period.

I thought a nanny was going to fix everything. I was expecting sing-alongs and tea.

But what the hell? Who knew the goddamed nanny thing was going to be as much work as the kids? Where is the justice in that, I ask you?

Ever since Blondie was born, we’ve had a revolving door of Nannies, Baby.

How can it be that bad? Okay the first one was the most invasive person I have ever met. If Blondie (who at that time was really “Baldy”) ever started to drift off to sleep, she would wake her up. Like seriously. She needed the baby’s attention 24/7.

She would even call at night to see if we had fed the dog. Okay, we hadn’t yet, but not the point People, not the point.

We hired a lot of sweet (I’m talking honey- touched virgins) girls from the local Baptist College. That worked well until we swilled some booze or accidentally let a “fuck” or a “pussy” slip out. (You’d be amazed at how frequently those words do just tumble from our vodka coated lips.)

They came and they went in their ankle-length denim skirts and long straight hair. (I felt so at home when Big Love finally aired. Cuz I’d been living there Baby.)

Next through the revolving door, came the girl who stole my shoes. (Fucker!) Then there was the girl that was so involved planning her wedding that she forgot to take care of the kid. (Hey Babysitter Chick – you are supposed to be here, so I can ignore the kid.) There was the girl that we loved who never showed up again.

There was the English lady who used to call out in a shrill panic: “Girls, Girls please don’t bicker.” Ya, cuz THAT worked.

There was the older lady that had the most frightening smoker’s cough ever.

Now don’t get me wrong, we had some Sweet spots. There was Sara, who was 17 and a liar. No really, she lied. She told us she was going to go to the local Community College when she really had a full ride scholarship to Mount Holyoke. She was a beautiful young feminist who always believed I was the coolest person ever. I’m shallow in that a 17- year old can totally define my sense of self and well-being. (Hey, she’s 25 now, and still feeding my needy side!)

There was Tee, who hung in there with us for 4 years. She started out in black hoodies tied up over her face, making her a rather frightening presence at the elementary school. But hey, she poured love and salty/olive oil chicken into our gullets and spoiled the shit out of us. We love her sweet, unhoodie-covered face to this day.

But, the one that REALLY blew our minds, was Emily, who showed me the incredible wisdom of hiring someone 21 years of age who could run out and BUY US VODKA!

And now we have @PS_Nanny. I’d love to say something smartie pants about her, but I know she’s going to read this. And maybe even leave a comment if I work this just right.

Why did we hire her? One of the first things she ever said to me was: “You don’t scare me”. And given the fact that she declared this from her 6 ft tall height sorta scared ME. (In a hot, kinda way.)

I keep waiting for her to run through that revolving door onto the street. I try so hard not to throw myself to the ground and hold onto her leg when she walks out the door at night.

I tell my daughters that the Nanny isn’t here for them. The Nanny is here for me. Mama has needs. (Well, there is the whole “working” thing, but I try and keep that to a bare minimum.) Needs to eat, needs to never actually set foot on a soccer field for soccer practice, needs for special ballet tights which requires schlepping out to another zip code.

She’s the chick that doesn’t yell at them (cuz they get enough of that with me), makes sure everyone is eating healthy snacks (this may actually be a downside for me) and stands in my office with her arms folded if I don’t get in the shower in time to get to an appointment.

We are in our glory days right now. No one in our family needs a diaper. Not the kids, not me. (Though my Twitter Addiction may be driving a need to buy Depends. Nanny! Make a note.)

And the best part about @PS_Nanny is, that though she may not have an umbrella, she doesn’t mind running to the store for Vodka and Cheetos. #score #keeper

Art Show Baby!!!

2010-06-27T16:06:00.000-07:00

I’m famous. Well, at least I was in my own mind.

But now I have outside verification. My name appeared in our local paper!!!

As an ARTIST! #score

Now look, I’ve been in a mosaic art studio for, I don’t know, a couple of years. It’s become a religion, like sacramental blood in my veins. (Especially the part where we close studio and have wine on Friday nights. This ritual is actually called Vespers.) #awesome

At this point, everyone is getting ready for an Art Show at Mexican Restaurant.

And I’m having a breakdown. Cuz this is the time of year when the Mommy duties go way up and studio drops to Number 782 on my To Do list.

Oh, I want to be part of. And I eat at this fricking restaurant EVERY Monday night. How will I swallow the yummy food with all the bitter bile, as I dine amongst my colleagues truly awesome art pieces?

So I suck it up.

I have no ideas. And every else has taken the cool stuff. You know, like Margaritas and Tacos!

So I announce I’m going to do a Heart. (Our heart really does reside in this little place.) Oops. “Does not meet the theme of the show.” #dammit

Thank God, one of the artists abandoned her chili pepper piece. Hallelujah! A concept I can run with.

So I do Chili Peppers on a Heart. (Cuz I’m stubborn like that, when I’m not wallowing in bitterness.)

But I make it small. Like 9 inches. Cuz I have one week.

So I lock my kids in another room, allow them extraordinary access to Disney Channel and the Wii and I crank.

And I talk to myself. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just get it done. Or you will be LEFT OUT.”

The words LEFT OUT always invoke some kind of awful fear in me. But it is enough to keep me moving.

And you know, I am nothing without a village. @Pottery45Girl, Jennifer my teacher helped me saw the heart background; @JerryLStudio suggested I lay the chili peppers overlapping to create a heart within a heart, @SocialMosaics grouted it for me.

Then everybody from the studio took a whole night to hang all the pieces. (And don’t forget the doctor who prescribes my xanax. A very important member of my village.)

And clearly you have achieved the Big Time when the local paper not only writes about the show, but runs a picture of your piece! Check it out.

This makes me famous, right? #pleasepleaseplease

http://www.mydesert.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=20106170352

I'm Committed

2010-06-04T09:24:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up with a singular purpose. I commit to getting my To Do List done for the day.

First, however, I check Twitter. Then I check some more. Then I hope someone will respond to what I thought was a brilliant tweet, so I keep checking.

Then I think, wow, I really need to write a blog post. I’ll start that after I check Twitter again, cuz dammit, that Tweet was funny.

And now I need to tackle the To Do list. But I can’t actually find the list. I dig under three Cheetos bags, a dog leash, a Camp Trip Release form (shit, that was supposed to go out yesterday) and finally, triumphantly find the list. It has orange fingerprints on it and is much longer that I remember.

I really need to redo this. I should have columns sorting these tasks between high priority and low priority (and the column for the shit, that let’s be real, I am never going to fucking do), emails, calls, proposals etc.

Then I check Twitter again. And then I check to see if anyone posted a comment on my Blog. But I’m not posting a lot to my blog, cuz, uh, duh – I have a lot of things on my To Do List.

You know what. I feel tired. I’ll hit this hard -- tomorrow. I’ll just crank through it all then. That’s the ticket. I’ll write a blog, redo the list, work on the tasks. Tomorrow is the day. The Golden Day. I’ll get up early.

Cuz now I need to check Twitter. Cuz dammit, that Tweet was Golden!

Driving In The Fog

2010-06-04T09:21:00.000-07:00

So we decided to head up to the mountains over the three-day weekend. We left Palm Springs on a Thursday night. No big deal, right?

Sunny skies, kinda warm out, beautiful glow of the early evening, on the horizon we can see some clouds, kinda pretty. No big deal, right?

As we get up onto the curvy mountain road we see the dense clouds above us. We’ve made this drive through a bit of fog before (in the bright morning hours, but hey?). No big deal, right?

Then we hit the fog. Solid, intense, about 8 inches of visibility. And it is pitch-fucking- black. Sheer mountain cliff on one side, oncoming traffic on the other. Turns out it may be a big fucking deal.

However, Glowie is gaily chatting in the back seat. We tell her to Be Quiet, Daddy needs to concentrate on the road. And Lord knows I am holding us on this mountain road with no visibility, with the sheer strength of my toes, curled hard into my shoes which are pressing onto the floor boards.

My husband tries to turn on the windshield wiper, cuz in his mind, THAT is the problem here. If he can just clear the windshield, he’ll be able to see.

Through clenched jaw I tell him to KEEP HIS HANDS ON THE STEERING WHEEL AND FORGET THE FUCKING WINDSHIELD WIPER.

Then I alternate by saying optimistic things like: I’m sure this will lift when we get to the summit. This can’t stay like this once we make the turn off. Right?

Unfortunately, when my husband heroically (or blindly) makes the turn off into a sheer, black wall of fog we think: Thank God, this is it. It has got to lighten up here.

And I can finally unclench my digits.

But no. We still can’t see shit. We don’t even know if we are on the right road. We don’t know if there is a sheer cliff on the left or oncoming traffic on the right.

We are buried in fog. And now fucking lost.

But we do hear something.

Sniffling.

In the back seat.

Constant, repeated sniffling.

We are tense, my husband and I. Him with the white knuckles on the steering wheel, me of course, with the clenched toes in floorboard and fingernails in dashboard.

I haven’t blinked in 10 minutes. Cuz I am keeping us alive with my will.

With every muscle in my body I have to turn my head, peeling my eyes off the invisible road, to see what the HELL is going on in the backseat.

I find Glowie softly sobbing.

Fear turns to sorrow.

“Why are you crying baby?”

Glowie: “Cuz I think we are going to die. And Mommy, I DON’T WANT TO DIE.”

And now the tension is broken. Hey, we still can’t see shit, but the kid has called out the elephant in the car.

I tell the girls to Hold Hands. I tell them everything is going to be fine. We are together. We may be in the fog, we may be lost and there may be a fucking cliff. But we are together.

And you know what? It turns out that being together as a family, is the biggest fucking deal of all.

Fuck You Alzheimers...Fuck You. A Love Story

2010-05-20T08:42:00.000-07:00

This is a love story.

Of our best friends, the wife has early onset Alzheimers. She’s had it since her mid 50’s. She’s 61 now. And every single day, she is leaving us a little bit more. Well, a lot more.

I’ll call her Daisy, it’s not her name, but I feel protective of her. Daisy and her husband were our neighbors for many years. His name is Dennis. That is his real name. I think he is a tough guy, so I’m not afraid to use his real name.

Though they are older than we are, with grown kids, we started having a relationship of geography. (Hey, we just happened to see each other ALL the time. We lived on a dirt road and The Husband had a tractor. We had needs, you know how that goes… except instead of asking to borrow a power tool, we would ask him to get on his tractor and smooth out our driveways). That relationship grew into a friendship, and now, they are our family.

We always thought Daisy was a little “dingy”. Sweet, fun, beautiful and well…just dingy. Going over to their house for dinner was an experience in hunger, patience and manic-ness and she ran from the table to the kitchen and back, cuz she couldn’t remember what she needed. You know . . . ditzy.

But the ditziness got worse, and all of a sudden it wasn’t a charming personality quirk. After trips to the neurologist and those horrible tests where she was asked to count backwards from 100 by 7’s (hey try it . . . see if it doesn’t scare the shit out of you) the diagnosis came back: Early Onset Alzheimers.

There was shock and crying and grief. But then the worst of that passes and there is just settling into the New Normal.

You know, where you can’t have a real conversation with her anymore.

Where Dennis has lost his partner/soulmate/best friend of 20 years.

But in the beginning of this, man, Daisy was pissed. She hated the doctor for asking her questions she couldn’t answer and she hated us and her husband for talking “behind her back”.

And she felt so insulted by the diagnosis. She used to say, when she stumbled about something: I’m not a nit wit you know. I’m not a nutter. (She’s English, you know…)

“No Lovey, we don’t think that. You just have a little condition about remembering.”

Those feisty years are coming to an end. Now Daisy is so delightful. Everything makes her laugh.

My kids understand that in a restaurant when she says: I’ll take the girls to the Restroom, that THEY are the ones taking her.

We all pitch in to help her do her belt, or get her shoes on or keep her pesky zipper zipped UP.

If we tell my daughters that Daisy may not come visit us this weekend, they shout out, BUT WE CAN TAKE CARE OF HER. WE WANT OUR DAISY.

She gets lost trying to find the bathroom in her own house.

She and Dennis have some weddings and fancy events to go to this year. Dennis handed me a bag with the junkiest, most overwhelming, TON of makeup and said: Can you help me figure this out?

I told him to give me the credit card and I’d be right back. (Hey they’re our best friends. Why shouldn’t I speak to him just like I speak to my own husband.)

I went to Target and bought a few simple things. Then I labeled each brush and each compact. Then I made a list. Then I took photos.

Then I gave Dennis lessons.

It is a good thing Daisy is tough, cuz Dennis is a former Marine, do it yourself Home Remodeler, and man’s man. That was some harsh eye shadow application there, Dude!

