The Goddamned Dog and My Outdoor Shower

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

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

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 . . .

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

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.

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.

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.