Art Show Baby!!!

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

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

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

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

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!

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!

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"

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

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?

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?