But you know what? Daisy looked pretty. She looks better with some eyebrow and a little color.

Daisy is leaving us. And she’s not just leaving us and our kids. She’s leaving her daughters and her grandkids and most painfully, she’s leaving her husband.

You know, before Alzheimer’s had her, Daisy was never an “I love you” girl. But she is now.

And cuz she can’t remember anything, she tells me she loves me over and over and over. I kinda love that part. Cuz I love her too. And now I can say it as much as I want. (And no one questions whether or not I have been drinking too much.)

Every day Dennis and Daisy set out to have a good day. And every day I miss her. Every day I think: Fuck You Alzheimers.

I love you too, Daisy. I love you too.

Science Camp!!!!! a.k.a. Or another way to kill Mothers

2010-05-16T18:39:00.000-07:00

Last week was Science Camp for the 5th Graders or as we called it at my house: Mommy Melt-Down Week.

Dear God, it’s only Science Camp, right? Did it really require 17 “orientation” meetings? And did I mention the ridiculousLY extensive multi-store shopping requiring two full pages of check lists? Then the packing, labeling with sharpies (although I must say, I do love a chance to use a Sharpie), sealing of the hefty bags, etc, etc, etc, etc #etc?

Let me tell you, it was stressful because my 10 year old and my 7 year old have NEVER been away from each other. So the night before, of course there was melt down. Blondie’s not mine (for once).

Blondie, is a soft, gentle, shy kid with a really big heart and a passion for math and science. Otherwise, she would have stayed home, curled in the warm softness of the maternal bosom.

Except this kid REALLY (and oddly) loves Science.

So there we are the night before with Blondie out of her mind with a full blown anxiety attack -- her little face was all crumpled with sobbing, while she was clinging to me, wailing . . . “I really want to go but I can’t be away from my family.”

So there was lots of cheerleading (Ah no . . . there was no cute outfit, rather a very old nightie from JC Pennys) with pom poms (okay, there were no pom poms either, but I do have big boobs) and she finally got to sleep at 11:00 p.m., her little body shuddering with the exhaustive sobs.

And the next morning not only was she up, but she was packed and waiting at the door a full hour before we needed to leave the house. (God, if only she had the same attitude about picking up her crap that she had about being on time.)

Massive excitement at the school, me with the video cam, sleeping bags and pillows everywhere.

In the background of course was me begging the 5th grade teachers and authorities in charge to PLEASE take the 7 year old also, I would donate LOTS of money, but sadly, they just kept shaking their heads “no”.

Lots of hugs and kisses and “I love you’s” then the buses pulled out the parking lot.

Whoo Hoo!!! Whoo Hoo!!!

I just knew this marked a huge shift in our family.

This was a milestone event that was going to move us to a greater level of independence. For all of us. #damnit

Cuz the Little Sis was going to have to learn to sleep without her Big Sis in the top bunk. And Blondie was going to have to learn to sleep without LiL Sis in the bottom bunk.

And it was all going to be good, good, good.

Turned it was weird, weird, weird.

Cuz there was no contact. No cell phones, no phone calls.

So I worried. And I thought about her. And I was excited for her. And I missed her. And I had this weird feeling in my stomach that I’ve NEVER had before . . . I hurt with longing.

By Thursday, when I wanted to call the camp my husband said: Don’t be THAT Mom. (Really? Cuz, ah, I totally AM that Mom.) But I resisted.

So that night I started counting the hours until I could see her. And when I woke up at 6 am on Friday morning, my first thought was: 7 more hours. And I counted down.

I too was at the school an hour early. (It must be a familial trait, this obsession with earliness.)

When those kids came off the bus, I was so excited. (And slightly overwhelmed by the odor, but that’s another blog . . . you know, one called: My Smelly Tween.)

There was my little, red-faced, sweaty Blondie in my arms, hugging me hard.

And I was happy. And I was whole.

And I swore I would never yell at my kids or wish they were grown up and out of the house ever again.

I would treasure every moment we had together.

Ya, that lasted about a whole effing hour.

“Hello SleepAway Camp? Do you take 7 year olds? I’ll pay an “upcharge” . . .”

#Bloggy Boot Camp - The Vlog!

2010-05-09T22:15:00.001-07:00

Besides buying 120 bottles of vodka and Cheetos for Bloggy Boot Camp (you know, bribes to make people like me), I also ran out and bought a Flip Camera. And paid someone (no seriously, you don’t know what a techno-loser I am) to teach me how to use it.

So there I was at Bloggy in Phoenix with my new camera and no skill set. Which apparently isn’t the deterrent it should be! Then I saw that gorgeous @SugarJones and the hot, hot, hot @KadiPrescott do their presentation on Vlogging and thought: I can NEVER do this. But I did anyway.

Here’s my first Vlog.

Enjoy!!

Bloggy Boot Camp Rocks!

2010-05-02T09:12:00.000-07:00

I am loving this Bloggy Boot Camp Shit. I don’t know if it’s the great women, or Tiffany’s amazing hair, or Heather’s sweet warmth, or maybe, the three cosmos the first night, but this has been a fucking blast.

Yes, there was the kinda scary part on the plane. You know, the part where they make you TURN OFF THE PHONE, the only source of possibly, final communications from me to the world.

OK, followed by the part where they said it’s going to be a bumpy flight and I unsnapped my seat belt to get the ativan out. (And yes, I just dry-chewed that baby.)

But I had back up: my Sweet Friend @CraftyCMC and my new GF @Mommyisdating. We were half-way to a posse, Baby.

And then that weird moment, going to the cocktail party and not quite knowing where to go or who to talk to. But you know, slap a nametag on me and it turns out, I’m good to go.

The best part? People had cameras! And I ‘m in their pictures Baby (Whether I was invited or not.)

And that fact that I had to worm myself into the group pictures? Not really an issue for me, cuz, you know, I’m Out There!

Some of the sessions on Saturday changed my life! The hilarity about Vlogging made me want to be Sugar and Kadi, well, more Sugar. Except Kadi Darlin’, now I need a Sponsor for panti-liners, cuz when an Older Mom says “I peed my pants laughing . . .”)

Loved that Spunky and Sassy AmyBHole and her Branding talk. Loved it more when she said she’d take a look at my press kit. Amy, the minute I talk with you, that puppy will be up on my website.

And Lorelie Looney Tunes! Dude – you made me cry and I wanted to run over all the rows of tables in front of me and just clutch you to my bosom. My, ah, ample bosom. (Now THAT is an earlier Blog Post.) I love you. And your big old heart.

And now, can we discuss the massive amount of undereye concealer that I need! And I didn’t even stay up late enough to jump in the pool. (I hate that – I so would have been there. But not in my clothes. I would have been naked – made my gay neighbors proud.)

Was I out there? On a scale of 1 to 10 Baby, I’m calling it a 10. (That could have the Cosmos last night.)

Bloggy Boot Camp – "Out There"

2010-04-25T18:00:00.000-07:00

We all picked words for 2010. My friend Dorothy, @EcoOrganizer picked “Magnetism”. My husband, @Taxes007 picked “Smarter Not Harder”. My friend Carolyn @Craftycmc said: “That’s Really Stupid.”

Anyway, I picked “Out There”.

Which should have been fucking easy since I am kind of a very Out There Girl!

I love a party, love speaking my mind, and love to discuss my pussy in mixed company.

But I found that there was something about moving out of the confines of my Palm Springs life that scares the hell out of me.

In the four months since I chose “Out There” to define my year, I have changed it once or twice… okay, fine more like 50 times to: “Never Mind”.

But the chick that said this whole ‘word’ thing was stupid reminds me every chance she gets… “What’s your word?”

Grrr… “Out There”

So I just did a photo shoot to put me and my face (I was only convinced when I was told I could wear the longest, thickest false eyelashes ever)…..“Out There”.

And I am putting together a web page. Of course I am also now laying in the fetal position, eating cheetos, chanting like Brick in the Middle “Never Mind” under my breath.

I’ve been bolder about reaching out to other bloggers. Of course one of the “Biggies”
slapped me publically on Twitter for saying I was stalking her with cheetos cuz I wanted to be her friend. Then she BLOCKED ME! And so did her other friends. (Clearly they didn’t think “stalking with Cheeto-stained fingers” was as hilarious as I did!).

Guess they didn’t get the memo about me being ‘Out There!’

That turned out to be a full week or two of changing my mind about this whole thing. I could barely tweet for a while. (Since then, using intensive Martini therapy, I have overcome those fears.)

So I am going to Bloggy Boot Camp in Phoenix this weekend (where for the love of God, I hope they teach me some stuff about blogs and sponsorship. I really want money.)
Because Damn it, I’m “Out There!” (Well, and it’s only an hour flight away and the weather is identical to Palm Springs, but my encroaching agoraphobia is a whole other blog.)

Brazenly I am putting up my website: www.TheDeeView.com.

I am printing up business cards with my FACE on them (okay – very tiny, but still kinda “Out There”). I am bringing Goodie Bags for everyone (hey, I didn’t say anything about overcoming my need to buy affection).

I am bringing Press Kits for my one woman show, which I am positive no one wants, nor will anyone come see when it debuts in the Fall. (I am getting a bit ill just typing this…. Can you hear me whispering ‘never mind’ into my shirt?)

I have about half of a book written, which I am sure no one wants to hear about or read. (Talking about this is SO embarrassing.)

Plus, I am an older Mommy, and I hate that! So I will have a very busy week of coloring my roots and well, it is probably too late to get some botox. Now I will be exposed and I am pretty sure I will be shunned cuz of my advanced age.

But I am getting on that fucking plane. Even though leaving my 760 area code gives me stomach cramps and dry mouth. Nothing a little martini at the airport won’t cure. (What Honey? My plane leaves at 9:30 in the morning? And your point would be what exactly?)

Bloggy Boot Camp – I have my vodka, cheetos and pictures.

Here I come, Phoenix!

You ready for me to be “Out There?”

Never Mind.

Fuck You Mr. Doctor

2010-04-21T20:33:00.000-07:00

So I need to see a doctor . . . it’s urgent. I have Crohn’s Disease. Had it forever. Having abdominal pain – never a good sign.

So this doctor, whom I have seen once (my other, NICE doctor, moved) runs a really efficient practice. Practically no wait times. I’ll put up with a lot to get in and our without waiting. (Clearly there may be an actual reason why there is no wait time . . .)

So when I needed this guy, he came at me with both barrels smoking. Instead of a “hello”, or “I see this is an emergency appointment we have for you today, what’s going on?”, this guy opened the door and bellowed: We are going to have to see whether or not I can even treat you!

Uh. . . I’m sorry. Can I just get a Cat Scan first before we have our big second date fight? I’m worried about losing what little bit of a colon I have left . . .

Turns out, while I waited for his office to decide whether or not they could see me within the WEEK (Hello – Crohn’s!? Abdominal Pain!? Medical Chart 4 inches thick!?)

I had asked my internist (whom I had seen just a couple days prior – love him) to order me a white count, to see if I had any infection running away in my body.

This full-of-shit Doctor (who’s office didn’t even know if they would be able to “contact doctor” today) was fit to be tied that I had “gone around his back” and “ordered my own blood work”. I wasn’t allowing him to practice good medicine. (Cuz yelling? That’s some really good medicine there. Thank God all my other doctors missed the special “yelling class” at medical school.)

And man, he let me know how I had not ordered the full compliment of tests that he needed. Again, I’m sorry Mr. Yelling Doctor…just needed to know if I had another perforated bowel. So sorry to be pesky like that.

To deflect his anger and disappointment I said: I am happy to go get any other test you think I need. He then castigated me about my safety and health in getting two blood draws in a day. (Uh, I’ve had multiple blood draws in a day, many times. I’ve had nurses try to start IV’s up to 10 times. I ain’t afraid of no blood draw. But you? You are scaring the shit out of me. (Oops. Bad Crohn’s joke.)

He even vilified my internist (aka The Good Doctor) saying why didn’t he communicate with me? (Cuz it appeared no one knew where you were.)

Well, I felt like sobbing. But I didn’t. Cuz I’m brave like that.

I felt like defending myself and my other doc. Which I did. Cuz I’m defensive like that.

But I had my eye on the prize. I could hate this guy every day for the rest of my life, but FIRST, I had to be a Good Girl, and get that CAT SCAN ordered, cuz for me? That test is literally the sign of life or death.

Once the Cat Scan had been ordered, I decided to tell Mr. Doctor that he kinda scared me, and I’m sorry he was upset, but I was operating off the info his office had provided me. I was trying to take care of myself while I waited for his office to let me know if he could see me.

