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

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.

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...

@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 . . .

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

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"

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!!!!

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

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!

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!

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!!!