He said: There are no other patients like you. Patients come in, tell the doctor their symptoms, then ask the doctor what HE should do next. (I swear to God, this guy is barely 40 years old – he’s not some ancient, doddering old dude practicing medicine in a small town in the 1940’s.)

Again, he let me know that the “team approach” to medicine was unheard of. And just to be sure, he said again: there are no patients like you.

Well Mr. Doctor. Here is what I have to say to you, (which btw, I am actually too big of a pussy to actually say):

First: Fuck you Mr. Doctor.

Second: Mr. Doctor. I have had Crohn’s disease for 30 years. I have worked with the world’s most preeminent doctors in this field at Cedar Sinai. There are no other doctors like you. I have never heard of a doctor that doesn’t welcome a “team approach” to practicing medicine.

Doctors who berate patients (before saying hello) are not practicing medicine. They are practicing their own version of I’m-insecure-and-will-meet-my-fucked-up-psychological-needs-by-controlling-sick-people. I wouldn’t let you treat a feral cat. (Or actually, maybe I would, cuz I’m pretty sure the cat would win. And I would like that.)

BTW, thanks for the Cat Scan. I found a new doctor. He practices a freakish kind of medicine. He listens to the patient. He promised to take care of me.

(I wanted to offer to bear him children, but I’m old, infertile and he ain’t no youngster himself.)

That new guy? He’s my kinda doctor. You? You are a bully, a meanie and a control freak. And I heard you yelling at those other people in the other exam room. It’s cuz of them I’m sending you a letter. Not this letter, but another one.

Fuck you Mr. Doctor.

Sincerely,

TheDeeView

Who Are You? And What Have You Done With My Daughter Dammit?

2010-04-19T01:00:00.000-07:00

I've heard people talk about the difficult tween years. But THOSE parents have problems with their children because they aren't “in-tune”, they aren’t really cool, connected parents. They haven’t done years (okay dammit, decades) of therapy.

They could have a better handle on their kids. I mean my daughter is 10 and she is fabulous: great student, sweet kid, tomboy, soccer player, devoted to her little sister (cuz they don't get playdates, so who else are they going to hang out with), a loving little cuddle bug.

Well then, WHO THE HELL IS THIS LITTLE WITCH IN MY HOUSE?

It happened overnight. This past weekend as a matter of fact. I've never seen such sobbing cuz it is 8:00 a.m. and she's not quite ready for school yet.

Or the crying because she lost her book. Or the pouting cuz there is foam on her milk in the morning. Or the complaining that there are too many apple slices in her lunch. Or the howling that “My sister won’t quit looking at me”. (Oh wait, maybe that is me howling?)

Oh, and she knows everything. I am trying to tell her how to clean the toilet: "I know Mom. I know, I know."

Really? She knows? When the fuck has she ever cleaned a damned thing in this house, let alone A TOILET?!? She’s going to clean the toilet like she cleans her room? What, she’s going to hide all the toilet dirt IN THE HAMPER, UNDER THE DIRTY CLOTHES?

Who is this overwrought (somewhat sweaty) child, who now hates bathing, has her eyes locked in a permanent eye-rolling position, wearing size 12 skinny jeans?

And what the fuck has she done with MY daughter?

Uncork the Vodka Baby! It’s April 15th!

2010-04-15T00:01:00.000-07:00

April 15th is the biggest holiday of the year in our household. My husband is a CPA and we have an accounting firm, with a couple of locations.

I take great pride in having tripled the size of our business in the past five years. I’m all about growth, expansion, efficiency, customer service. I’m good at that kinda thing. I’m the Director of Big Picture thinking. (Whatever you do, please don’t ask me a tax question. I’ll just tell you to call your accountant. Then I’ll give you our office phone number. Cuz I’m always working it.)

And I am the kinda girl that thinks Bigger is Better. (You’re welcome Honey.)

I always thought “Less is More” is the stupidest saying on earth. (Well, that and the one about “nothing tastes better than being thin feels!)

So we’ve grown this wonderful accounting practice that pays our bills, with a little bit left over for shoes (for ME! Who cares about the rest of my family.) But the downside is, from January through April we are one pretty stressed-out family.

I rarely see my husband and when I do, all we do is talk about the business, the calendar and office problem solving.

He has dinner with us a few nights a week, but it’s a quickie, then he’s back to the office until midnight. Most mornings he’s gone before the kids wake up.

This is the life we have chosen and the life we have created. It is a life that works for us. But for a couple months of the year, my kids get kinda edgy, we all get really tired from the long hours and then , my husband and I can’t remember why we married each other. (Seriously, the duress does make us both wonder what on earth we are doing!)

We have a siege mentality: eat fast food, skip showers, sporadic attendance at Soccer practices, weeping (I’m not referring to the kids), temper tantrums (again, not the kids), minimize the kids injuries cuz there really is no time to go to the doctor, tring to use a tone of voice other than pure exasperation etc.

Hey, not that we don’t operate that way all year long (it’s a full service accounting firm after all) but the stress of tax season makes us all a little bloated and oddly pale.

But it is April 15th! And we are done! Don’t call our office CUZ WE ARE NOT TAKING YOUR CALLS!

You can find us at the local bar. We’ll be swilling some booze. We’ll be the only people in Palm Springs that aren’t rocking some kind of bronze skin thing. We won’t be that fresh either. But we’ll be the happiest drunks in the place.

It will be like a combination of Mardi Gras and New Years Eve all in one. It is our big holiday of the year. So toast us, and save your tax questions for May.

Dog vs. Mom

2010-04-11T16:40:00.000-07:00

I have a new dog. Well, the family has a new dog which means I have a new dog. We are a family with three dogs most of the time, but two suffered untimely deaths within a month. My kids were devastated. My last remaining dog was depressed. (Oddly enough, the vet wouldn’t respond to my repeated requests for Doggie Prozac.)

So we decided to get another dog. And it is exciting. But not so much after traveling from shelter to shelter each weekend. But then we find THE dog: friendly, big, sweet, good looking (we are shallow this way). I even pull the kids out of school an hour early so we can go as a family to the shelter to pick him up.

Then we bring him home. Then I remember how much work a new dog is. Now bear in my mind, I don’t ever feed our dogs. I have children for that. I also don’t pick up poop. Again, the children!

But the training is all Mommy, all the time.

And the walks through the neighborhood. Why is it that all damned dogs think they need to be in the lead? I call my morning walk Resistance Training FOR ME, turning my morning walk into full on, sweaty exercise. And then there is the whole Ninja move when the dog sees a cat. (The Ninja in this visual is supposed to be me – lithe body (oh, it is not a visual, it is a fantasy), knees bent, all senses tuned to the slightest change in the environment.) Of course, he sees the cat, lurches with his full weight and I get whiplash of my arm.

Plus the dog won’t come to me yet (I’m still hopeful for the future however).

So I spend a lot of time on the floor with doggy biscuits. (I don’t know if you’ve read my stories, but I actually don’t ever “get on the floor”.) But they aren’t that appealing to him. So I get off the floor (barely), get a bowl of yogurt, get back down on the floor (there’s whimpering now and yes, it is me) and try to tempt him.

I don’t get on the floor for my fucking kids, but there I am on the floor with a bowl of yogurt pleading with a 55 pounds beast to pleassssse give me some attention.

Then there is the opening of the gate to drive the car in and out. And his mad dash out into the street. And his complete unwillingness to come back home. And my franticness down on the ground, pulling dog biscuits out of my pocket, thinking Shit Shit Shit. I GOTTA get this dog back.

And the grooming. I run a tight ship at my house. (And yes, I can turn coal into diamonds in my ass.) My kids huddle in the house, watching through the window as the dogs writhe as I vigorously brush them with my special grooming tools. (I know the 10 yr old has said to the 7 yo: I’m so glad that isn’t one of us right now.)

Sit, down, come, stay, heel.

Yep it's working about as well as it does on the damned kids. Don't they know it's supposed to be all about Mommy, all of the time?

Living in Gay Town…Ode to Palm Springs

2010-04-07T18:10:00.000-07:00

This is a departure from my normal, Bitter Mommy Rant. in the life of TheDeeView, well we live it in Gay Town. And we fucking love it.

A town filled with gay people is a town with a fun party scene and all the houses look fabulous – inside and out. But what we really love, is the open-minded, all accepting vibe that living in here in Palm Springs brings.

Our daughters joyously wave at drag queens and have attended two gay weddings. (My youngest still wondered where the hell the bride was. She knew that the two men were getting married but she still didn’t understand why there wasn’t a white gown involved.)

And there is nothing like being at a cocktail party and having someone introduce you to their husband/partner and their husband/partner. It is a *Big Love* thing except without the weird hair dos, and the pussies. It is a town where the terms *top* and *bottom* no longer refer to which shelf the spare jar of mayonnaise is on.

These boys throw the most fabulous parties, where everyone has a good time. But there is a witching hour when the booze has been flowing and everyone is feeling loose.

Um…yeah, that’s kinda when shirts start to come off and boys start looking at each other with something other than cocktail laughter in their eye. That is when it is time for the Straight People To Go Home.

Of course, at that hour, my husband is also nice and liquored up and in the middle of telling stories himself. He’ll say: Let’s stay a little longer. We now have a deal.

When I say: Baby it is TIME to go, he gets that it is TIME TO GO.

These gay boys like to do things without their clothes on. Hike (really, what about branches and large cactus? And hello? It is Palm Springs – the SUN FACTOR!), hang out, party, paint (again, really? And what about the paint smears on your . . . never mind).

We have a rule in our ‘hood: We call first before stopping by.

(Or get an eyeful.)

@Taxes007 and I are both only children. My parents are gone, so essentially, we have no family. But our children are so blessed to have our gay friends.

One is a doctor who doesn’t love kids, BUT when our girls our sick, they call his name at the top of their lungs. Cuz they are sure he is the one who can make them feel better.

(Those house calls are expensive though. In our ‘hood you gotta keep that Kettle One stocked up and on the shelves.)

When our doggie died, it was the gay boys that rushed over with cards and gifts and love.

Our emergency call list at the school? Filled with our gay friends and neighbors.

Decorating advice? Well, they are NOT those kind of gays. (As they often tell me.) Which is fine, cuz hello . . . I can rock Mid Century Modern better than any gay guy in any town.

Hey, we even bought a little place in the mountains so our daughters would be exposed to straight people.

We thought it was important that they understand that men and women can get married too.

We wanted them to know that love transcends gender: that woman and men can love each other just like two men.

We need them to understand that straight people are fully contributing members of society also.

Who knew?

Life in Gay Town. We fucking love it. Bring your kids.

I have an unnatural relationship with Zappos.

2010-04-04T12:16:00.000-07:00

I mean unnatural, probably illegal in several states. Zappos and I have one of 'those' a special relationship. If I tweeted this much with a guy, I think my husband would have grounds. I know you think this blog is all about shoes. Ah…Well, what is wrong with that? It is simply a metaphor for MY LIFE and SELF WORTH.

It is one of those cyber relationships, if you will. I pay for the attention and affection. But that doesn’t make it any less real or meaningful in my life.

I mean it's ZAPPOS. We all know what Zappos is . . . right?

No? Oh Christ... It's like the American Cinderella’s dream. It makes Fairy Tales look ridiculous and banal. It is shoes, tens of thousands of shoes. Whore shoes, classy shoes, wedding shoes, comfort shoes, work shoes, kids shoes, men’s shoes. And they all get to you within 24 hours.

Let me explain part of my bizarre (well, NOT bizarre!) attachment to Zappos comes from the calm inducing effects of just shopping on their web site. While the kids are screaming, and there is no hope of dinner in sight, and I am just DONE being a mom for that day (okay, for that year, week) I lose myself in the Zappos website, throwing 6 inch high, brilliant hued, $400 dollar shoes, emblazoned with feathers into a basket. When my total is $3,000, I can empty the basket (almost), and return to dinner, parenting, you know that kind of stuff.

When the UPS truck pulls up with that gorgeous (BIG) white box, with the Zappos logo (love the shoe/exclamation point – hah! You are looking it up now aren’t you?) my children run into the house screaming, Mommy, the Zappos box is here, IT IS HERE Mommy!

Now you can try those suckers on in the privacy of your own home, bad crop yoga pants, (which aren’t that fresh), raccoon eyes (cuz you are too lazy to wash your face from last night) morning breath (which may have lasted all day, and has a disturbing exponential quality to it).

Plus you've got your entire wardrobe, just waiting to try on with each pair of shoes. You can twirl like Julie Andrews, you can crump like you are on So You Think You Can Dance (well, I don’t actually understand crumping, but I do a set of gyrations that are quite effective to test out new shoes), you can strut like you are on America’s Next Top Model (Super Plus Size Edition).

And after you have selected your ah…priceless treasures (this is a nice way of saying Come Eff Me Pumps), or amazing fuschia athletic shoes (cuz I know I walk faster in fuschia), or the latest in Ugg knockoffs (I live in Palm Springs, where real sheepskin boots are essential for those three bitterly cold days of winter), or comfort shoes (having to buy comfort shoes just sucks)......you can pack anything that did not go with those grungy yoga pants back in the box and Zappos has them whisked away, on THEIR tab.

I find this more gratifying than an attentive man during sex. (I could wax on about the use of certain shoes during sex, but that would be wrong. #prude)

Now with our every busy freaking lives, we may not have family dinner hour together every night (and if we do, it is highly likely to be fast food takeout) but we do have FAMILY ZAPPOS time!

This is where everyone, quietly gathers around the big white box and, zippp, we unseal it’s magnificence. The children reverentially open each box, then suggest which pair I try on first. They are trying on shoes also. There may not be any shoes in the box for them, but even my 10 year old Tomboy daughter likes to strut her stuff in a crazy pair of Mama’s shoes.

These decisions, about Mommy’s shoes, they are family decisions. There are flip charts, pro and con lists, price analysis . . . and alas, I don’t keep every pair. But this is my Mommy Pay Off. It doesn’t happen often (enough) but when it does, it brings us together.

Cuz the family that shoe shops together (in the comfort of their own living room) stays together. (Really, where are my kids going to go? Pretty far in their stinking cute Vans, or Converse or Bear Paws.)

What else in life provides all of this, I ask you?

Marriage? (Your wants and needs met within 24 hours? Ah, #no)

Kids? (So far, Zappos has yet to pout, sulk, or tell me I don’t understand them.)

Friends? (They just tell me to get out of cyberspace, something Zappos has never done!)

Family? (Uh, even Zappos understands my need to Tweet. And they tweet with me – HEAVEN!)

Zappos maybe doesn’t hold me at night, but I can surround myself with beautiful shoes, all tucked around me in bed (like my daughter with her stuffed animals) and have the sweetest dreams.

Yeah, something about this isn’t natural. And neither is using a vibrator . . . but the results are equally as orgasmic. Shoes…A woman’s salvation…

Thank you, so much for reading my blog. It makes me feel all gooey. (I live for Blog Hits.) If you’d like, please leave your blog address in the comment below. (It appears I’m too technologically challenged to find you on my own!) ( Also, I may be very busy trying on shoes.) xxx Dee Dee

Mrs. Mommy – Can I see you for a minute?

2010-03-28T16:32:00.001-07:00

Here is what I hate. Going to school to pick up my kids and the teacher says:

I’m so glad you are here.

Uh, you are? I’m just here picking up my kid.

I’m sure YOUR daughter has informed you of the SITUATION.

The Situation? What Situation? (I start feeling a little uncomfortable and oddly defensive or oddly uncomfortable and a little defensive.)

Does this have something to do with the project I’m supposed to be running for the class? Cuz I’ve been a little bit behind (ah, thank you Twitter) but I’ll totally get to it … This week? (Oh wait, tomorrow is Follow Friday.) Next week?

Are you unaware of the SITUATION in the room involving your child?

Uh…totally unaware, it appears.

Then the “surprise” conference takes place. The same drill: she hasn’t been turning in her homework; she has been disrupting class; she has no respect for authority. (The whole time I am SO happy that no one has yet mentioned inappropriate use of the “F” word. As though there MIGHT be an appropriate use for a 7 year old anywhere.)

I just know when I drive home after the “I’m glad you are here, we have a SITUATION” conference, I am filled with shame. As though I have done something wrong. Is it that Little Chair thing, the teacher standing and speaking while I sit in the little chair, my ass hanging over both sides? Cuz I find sitting in the little chair hearing about the SITUATION brings back some painful flashbacks.

After working through the flashback part, I move ahead to being pissed off at the person who is responsible for my sitting in the little chair. The person responsible for the SITUATION.

Then there are the threats Clean up this behavior cuz if I ever get blindsided by the teacher again you’ll be picking up dog poop for the REST OF YOUR LIFE. (As though someone else was actually going to pick up the dog poop.) You’ll never wear fake nails again, for as long as you live!

Followed quickly by the motivational speech. You can do it, you are smart, you are an awesome kid, you CAN control yourself. (This isn’t dysfunctional right? This isn’t the first sign of a bipolar diagnosis is it?)

Cuz I find sitting on those little tiny chairs hearing some unexpected bad news from a grade school teacher, must bring back some painful flashbacks. You know, when I was the one not turning in homework, disrupting the other kids, unable to keep my hands to myself etc.

Like mother, like daughter.

Big Picture Parenting Part 2 or Mean Mommy #youbetcha

2010-03-25T09:02:00.000-07:00

I sit down at my desk, which is like Grand Central Fucking Station only, like, inside my home office. It is literally the communal Family Dumping Station.

Anything that comes through the door of our house, gets dumped on my desk. WTF. I yell at my husband: I’m putting all this shit in a bin. Then I’m taking it to your office and dumping it on your desk! Try and find a client’s important tax documents THEN, Mother Fucker. (Love you Honey.)

So as I'm huffing and puffing and about to blow my house down, my 10 year old calls me from school and says:

“Mommy, could you please sign my progress report and bring it to school? “

“Blondie, I never saw your progress report.”

“I put in on your desk.”

“On my desk! Where on my desk?”

“It is folded into a tiny little square and I put it on your desk.”

WTF? Folded into a tiny little square? Does she not realize I've got... a See’s Candy Order fundraiser form; the reminder note which tells me if I don’t bring the check for the Ballet costume, Little Sis WILL NOT be performing in the Annual Production of The Firebird; a note from the Playground Supervisor about someone NOT LISTENING THE FIRST FOUR TIMES they were asked to get off the Monkey Bars; a brown bag lunch leftover from a couple of days ago. And a martini glass - okay so that one's mine, but still!

Finally, while I listen to my daughter mouth breathing into the phone, I discover this little thing, sweaty hard lump, that looks like a giant spit wad. Ah, the Progress Report.

“OK, I see it...." What to do. Probably shoulda lied and said the dog ate it. But now I have to say something... Straighten my back as much as a old Mama can, "But, no, I will not sign your progress report and bring it to school.”

“But Mommy, my group will lose three points if all the kids don’t have their progress reports signed and turned in today!!!”

(Huffy Breath)

(Wavering. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What do I do? I want the other kids to like her. I want her to be a winning student in the classroom. Bracing myself. Good Mommies don't care about popularity they care about character - whatever the fuck that means)

I answer, “Well, then you should have thought of that last night and brought the progress report to me to be signed. No.”

I hang up the phone. So victorious. I stood up in the face or irresponsibility. I have to be strong, I have to be consistent....

But I could just drop it by. I have to drive by there in an hour anyway, what could it hurt?

Besides my authority, you mean?

All day I waiver between being victorious, strong and noble and feeling like such a Mean Mommy.

BTW; Big Picture Parenting Sucks. (But I’m still trade marking it!)

Finally, the Blondie comes home. I'm ready for anything. Recrimination. Pouting. Even tears.

"Well?" I ask.

"Well, what?"

"The progress report."

The Blondie shrugs, "Oh, no biggie."

No FUCKING biggie? As she skipped off to her room, I stood there shell-shocked. You mean standing my ground worked, it F'ing worked?

Oh ya, make a path, Trademark Office here I come!

Happy Birthday Big Girl, And by Big I Mean ...

2010-03-18T21:01:00.000-07:00

My baby is turning 7 today. Happy Birthday Baby.

We call her Glowie, cuz the light coming off this kid will blind you. Fortunately we don’t call her TalksAllTheTimeWithoutStopping cuz that wouldn’t be as charming.

When Glowie was born, we loved her and cooed over her. I nursed her (adotptive breast feeding – that is a separate blog that hasn’t been written yet, but we’ll all need COCKTAILS) and her older sister, Blondie began to love her.

Secretly however, her Dad and I made a lot of jokes about our little Cone Headed Baby. When she was three weeks old it turned out that wasn’t so funny.

Terrifying in fact.

Glowie had a double craniosynostosis. You know, the kids with the big flat brow, or the kids with the flat head on the back or one side? Our kid had a pointy head, sorta out of the top and the back. And if we didn’t “correct” it, her brain would not be able to grow.

By correct it I mean they cut her skull into puzzle pieces, put plates in her head, put the puzzle pieces back on, and sewed it up. Oy, yoy, yoy.

Recovery is horrific (Her little face swelled her eyes closed), I had to quit nursing her (there was NO moving this kid), I slept on the floor of the hospital, loaded on vicodan cuz I had a herniated disc and needed my own surgery.

Then two years in those little helmets you see on kids – with the tinkerbell shit painted on them. Three years of early intervention therapy: speech therapy, physical therapy, cognitive therapy. She was so tiny and fragile we had to have her panties altered to fit her.)

And then magic. We got a magic wand in our family. Cuz all this fucking therapy, and her big sister falling apart somewhere along the way, and 100% will and devotion, and God’s grace, this little teeny tough, misshappened headed baby sprung alive.

She is pure joy. She knows the name of at almost all of the 700 children at her elementary school. We can’t get out of the playground when the bell rings there is so much hugging and kissing going on. (Really, for God’s sake, save something for your teen years.)

She is 7 years old and weighs 30 pounds. She wears high heels everywhere. When she thinks I’m not looking she puts tissue in her leotard and admires her girlie figure in the mirror.

She dances ballet and jazz. She is the tiniest kid on the stage. And not the best dancer. (I am afraid to type the truth in case she ever reads this. Okay, not a great dancer. But dammit, she waves better than any of those other full-size children.)

She thinks she is going to be on America’s Next Top Model. Possibly next year when Tyra does the 2nd Grade Version. (That is coming right?)

She is beautiful with big brown eyes and wears giant glasses. The day she showed up to Kindergarten in glasses every kid in the class wished they had glasses too.

She may not be able to knock you down, but she will wear you down. She can hike a couple of miles (and never stop talking), she can run at full speed for 16 hours and never waiver. Unlike Mom – I need frequent rest stops. (Did I mention the part about how she never Shuts Up?)

She is smart and a pain in the ass. She loves the sound of her own voice. She would like someone to be interacting with her every second of the day and night. And sometimes I feel guilty for praying to God or SOMEONE to just SHUT HER UP FOR A FUCKING NANOSECOND BEFORE I LOSE MY MIND. Cuz we paid a lot of money for all that speech therapy. Who knew?

She can pee by the side of the car, without flinching (we call it a wild wee) and yank up her big girl panties and move on to the next adventure. She is pure joy, with a bizarre sneaky laugh, who is just a normal 7 year old who worships her big sister and nutella. But there is nothing really normal about our little Glowie. Cuz every effing day this kid reminds me to LOVE LIFE and LIVE MAMA LIVE!

What’s our next Adventure Mama? Huh? Huh? Huh? (God Help Me.)

Happy Birthday Baby.

Girl Power!

2010-03-14T18:01:00.001-07:00

With all the heat surrounding this NYT article (Honey, Don’t Bother Mommy, I’m Too Busy Building My Brand http://tinyurl.com/y94f64c) about #BloggyBootcamp and Mommy Bloggers, I feel an important aspect has been missed.

Would anyone have dared write an article such as “Honey” if #BloggyBootcamp had been a male-oriented blog seminar? Would they have dared tag Tony Robbins as ‘self-serving’ or implied he was ‘neglectful of his children’ for trying to make a living off of his passion?

I see poor Jennifer defending herself for talking about SEO at #BloggyBootcamp. Darlin’ I don’t think you have to defend a single word you said about marketing.

Had Steve Jobs given a seminar about blogging that talked about how to break your market into segments, optimize demographics, and quantify time-zone specific commercial slots, do you think he would be apologizing today for not talking about content more?

Uhhh, no, I seriously doubt it.

The source of this attitude can be found in another article (which I found far more disturbing) in Forbes Magazine – 20 Inspiring Women To Follow on Twitter. February 8, 2010 by Halle Tecco. http://tinyurl.com/yfqdwdl

The premise is that men on Twitter get more followers by virtue of SIMPLY BEING MEN! Stats show that men are more likely to follow men and even women are more likely to follow men.

So they listed the 20 “absolutely inspirational women who are tweeting up a female storm”. I thought great! Finally someone taking women seriously.

But the 20 women were basically academics and activists. Only one woman was profiled as being a “colorful look into the life of a woman balancing motherhood and running a tech company”. (And btw, she has the highest number of followers 50,000 and it appears she follows almost everyone back! Girl Power!)

What outraged me about this article, was I thought it left out the entire segment of the Twitterverse which are Moms, empowering themselves through social media to build community, whether through parenting tips, sharing the experience of a family whose beautiful little girl is dying, selling sponsored products or products one has made themselves, etc.

And when I looked at the numbers of the women in the Forbes Top 20 list, the Twitter following numbers were not nearly as powerful as many of the women that I follow. Fifteen of these Forbes women had less than 5,000 followers. (Six had fewer than 2,000 - less than I have!).

These are their powerhouses? Where was Dooce? Mommywantsvodka? ThePioneerWoman? ScaryMommy? HerBadMother?

These are the women that when I started (and was scared to put myself out there and develop my voice) I looked up to. I saw they cultivated a following and it gave me hope that I could as well.

In my eyes #BloggyBootcamp shows the finest in entrepreneurial spirit. I don’t think we should be afraid to talk about marketing ourselves, our blogs, and our passions…openly. You know, like men do.

A girlfriend of mine (@craftycmc) got onto Twitter and within 6 weeks had monetized it. Now she’s got a business going (and she has guys as clients too!).

When I asked her about the NYT article she just shrugged. “I don't see why everyone is so worried about content. The marketplace will decide if your content is worthy, right? Put it out there and take it for a spin, if it sucks, you’ll know soon enough.” (And let's be clear, I love her shit! She makes me laugh!)

So Sisters, we really have to have each other’s backs, clearly Forbes and the NYT won’t!

Luckily I had already booked #BloggyBootCamp in Phoenix before the article came out, otherwise I would have had to rush to the computer and sign up.

Girl Power at its best, Ladies, Girl Power!

Golden Moment, No Really. No I'm Serious.

2010-03-11T07:38:00.000-08:00

This may be the Golden Moment of my Day. I write a lot of bitter shit in this blog, cuz, well . . . I’m bitter.

But truthfully, having a kid with health problems and a lifelong struggle with illness and surgeries of my own, I do make note every day of the Golden Moments. And actually, right now, our whole lives are functioning in a Golden Period: everyone’s health is stable, we are weathering the economic downturn (though we work way too hard to make a mortgage payment on a house that is worth almost ½ what we paid), our business is thriving, my kids are doing well in school. Okay we had two dogs drop dead last month, but in the scope of what we’ve been through with our youngest daughter, a couple of beloved doggie deaths are really nothing.

And I sit at my computer, looking out the window of my Palm Springs dream house. I see sunlight coming up, I see the pool and the yummy yard and the house is quiet. My Blondie Baby (10 yo) is sitting quietly reading her book, the dog is gently licking his private parts, my little Glowie is still asleep and so is The Tax Man.

It is a Golden Moment of quiet in this house. The ‘hood is not awake, dogs are not barking, trash trucks are not pulling up the streets. No one is yelling – get your lunch, don’t forget your book, did you remember to put on sunscreen, (hey, this is Palm Springs People), get the dog’s leash, let’s go, LET’S GO, LET’S GO!!!

And as soon as the little one gets up (which means her mouth wakes up, in high gear) and the household get’s moving (NEVER fast enough for me!) and it gets noisy and the girls start fighting and then tattling on one another, and the Tax Man does everything wrong, this Golden Moment will be lost. And then I can resume the mantle of the bitter mother.

LET’S GO, LET’S GO, LET’S GO!

Big Picture Parenting

2010-03-07T21:17:00.000-08:00

My 6 year old is strapped in her car seat, sitting in the car, which is sitting in the garage. She is screaming her little head off.

Why? Because I won’t take her to school this morning. Why? Because she didn’t get ready on time. Why? Because she was busy torturing her big sister (who DID get ready on time) and goofing off.

Am I a mean Mommy? You bet your sweet ass. Does it rip my heart out to hear her sobbing and begging to go to school? Yes indeedy (as my mother would have said).

Is this a lot of bloody work for me? Hell yeah. Is it worth is? I have no fucking idea.

But I am trying to do Big Picture Parenting. (I came up with that term. Should I trademark it?)

I am trying to think about not focusing on the moment, and looking instead to what kind of middle school kid will she be? Or high school student, if she can’t move her ass and get out the door. And if she’s going to be the one of our first female presidents, how will she run the White House effectively if she’s still strapped in her car seat?

She’s 6, you might gently remind me. Yeah, and she thinks she’s in love with the Jonas Brothers. If she can figure out the viewing schedule for the Disney Channel every day, hour by hour, then she can get ready for school on time.

I have a schedule, you know, shit I have to do. I have appointments and responsibilities, all which require prior bathing, teeth brushing, and foundation wear, dammit. If she ain’t ready on time, Mommy may start to be known as the woman with the special funk about her. I prefer to be hip and funkaay, not bag-lady ripe.

Does she get to do that? Well, obviously, YES. Will she do it again next week? I’m thinking, not so much. (Not holding my breath though.)

Cuz you know what she did for the hour she had to stay home, while I got my work done before my 9:15 appointment (and could CONVENIENTLY drop her at school on the way)?

I had her write sentences:

I will be ready on time. I will use my checklist. I will not fuck up Mommy’s morning schedule anymore. (Okay, I only thought that one!)

She had to give up her playground time and the fun morning part of school for this? Sucked for her. Sucked for me.

Big Picture Parenting. I’d rather be watching Big Love.

#I will stick to my guns. #I will stick to my guns. #I will stick to my guns.

Sick Kid, But What About My Needs?

2010-03-04T12:01:00.001-08:00

My kid woke up sick today. Poor baby. I hate this. Cuz it totally ruins my plans for the day. You know, my plans to Tweet, blog, read other people’s tweets, maybe look at the paper, talk to my office staff – via email, in my nightie, eat lunch in private, talk to people on the phone while swearing relentlessly, and use the F word while working up my To Do List (for tomorrow, cuz if my kid is home sick today, I can’t get anything done.)

So we said: No school today, you have a runny nose and a cough. It’s a lay in bed day, read a book, chicken noodle soup for lunch. She went in her room. 30 minutes later she was hysterically pleading to be allowed to go where she could be “socially loved”. She missed her friends. The bell hadn’t even rung, and this child who, three years ago, was so shy she couldn’t speak, missed her friends.

So I sent my kid to school today. Hey, it is a cold. It’s not like she was puking. (If she was puking I would have sent her with extra lunch bags.) I sent her with lots of cough drops, Kleenex and instructions to call me if she couldn’t make it through the day. Then I did a happy dance. Hello Twitter.

Bathing, French Style

2010-02-28T18:04:00.001-08:00

I really have a bathing issue. Which worries me. (And worries my husband as well.) Cuz what kind of old lady am I going to be? (I know I am old now, but I mean, REALLY old lady.)

Will I be the lady with the gray, greasy hair, wearing the same sweater for a week, with the tissue tucked up the sleeve? Oh Shit, that totally describes me right this fucking minute. (Note to self – dye hair, wash sweater.)

So this daily bathing ritual…it is lost upon me. I don’t bathe in the morning cuz I walk my kids to school. It’s a bit of a walk (hey, it takes like 10 minutes ONE WAY – I consider it a full-on workout) and I get sweaty. Then I get home. Well the house is quiet and I have five hours until pick-up time.

If I don’t have appointments (which require some attempt at hygiene and dressing) why would I waste 30 fucking minutes of nirvana IN THE SHOWER?

Then before you know it, it is time to pick up the kids. I’m still wearing the same pilly yoga pants, the sports bra that is 10 years old, the T-shirt with a tiny smudge of marinara over the left boob. Oh, and it does feel as though each of my teeth is wearing its own small angora sweater.

So I pick the kids up in a hat and dark glasses (because no one will recognize the marinara-sauce-on-the-tee-shirt-Mommy if she has dark glasses and a hat on). Then the kids get home.

The Witching Hour begins of homework, reading, piano practice, snack, Jazz Clothes, Ballet shoes, etc. Then I am literally too busy to bathe.

And then after dinner, I am so tired. So tired. And I really want to put my feet up and watch TV.

You know, I could bathe tomorrow.

"Best of" TheDeeView That's right baby, Sloppy Seconds!

2010-02-26T06:46:00.000-08:00

So here's my new "Best of" because I wanted to share my joy and laughter. Or, I was just too lazy to write another blog after my Birthday martinis!

Now some of these Tweets got major RT action, some didn't (which I'm still bitter about that BTW), and others involve you (you know who I'm talking to)!

Enjoy!

I love a flat iron that sets off the smoke detector. #HotHairImplementsRock #GoingBald

Who knew so many women ran the risk of conflagration for beauty?

If I don’t get up from the computer and pee, then maybe I should just add Depends to my grocery list. #Tweettoomuch

Ah, if only it wasn't true!

I am thinking about keeping a salt shaker in my nightstand, so I have it handy when I'm hiding in the bedroom eating potato salad.

So nice to know that I'm not the only Mommy hiding out with her stash!

Then my #Mom2Summit bitter, bitter rant. How could there be a party and me not be invited, let alone know about it (of course we are correcting that with...#bloggybootcamp)

#mom2summit I hope all you girls had fun. No really, I mean it. I'm glad you got to do this for yourselves. Good for you. #Don'tReallyMeanIt

#mom2summit Reading all your tweets and weeping softly into my tissue, ah, sleeve, I want to play with you next year. #juniorhighflashback

Yah, that was just a sample of my bitterness since it went on all night (and I can't even blame alcohol since Vodka had nothing to do with it!)

Unlike these drunken tweets - Don't judge me! Oh, go ahead, I am! #headpounding

It started innocently enough (well... maybe not quite so innocent)

I'm going @mommyisdating What the fuck else do you need? #bloggybootcamp @craftycmc is going too. There will be cheetos, swearing and vodka. #itisallgood

@mommyisdating u should check with @ taxes007 about taking tests while drunk. He loves to do taxes over wine! Can u say big refund?

@mommyisdating: I am to be a respected CPA and @thedeeview says I shouldn't engage like this. Ah "F" it I love to b out there!

which prompted:

@craftycmc: New Rule: Neither of you is allowed to tweet drunk @taxes007 @thedeeview #willhavetocleanupinmorning

Followed by: @taxes007 and @craftycmc just made me pee my pants. Goddamit. #needtochangepanties

And finally the misery was ended with...

@craftycmc Please call if we are not off Twitter in 5 minutes. By call ... I mean call 911. #setthefuckingtimer

But enough about me... Wait, did I really just say that? Anyway here are few of the fav Tweets from my favs Tweeps:

@shaunaglenn: Just so you know...It's 10 days until my 40th birthday. 40! Surely that's a typo on my birth certificate right? RIGHT???

And real life changing observations:

@MiddleAgedMomma: Grandkid put a penny in the toilet. Learned 2 things: 1) our toilet doesn't flush pennies 2) no one wants a penny bad enough to go after it.

@RenegadeMoms: Im making chile for dinner because I like my house to smell like farts all night. #fartsarealwaysfunny #blametheDog

@redheadwriting: I take a perverse pleasure in closing unnecessary windows on my desktop. It's my own little private click war. #cagefight

Alright, that's it for today... I have a life you know!

Oh, who am I kidding, I just want to get back to my sweet Twitter!

Leave comments, compete to be included in the next installment, or go RT my blog shout out…

It's up to you!

(I'm a giver that way!)

Happy Birthday to Me, from Twitter

2010-02-25T09:37:00.000-08:00

Already the day has barely begun, but the Twitter love has been pouring in cuz . . . Twitter is there for me.

In September, we had a business retreat where we closed our office and got a hotel meeting room and paid for our out of town staff to travel here. We hired a business consultant and went to work on developing strategies for growth and success in our Accounting Firm.

Are you bored yet? Cuz this is BORING!

But the consultant insisted we put a half day on the agenda to discuss Twitter and Social Networking. I refused.

“That shit’s not for us.”

“Thanks so much for the input, but we don’t have the time.”

“Wait, aren’t we paying YOU to carry out OUR agenda? No Twitter.”

“Don’t know what the fuck Twitter is, but I’m sure I don’t care.”

“FINE, is Wednesday afternoon going to work?”

So I set up my @TheDeeView account and made a commitment to tweet once a day. And I was bold and consistent. Once a day it was.

Then a few weeks later, because I am a disciplined and driven person, I made a commitment to go for twice a day. Yep, I’m that kinda girl.

And I worked it and got my first 100 followers. And called the Business Consultant to receive praise and accolades. (That is what we pay her for – praise and accolades. I’m shallow that way.)

I didn’t know to look at my name @TheDeeView to see if people were mentioning me, I didn’t thank people for following me, I didn’t know to follow back etc.

Then around Thanksgiving in the mountains, everyone locked up in a small space, too cold to go out, I felt stir crazy, so I started pulling Twitter up. And I met @RenegadeMoms. And I thought: these chicks say what I feel. What if I started saying what I feel? (Except of course, they are anonymous and I am ah . . . not. But that thought never crossed my mind.)

And that was my Twitter Turning Point. It was a downhill slalom since then. (Hey, I’m in the know. I followed the Olympics on Twitter while watching Real Housewives of OC on TIVO.)

I started to get the feel of what Twitter could actually be and found a bunch of mothers who spoke candidly about their Mommy experiences and frankly, their desire to not be with their kids, whether through hiding, drinking or throwing the children breakfast bars to shut them up. (Oh wait, that was me.) Furthermore, I just can’t take polka dots, ribbons and cute stories about spit up. I can’t. Spit up sucks. (Not that I remember. I’m very old and my kids are in elementary school, which I think is the Holy Grail of ages.) And I was unleashed. And no longer alone with my feelings of irritability, exhaustion and embarrassing thoughts about alcohol at 11 a.m.

In this journey of 140 characters I found my voice and it felt delicious. I have things to say, bitter things, angry things, food things, political things. I can use the word “fuck” and “pussy”. I have loving and nice things to say, but I save those for my kids and husband. Twitter was my “unleashing” and it changed my life.

Though I was afraid, I started a blog. And now I have a forum, with my blessed 20 something followers. (Don’t look too closely, I follow my own blog and of course, make my husband do the same!) But for me, this has unleashed the long held back, procrastinating, paralyzed writer.

And I always talked about writing a book, but now I am actually doing it. (Well, don’t get excited, most of the time I’m too busy tweeting to follow through. But I started and that matters to me.)

And I am different in relationships – speaking the truth more, being less “nicey nice”. And trust me, I still hate it when I get negative feedback, in life and on Twitter. And I am shallow and my self esteem is wrapped up in what other people think of me. (And let’s be clear. I am a pretty “out there” person, yet I still get stung easily when someone doesn’t “get” me.)

Even my family sees the change in me. My 10 year old Blondie wrote in my Birthday Card today: I love you and your personality. It lights up the whole house. You have so many friends, both here and on Twitter. I think you have these friends because you are enjoyable. (She also made mention of my big belly laugh and my zesty approach to eating, but hey!)

But instead of holding that voice back in fear, Twitter has given me a forum to shout out. And when I shout out in Twitter, it turns out it is harder to be “nice” in my real life. I am more myself. Profane, bitchy, nasty, exhausted, exasperated, bitter, overweight and Goddamned happy. I have found my voice and I like it.

Twitter has changed my life. Happy Birthday to Me.

A Letter to the Mommy Tweeters and Bloggers

2010-02-23T07:50:00.000-08:00

It is my birthday this Thursday. I will be 51. (Hey, don't click away cuz you think you have nothing in common with me - yet!) Which makes me the age of most of your mothers. (If I am old enough to be your fucking grandmother, you should not be reading this blog or my Tweets.)

Which makes me self-conscious. I know most of my Twitter Bitter Mommy friends are in their 30’s. I just read that one of you will be turning 30 this summer. Yikes! (And yes, Aunt Becky, getting out of your 20’s changes everything, for the better!)

I had my kids in my 40’s. There were all sorts of advantages. First, I didn’t meet the Tax Man until I was 35. We didn’t get married until I was 37. Now he is one awesome dude, and well worth the wait. Cuz we have quite a thing going on!

We had a successful business enterprise that we built together. We had resources. We had a calmness about us. We also had each been married before and could really appreciate what we had found in one another.

So age gave us an amazing marriage, a solidly successful business, calm maturity and resources.

My spotty health history probably impacted our ability to get pregnant, so after we did the fertility thing (all while my daddy was dying), and by the time it all worked out I was 40 when we adopted our sweet Blondie. (Damned good thing we had those resources!)

By the time our second baby came along, I was 44.

Which wasn’t such a big deal where we used to live. I found a group of about 4 older moms, all around 40ish. We were liberals in a conservative town, hanging together and comparing our joint pain and stiff backs when we picked up the babies.

And it’s not such a bad thing in Palm Springs. Most of our friends are gay, childless couples our age. The parents at the kids’ elementary school are all younger than I am, but they are mostly real women, with bellies and bad crop pants, just like me.

But then I found this great community on Twitter. And my life changed. Cuz I found the Real Yummy Mummies. And by Yummy Mummies I mean Mom’s who knew what Yummy really was: pop tarts, cupcakes, swearing, vodka, beer, sex (that one is for you @Mommyisdating) bitchin’ about their kids.

And there was nothing sappy about these women. And I felt good. I felt at home. I felt safe, understood and cyber loved. (Hey I’m needy – I take love and adulation wherever I can get it.)

And then I realized that I was old. Older. No, old actually. There are grandmas out there tweeting who are younger than I am. And I knew I was REALLY old when I posted about menopause, my pussy and Hormone Replacement Therapy and one of my favorite Moms commented: “My mom LOVES her Hormone Replacement Therapy!” (@Randaroopoo – I love you so much.)

So I write all these Tweets and Blogs about being so old. Cuz I feel old next to 30 somethings. (Are you all too young to remember the show “thirty something”?) So I haven’t wanted to say my age. And when some of you asked, I would only tell you in a DM.

And it is one thing to say “I am 50”, and another to say "51”. (I know, if you are in your 30’s, there is no difference between 50 and 51.)

But here is my commitment as a blogger. I will tell the truth. Hopefully I can make you laugh, and most importantly I want others to feel like someone “gets” them. I want to say the shit that many think but are too afraid to say out load. Cuz I’m older, I’m braver, I’m more therapized. So listen to me, the Older Bitter Mother. I’m here to guide you through.

Cuz in my 30’s I was thin, hot, a successful career chick, married, divorced, dating, sick, well, then married to The Tax Man and childless.

In my 40’s I was NOT hot, still successful running our family business, very married, sick, well and a mom. A bit of a bitter mom, certainly a tired mom, but a mom.

For my 50’s my goal is to be hot, successful in my own right, run a majorly successful business, blog, write a book, do a show, be well, be a mom of perfect angels who never bother me while I accomplish my goals, and not be embarrassed of my age.

Cuz I’m 51 on Thursday. And I’m needy. So love me up. And dammit – respect your elders!

Look At These Baby!

2010-02-21T19:22:00.000-08:00

I have a girlfriend who suggested to me the other day, that I need a better bra, cuz, ah, when I was running . . . well, I just needed a better bra.

Now really, what I need is a tummy tuck, but I’m too scared. Or a diet, but I am far more afraid of that than a tummy tuck. Or, in the modern vernacular: a new lifestyle eating approach (if I had a dick, I would suggest that someone suck it right now).

Now these boobs have been through a lot. These boobs were my calling card for many years before middle age and weight gain took over my body. Then, when I had my kids, I did this thing called adoptive breast feeding. (Don’t ask, really, if you don’t know, don’t ask.) I will tell you, this required pumping my breast every three hours for 6 weeks before our first baby was born.

And you get a little something, not much, but a little. But besides wanting to experience the Bonding Experience of Breast Feeding as an adoptive mom. (and if you know me by now, you know that I hate to be LEFT OUT of anything) adoptive breast feeding made my breasts grow. And grow. And seriously grow. I’m talking humongous things down to my waist (oh, how I cringe in embarrassment as I type this). And long after I had stopped the nursing, they continued to grow . . .

So when I found a lump in my breast, requiring a lumpectomy, this little nasty 24 year old Fellow in Oncology said to me:

Uh, have you thought about doing something about those?

I’m here, right? I have a lump . . .

Uh, no, their uh, SIZE?

Yeah, they are really big, I get that but . . . the lump?

Bottom line is, this guy made me feel so terrible about myself, but it ended up being a good thing. Cuz not only did I get a lumpectomy, but I had a breast reduction at the same time. My breasts were so huge that they could take all this tissue around the lump and still leave me with some size D’s.

And I loved my new, scarred up but perky breasts. I would whip my shirt up at cocktail parties and scream: “Tits like a 15 year old. Wanna see?” Okay, there was some vodka involved, but also . . . I had breast pride.

So when my friend said the other day . . . you need a better bra I thought: “Do you wanna see these? 50, but the nipples STILL POINT UP!” Cuz 40 pounds and nine years later, it turns out I still have Breast Pride.

I am an Amazon Goddess! Goddess, I Say!

2010-02-19T06:04:00.000-08:00

Okay, I’ll get to the Goddess part in a minute, but first you must know, I just had a hip replacement last year. I know, little kids AND a hip replacement. My bones are shit. What can I tell you?

So I suffer through with my fucking walker, then my cane, then my limpy, gimpy walk. I get through the first 6 months in practical, orthopedic, mother-fucking ugly shoes.

But at the 6 month mark I feel GREAT. Not 100% but better than I’ve felt in years.

Finally, finally, finally I get to put on something other than butt-ugly padded strap Velcro shoes. When I put on a pair of 5 inch heels, I feel like I look 50 pounds thinner. 50 pounds! I feel amazing.

My feet may be bleeding, but I think I look good – waddle aside.

So, of course when we hosted a business event a few weeks ago, I strapped those 5 inch stilettos on. I could NOT walk in these shoes, of course, so I just planted myself in one spot.

I had a wonderful time accepting complements on my amazing shoes and fabulous sense of style. I discussed business and hopefully picked up a few new clients. But I also had a couple of martinis (they were brought to me, for reasons which should be quite obvious by now).

After that I began asking our guests if anyone had a vicodan, so I could squeeze another 20 minutes out of my party shoes.

But I am telling you, I put on these high heels and I feel like an Amazon Goddess.

I feel like I’ve got Michelle Obama’s arms and Arnold Schwarneggers abs. I have a mental picture of myself that is HOT HOT HOT!

Of course, I am too “full-figured” to actually bear these 5 inch torture rack heels for more than about an hour. That’s why I carry a fabulous bag with orthopedic, shower flip flops in it.

So anyone that showed up more than an hour into the party, you will find me in my wonderful hip, plus-size outfits (which really rock with my heels, not so much with rubber flip flops), and think “my, that mildly attractive woman has on a cute outfit, but what was she thinking leaving the house in those shoes???”

Sigh, there goes the Amazon Goddess.

It's Fucking Lent Already?

2010-02-17T09:42:00.000-08:00

Lent. I usually give something up. Well . . . not chocolate, or red meat. (What? I wanna die during Lent?). One year my husband made his own Lenten discipline. He didn’t drink, except on Sunday. Sundays were a red-wine-filled “event” in our house.

No, what I usually give up is Swearing. It takes about three weeks for me to get it out of my system. If I’m really, really mad, then an inadvertent exception might be made.

And the most interesting thing about giving up swearing? At the end of Lent, when I go back to my frequent use of the “F” word, on EASTER mind you, I find it feels so exhilarating and thrilling to randomly be throwing swear words around. Lent definitely empowers the use of swearing the rest of the year.

But this year, unlike every other year, I have started blogging. How can I blog and not swear? How will people get who I really am without the edge of the Potty Mouth Words? Will people think I am one of those nicey, nicey Mommies, who just adore their cute and silly kids?

Cuz I’m not one of those Mommies. I am the Mommy that had no idea it was going to be this hard. I am the Mommy that actually feels invaded by my children. And I am not embarrassed to tell you, I am the Mommy with the VERY tidy house who can’t stand the detritus that comes with kids! And I am an old Mommy, very tired, very irritable, with a very short temper. I am a Mommy that swears. A lot. Cuz I’m mad and tired and things feel out of my control a lot. (I hate being out of control.)

So this year for Lent . . . maybe I can live without chocolate?

Any Excuse

2010-02-17T08:27:00.000-08:00

I can turn a conversation about GROUT into an excuse why I must have a delicious sweet treat, NOW.

And to have something real actually happen in my life? I’m going to put on some weight.

Right? I mean, something good happens – I put on a little weight. You know, like it is Tuesday and the neighbors invite us for cocktails?

Come on, I’m out having a celebration. I am entitled to enjoy myself every now and again. I may put on a pound or two, but it was for a good cause.

Of course the only problem is we get social invitations 2 to 3 times per week, putting me on a 2.5 per week weight gain program.

But wait.

What about when something bad happens?

Well I must nourish my soul with something yummy – perhaps a trip out to dinner?

I’ll just have appetizers and a drink – you know, something dietetic like chicken wings with ranch dip, the fresh baked cookies and a hummus sampler.

And one drink makes drink number two seem like such a great idea. After all, I am upset about something.

I am entitled to comfort myself every now and again. Make that 3.0 times per week.

As a matter of fact writing this blog has been a bit draining…

I think I’ll go see what’s in the pantry!

I Hate Thin People

2010-02-16T08:02:00.000-08:00

I hate thin people. There are two types. I hate them both.

First, there are the “thins” people who just have THAT kinda body type.

It is just natural for them: genes, metabolism, whatever. They aren’t driven by food. Thoughts about food don’t invade their every waking (and a few sleeping) moments.

The smell of food doesn’t make them have a slight water-boarding experience in their own mouths. They aren’t making their daily schedule based upon yesterdays’ food cravings. (Mmmm, donuts, if I run to Target today, then I’ll be over by Jensen’s which has the best glazed buttermilk donuts, etc.)

Thins are the kind of people that can have a sandwich at 4:00 p.m. and when you ask them to go get tacos at 6:00 p.m. they say “I’M NOT HUNGRY”. (Now I am the kind of person who can have a meatball sandwich at 5:00 p.m. and then you ask me for tacos at 6:00 p.m. Just the thought of tacos, the visual image of tacos, will make my mouth start to water. And yes, I’m in for Tacos!)

They are just thin and they just don’t get why everyone isn’t.

But worse than the “Thins” are the people who aren’t “Thins” but are thin! These are the people who have suffered, sacrificed and bitterly done without while all those around them continue to “imbibe” shall we say, in yummy, cheesey, saucey foods (what I like to call my first mid-day snack).

These people feel good about their bodies, they are proud of their low blood pressure and cholesterol levels that rank at the low range of normal (yeah, yeah, yeah your doctor was proud of you – whatever, the Baker at Von’s knows me by name). They don’t shop in the plus size department and they have brainwashed themselves into thinking they “love running”.

But inside, they feel so deprived, so left out, so, well, motherfucking hungry for something to eat that isn’t naturally crunchy, in small pre-measured baggies. And they hate everyone who continues to eat delicious beefie, cheesy, fried things.

And they judge. They judge the fat people for eating cuz they are fat. They judge those who may eat yummy, delicious things, because “That shit is gonna kill you.” This makes the fat people feel very bad (so, of course we are going to eat another taco).

But ya know what? Ya know what all us “fats” think the whole time they are being criticized? The secret we hold dear? The Thin people who aren’t really “Thins” are going to crack. And it is going to be bad.

I have two words for you on this. Oprah Winfrey

I’ve got issues (surprise, surprise)…TRINA TURK

2010-02-12T07:20:00.000-08:00

I’ve got issues with the designer Trina Turk. I am lovin’ the Palm Springs lifestyle and the Trina Turk store is so representative of that. I love her fabrics and her styles. Bold, bright, and okay, the prices are too high for me but still. I drool each time I look at her store windows.

So what’s wrong with this love affair? She stops her clothes at a size 12. Size 12??? She makes me love her clothes then doesn’t make anything that actually fits over my fucking thighs? (But I can buy a throw pillow for $118 – one size fits all.)

Same thing with premium jeans – 7 for all Mankind, Diesel, True Religion etc – top off at 10 or 12. (Btw, while I was researching these brands, I just bought a sweater from Nordstrom.com.) What the fuck? What about the fat girls?

Really, forever I have to wear “Not Your Daughters Jeans”? (Which I am embarrassed to say, I love! But that is not the fucking point)

During this economy, I think all retailers should be kissing the fat girls’ ass. It is a guaranteed growth demographic. There are a whole bunch of us and we aren’t getting any smaller!

And speaking of Department Stores – Can we talk about the plus size departments? At my Macy’s the Plus Department it is in the Basement with the kids clothes (and the men’s department, but hey – I don’t care about them).

Then at Nordstrom, they call the plus department “Encore”. Really? Encore? The skinny girls get “Point of View” and “Narrative”, “Brass Plum”. The big girls get “Encore”. Why don’t they just call it “Finale, before you stroke out”.

So you know what, Fancy-pants-name-brands? I’ll just take my big bag of Plus-Size-Fashion money and shop somewhere else!

And if I find a pair of jeans that I like, that like me, I’m going to buy them in every color – light denim, dark denim, medium denim. No, I’ll buy two in each color – one for high heels, one for flats.

Take THAT Trina!!!

THE SECRET

2010-02-10T07:15:00.000-08:00

So the other day, Blondie tells me she has a secret. Well, I can’t tolerate such a thing. I am the kind of mother that reads my kid’s journal.

I see you judging me. But goddammit. I plan to be one of the first to know when my kids start making out and using drugs.

But speaking of lying and cheating and drugs. I have a policy. When my daughters ask me about my drug use in the past I plan to look them in the eye and, without batting an eyelash, LIE. “We don’t do drugs in this family.”

But back to Blondie’s secret. She’s 10. She informs me that she has her own inner life and that there are things that are personal just to her.

What’s a mother to do?

I’m not proud but I offer her money to tell me her secret.
No, some things need to be just hers.
I offer her extra TV time. No.
I ask if she is using drugs. She’s horrified.
I ask if she is swearing on the playground. More horror.

I ask if there has been kissing going on.
She turns red and says NO. I zero in – is this about kissing?
No. Is this about a crush?
Yes. Who?
I’ll only tell you if you don’t tell Daddy.
Sorry– I may swear, drink, lie about my own drug history but I won’t keep anything from Daddy.

Eventually I wear her down. She is 10 and I am the mommy.

And I can keep a secret. 

I Have An Old Pussy

2010-02-09T06:51:00.000-08:00

Sweet, tight, hot, juicy. Not so much anymore. First there are the erratic periods. Then the motherfucking hot flashes. Then there is the trip to the gyno and the blood tests. And the confirmation: Yes @TheDeeView, you are indeed drying up like the old withered prune that you think you are.

And then, in case there is any doubt, the orgasms change. They get harder to "come" by (and frankly, mine were always work. I was never multi-orgasmic at the thought of a big-hard pulsating dick. I needed attention.) (Unless of course, it was with my husband, just the thought of my husband made me clench and scream with joy. In case he is reading this, you know?)

But nothing mattered as much to me as the all consuming, horror of the hot flashes. (Please see www.TheDeeView.blogspot.com for more detailed descriptions of my descent into aging hell.) So after about 6 months of suffering (The Sweet Blessed Virgin Mary never suffered so much) I went on Hormone Replacement Therapy.

You younger women might ask if I am afraid of the side effects. You bet your sweet ass I am. But what is a suffering girl to do?

The hot flashes stopped. And the orgasms are ah, excellent.

So what if I speak out of one side of my mouth? My pussy is all hot and juicy again.

So what if I get breast cancer. My pussy will be tight and moist again.

My cognitive skills may be diminished slightly, but I come like a fire hydrant mowed down by a teenage driver.

Actually, just writing this makes me a little moist down there. Or did I just pee a little bit in my panties?

Ahh, I still have an old pussy.

Why Is The Fucking Heater On?

2010-02-08T07:35:00.000-08:00

Besides WISDOM, getting older gives you…Hot flashes. You know, THE CHANGE (how quaint people named things in the 1950s).

Now I had seen women with hot flashes and thought: “Good God Honey, suck it up.” Besides I live in Palm Springs in the summertime, how bad can that be? Pussies.

Oh.

Okay, turns out the term ‘hot flashes’ do not do this life-transforming experience justice. The hot ‘flash’ (a complete misnomer since there is nothing quick or fucking fleeting about it) is a deep hot burning which begins inside your bone marrow and makes you want to tear your clothes off, and in not in the good way. Right – cuz “that way” is fucking over, cuz you are in menopause and need air. Air conditioning, a fan, get the heater off!

“Air, NOW!”

Yeah, nothing sexy about that.

Great, now I have to buy these little ice packs that you put in your bra.
Yes, this is what my happiness now depends on. Temperature controlled breasts.

So, I deeply apologize to all the schvitzing women whom I disparaged as weenies. Hot flashes completely ruined my life. People would ask me in public, if I was aware that my face was, ah, quite … red, flushed. Was I all right? Did they need to call someone?

Once someone touched my back to see if I was okay, and pulled their hand back in quick revulsion. I was so wet and so hot, it was, well, repellent.

And I was a bitch. A big bitch. Bigger than the usual Bitchy, Worn-Out Mommy Bitch that I usually am.

Therefore, with great humility and desperation I succumbed to Hormone Replacement Therapy.

Really, there is a moment where you think – I don’t care what kind of horrible cancer I get. If these hot flashes and fits of rage don’t stop someone will be seriously injured. And I don’t like jail. Those jump suits would not be figure flattering to the full-figured girl.

And guess what Hormone Replacement Therapy gave me? Periods.

Ah, the fucking cycle of life! At least my boobs aren’t on ice anymore.

Ah Facebook . . . We need to talk

2010-02-02T16:58:00.000-08:00

Dear FaceBook,

I have something I have to tell you. You aren’t going to like this. And this is really hard for me to say, but I have left you for another social networking site.

Our thing was really good while it lasted. And it’s totally not you, it’s me.

I just need to follow my heart (and I know, because you love me, that you want the best for me). I need to be with someone who can make me laugh in 140 characters. Everything with us just goes on and on. And in your heart, you know it’s true.

I know we both thought we had found “the one”. But it turns out; I think you were my MySpace rebound. I’m thinking this was just a phase.

Also, I know this is shallow, but frankly, I need to be with someone younger. I know that when we got together, everyone thought I was a little old for you. But you know, I’m really a young soul. And now, it’s time to move on and follow my heart.

But what we had was completely real. I loved you. We had really fun times: shared a few secrets, watched some great clips, learned a lot about politics and made great friends together.

I understand that you don’t want this to be happening. And it kills me to hurt you. So we can keep in touch, check in every now and then. But I need to warn you in advance, this new Social Networking Site, we are thinking about becoming exclusive.

For now, can we just be Friends?

Love,

www.Twitter.com/@TheDeeView.com

PS: Ummmm . . . obviously not going on that Valentine’s Day Cruise. Hope you are okay by yourself.

Merry Fucking Christmas

2010-02-01T10:13:00.000-08:00

In December, we take the girls out to get the Christmas tree. Now my husband and I have done a lot of Christmases. This is one of the disadvantages to having kids later in life. Just about the time you are “over” the whole big stage production of the holidays, you have kids who care. Really care.

But we persevere. So we follow our annual tradition of taking the girls photo and turning it into a gorgeous Christmas card. They are so clean, and blow dried, with a bit of clear lipgloss. They look like little angels. (OK, so I shot a few hundred pics trying to get the “perfect shot” before they started weeping from the pressure of “Put you heads together and smile. Like you LIKE each other please!”)

We prepare for our annual Christmas party, which means we have to get a tree.

It’s a weeknight, cold out, and it has been a really long day. We load up and do our normal tree ritual, which consists of making pretend I am really considering the ridiculous and pathetic trees my daughters point out, and then making them VERY excited about the special tree which looks like it was “custom made just for us”!

On the way home they start going at each other in the back seat. Well, I’m not that tired, that I can’t put on my Good Mommy routine.
“Now girls, please stop yelling like that, and everyone, remember, keep your hands to yourself. Thank you!”
The silence doesn’t even last a full minute.
Stern Mommy says: “Girls, I have asked you nicely to quit screaming in the back seat. It is distracting while Daddy is driving. Please do what you are asked, and you’re your voices down and your hands to yourself.”
Sterner Mommy: “I mean it, knock it off you two. You are too loud. No TV tonight if you don’t pipe down.”
Angry Mommy: “What is is gonna take? I told you two to BE QUIET and KEEP YOUR DAMNED HANDS TO YOURSELF!!!”
Going off Mommy: “SHUT UP BACK THERE. I MEAN IT!!!”
After one more “episode” I reach around to the back seat, with the full intention of slapping some daughter. In my husband’s large, manly, oddly gangbanger-like Cadillac EXT, it turns out I can’t actually reach them. So while wildly flapping my arm around the back seat (where I indeed catch a little bit of knee skin under my nail) Mommy goes wild: “When I ask you to BE QUIET I mean BE QUIET, SHUT UP, STOP YELLING, STOP SPEAKING, STOP BREATHING, STOP TOUCHING EACH OTHER, STOP, STOP, STOP.”
Quiet.

Ah . . .Take a picture of THIS Christmas moment. You know the one where Mommy has a bit of spittle in the corner of her mouth, eyes somewhat bugged out, Angel Children retracting their feet, holding their little knees to their chest, a bit of Christmas tree branch, rolled up in the window. You know, the picture NOT on our Christmas card?

Say fucking “Ho Ho Ho” to that.

The Witching Hour

2010-01-27T14:39:00.000-08:00

Early mornings have a beautiful quality of calm in our house. Before we get up and moving, the girls come in and we have a family cuddle. Everybody is warm and sleepy and entangled in each other. I breathe in the smell of their heads and think about what a Golden Moment this is. I love them with all my heart. I love them so much, it hurts.

Then we start getting ready for school. It’s not as bad as it used to be; there is a checklist, and they move through pretty quickly. (This would be because I leave at 8:00 in the morning, whether they are ready or not. They run down the street, backpacks swaying, sobbing “Mommy – WAIT!” Very mean. Very effective.)

THEN, there is the 3 p.m. pick-up. A little discussion about the day, what color heels the first grade teacher was wearing, playground activities etc. Then we begin the afternoon witching hour.

You know the hour:
The 10-year old has to tell me she forgot to take her comprehension test, coupled with red face, head thrown down on desk and wailing.
Do your Home work!
Practice the Piano!
OMG - have you washed your hands in the last week? (Ewww)
Reading!
Soccer gear! I don't know where your shin guards are. They aren't my shin guards to keep track off.
No don't put ON your jazz shoes, just FIND your jazz shoes.
Why does it have to take 45 minutes to take a shower? You are very tiny. Hurry Up!

It is the worst part of my day. The day when those beautiful little morning cuddle bugs come home. I call it the witching hour. When Mommy becomes a . . . witch.

Singing in the Rain - NOT

2010-01-25T08:34:00.000-08:00

Fuck, the sun is out. I woke up this morning and it wasn’t raining. Now that should be a good thing, to have a little break before the next storm rolls in. I’m just upset cuz it means I have to walk my kids to school. Part of the charm of our neighborhood, is that we live 4 blocks from school and get to walk. We take the dogs; my friend ChihuahuaMom and her dog come along too. It is a ritual, a routine. It keeps my kids active (now that they have cut PE to one hour a week in our district), and it keeps me moving, which is good. I hate to move. Moving hurts. But I am a Big Mama, so moving is "beneficial". But this morning I am so tired, so fucking tired. My day ahead is a long one of work and doctors appointments. So the thought of “suiting up” in walking clothes and shoes, getting leashes, sunscreen (after all, it is Palm Springs), hat, sunglasses, do you have your lunch? Do you have your backpack? Do you have your book? Don’t forget your goddamn homework. Oh Honey, you're right - I meant gosh darn. No, you’re right. I’m sorry. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go. Yeah, I wish it was still raining this morning. That means their dad would drive them to school. Would it be too much to ask all of you to do a rain dance for me? Seriously, I just need a sprinkle.

I Can Hear You

2010-01-23T09:32:00.000-08:00

There are some distinct advantages to being an older mom. Okay, maybe one distinct advantage: more economic security. Not total economic security. This economy sucks ass for everyone but undertakers. However, we have a business we have poured our hearts and souls into for many years. Things were going great, and then we thought: what the hell, let’s have kids.

So less economic insecurity is a good thing. Just about everything else about being an older mom is sheer, unadulterated hell.

There is the fact that my body is old, tired, (been kinda sick) and more worn out. So I don’t run with my kids. (Please, if anyone tells me about their 78 year old grandma who runs marathons, I’ll find a way to come over and bitch slap you.) And it isn’t just physical. I have all the “Grouchy Grandpa” symptoms. The background noise they make is painful to my ears. I can’t stand it when they interrupt me when I’m working on the computer. (Okay, or maybe Tweeting on the computer.) And don't ask me to get down on the ground to play trains with you!

Emotionally, let’s just say menopause plus young children is a recipe for Temper Tantrum Disaster. And by “Temper Tantrum” I mean my own. I have no patience, I snap all the time, and, at times, I’m a slapper. I hate it when I slap, but the red rage of impatience flames over me and there you go.

And really, how long can it take to “run back to your room and get a sweater”? I often scream out: “I’m having another birthday waiting for you! You don’t want Mommy to have too many more birthdays!”

My children are accustomed to running through the house to grab a magazine, newspaper, or miraculously enough, a fan and start waving it at the first signs of a hot flash (the red face, the clutching at my clothes as though they are bathed in acid, the swearing). And then they GET OUT OF THE WAY!

Something else. I am not tiny and fresh and pretty like so many of the other moms at the local elementary school. I have a second chin starting to give birth to a third chin, I have a big flat but and a belly like fucking Santa Claus. I have age spots, crows feet and those motherfucking little wrinkle lines around my lips. Oh, and here’s something I bet you don’t know. My goddamned nose is bigger than it used to be, and ahem, it was NEVER SMALL.

Frankly, it hurts to look like the Grandmas at my daughters’ elementary school. One day when my little Glowie ran out of the gates, screaming “Mama, Mama, Mama” with her arms outstretched, the woman next to me said, under her breathe, “Mama??? What’s that girl saying? Mama???” I turned to this woman, who was wearing bedroom slippers-the fluffy kind, and said: “I CAN HEAR YOU. I AM STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU AND I CAN HEAR YOU.”

That is the part of being a vain, older mom that totally sucks. Looking my age (and Dammit, I look GOOD, but I do look my age) just sometimes feels bad.

So if you are going to talk smack about me, then please do what I do – Get a Twitter account. Or start your own fucking blog about that cranky old chick with the two young daughters. You know, the one with the SUPRISINGLY GOOD HEARING! Cuz remember, I may look like somebody’s grandma, but I can still FUCKING HEAR YOU!

What the fuck am I doing on Twitter? Oh, having the time of my life.

2010-01-22T07:14:00.000-08:00

There is a philosophy that people on Twitter have “no life”. I beg to differ. Twitter makes my hectic, intense life richer. You know, like caffeine. So fuck you and take that.

Now that I have achieved the goal 1000 followers (and I can rest on my ass) I have Twitter tips.

There was a price to pay to build 1000 followers in 3 months (one at a time, no viral marketing). I reduced my interaction time with my husband and children. I stopped socializing with people I really enjoyed. I watched less TV. And I loved every minute of it.

Here’s how I did it. (Oh, and I didn’t even have a blog. I do now. Please check out http://www.thedeeview.blogspot.com/ .)

1) Tweet your ass off. The more you tweet, the more followers you will have.

2) Check your Twittername on the right. That’s how you know if people are retweeting you, or mentioning you or even better, saying something to you in response to one of your tweets. (Hey, I didn’t know this at first!) This is the most fun part when I sit down to tweet, to see if anyone is responding to a prior comment.

3) When you are ready to turn in for the night, or head out for your day (unless of course your day is spent in front of the computer) make sure you have a “good” tweet up. I know, but some of the stuff I say is very stupid. Maybe more than some . . . Remember when you show up on a list of “followers” or “following” on a Twitter list, all someone sees is your name, pic and YOUR LATEST TWEET!
a. BTW, you can delete a Tweet. So if you say something incredibly idiotic you can go in and TAKE IT BACK. Unlike life.

4) Have a narrative. I want a story, not links to things you are selling. Have a personality. If I look at your profile and I don’t see that, I’m not following you. You bore me. (Now you can be selling something and still say interesting things in between sales pitches.)
a. Retweets - Only Retweet if it is really special, personal or funny. Remember, retweets don’t make a narrative.
b. Quotes – Quotes just suck. Unless they are important to your narrative, or exceptional, don’t do it.
c. You narrative can be Mommies, Sports, Football, Politics, Real Estate or everything wrapped together.

5) I don’t use Tweetdeck or anything else. I use old fashioned Twitter. (And yes, we still have a VCR somewhere in our house.) Maybe I should stop, but as long as I do, I select certain people to have their tweets come to my phone. Out of the 1000 people I follow, maybe 10 come to my phone. This allows me to really understand someone’s story, who they are and what they are trying to say. (If they suck, I just click them OFF.) Then I am “tuned in” to them, and can interact with them, using “mention”, accordingly. This really facilitates building a relationship.

6) Speaking of interacting, this is the most fun part of Twitter. I watched the Golden Globes with a group of very funny women online. Comments on fashion and stupidity made the viewing process fun. Everyone I saw, I would “mention” their name with a comment. The whole time I was checking my Twitter name to see who had responded to me. That kept the conversation going. With all that chatter, I picked up another dozen followers. And I already have several dates to Tweet the Academy Awards. (My husband loves watching football on Sunday with other Twitter fans, cuz God knows, I don't give a shit about watching the game with him.)

7) Remove those who don’t follow back, especially if they are boring. Give them a week, or so but unless they are adding something to your conversation in your news feed, get rid of them! The ultimate goal is to have more followers than you are following. This is very good for people who are needy and seek external validation.

8) Search and follow. Go into the people who are the most interesting and follow whomever they are following. Check out who has them “listed”. Then follow all those people.

9) Save your Direct Messages for things that are personal, embarrassing or don’t add to your narrative. But wherever possible, use “Mention” and get that person’s name out there. (As well as your own.)

10)You decide – Your real name or not. Your real photo or an icon. To swear or not to swear. (I have found swearing ups my number of follows.)

My current favorite Mommy tweeters: @Renegademoms , @Mommywantsvodka @PS_Nanny, @MiddleAgedMomma, @Ieatmykidzsnack @Mommyisdating

@Madfashionista stands in a category all her own. But if you like fashion and fashion commentary, she's your girl. (She gets the whole "Fat Chic" thing too.)

@KirstieAlley Hey, you may not love her, but she is a brilliant example of an ongoing Twitter narrative, and she is surprisingly candid and funny.

Business people who really know how to tell a story: @LeslieBriskman @Taxgirl, @Taxes007

The Real World

2010-01-21T08:18:00.000-08:00

The other day, someone told me to get out of cyber space and come back into the Real World. You know, the world where SHE is living. She is hardly the first to have said this to me, (and she did apologize) but, hey, it was a zinger.

You know the drill. In The Real World, where people are TOO BUSY to be bothered with “that waste of time”. In The Real World, where the kids aren’t at home and life has a different rhythm. You know, The Real World – where certain things are evil. Like Twitter. Not Facebook (no – everyone uses FB to connect with their “friends”). Not email (that is so 1999 and therefore, OK). No, the Evil “cyber world” would be the computer I use to do my work at home, so I can take my kids to school and pick them up, but still contribute to our family business. (All be it, in my jammies or stinky sweat clothes.) It would be the fact that I get joy out of connecting with other like-minded mommies out there (okay, by like-minded I mean a bit angry, truly profane, emeshed in all the pain-in-the-ass work of day to day Mommying).

I have two school age kids who think their hands would fall off if they were ever to pick up after themselves, a business to run, two people in my family have health issues and a constant sense that there is NO FUCKING TIME.

AND if I did have time, I would not get out of my stinky clothes I wore to walk the kids to school to spend it in THE REAL WORLD. The only Real World I’m interested in would be this: I would grab my Kindle and sit outside in the yummy Palm Springs sun and read. Or I would hook up with some other Mommies in Evil Cyber Space and feel connected in a really delicious way. Or I would watch an episode of Tabatha's Salon Takeover or Real Housewives (I don't care which one - they are all riveting to me.)

Someday I may live in her Real World, the lonely one without a large, crazy-ass cyber space, slightly dysfunctional family community. But for now, give me my Twitter Moms, Rabid Politicos, Fashion Mavens, Mommy Bloggers and a rare hour or two to myself. Because that’s pretty damned real to me.

First Blog Ever or aka . . . I'm such a pussy

2010-01-20T13:25:00.000-08:00

I am such a pussy. I listen to all these people talking about their blogs. I follow the links to blogs on Twitter. And I feel bitter. And afraid. Because I’m a pussy.

I have been too afraid to start. Cuz I won’t be as good, as authentic, as heartfelt, as fucking funny as the other bloggers. Some are beautiful writers. How can I compete with that? (Isn’t it cute how I think people other than my family and closest friends are actually going to be reading this?)

Here’s the deal: I’m great to have at parties. One, I get liquored up pretty quickly, and two, I tell a great story. But getting that story out of my mouth, when there is a martini in my hand, and onto the computer is ridiculously painful.

Why am I doing it? If I suck so bad? Because I have a fucking opinion about everything. And THAT, My Dears, is only fun if other people are listening. Which means: I need you.

I have things to share. About your shoes, your politics, your sexual orientation. And stories to tell. About my shoes (fabulous), my politics (liberal, fuck you Fox News) and my husband (a God among men, who is sometimes a moron).

And btw, why aren’t you following me on Twitter. Dude, don’t be a pussy.