I feel guilty and dirty . . .

Now I’m sure you’re thinking this must be because I didn’t switch off Cinemax when it went to “NIGHTTIME” #yikes

I know you’re thinking that I’m banging the handyman. (Although after he fixed that last leaky sink I’m not saying it didn’t cross my mind.)

Or I’ve been holed up in the pantry snorting crushed Tylenol. (Wait, do you think that does anything?)

But no, unfortunately...The activity that has me feeling shameful and dirty and guilty like I’m failing my family, my daughters, our business, the Unified School System and the entire County of Riverside is . . .

Sometimes I take an hour (or uh . . . two), sit outside and read a book.

I know this will be shocking and horrifying to you but, sometimes I even nap. And drool.

If you ask me what I did that day? I’ll tell you I was super-busy working and getting stuff done.

I will also tell you that I am super-exhausted. (Do you think I’m anemic? Or have cancer? Or some kind of thyroid condition? . . .) Uh, I’m a menopausal mother.

How’s that for a diagnosis BLUE CROSS!?!

Yes, this is the life of a helicopter mom. I am driven.

I drive my kids, myself and my family. So what would happen if anyone finds out about this horrible situation, this lapse in judgment, this SLACKING in the middle of the “work” day?

I got up a 4:00 this morning to get my work done. By 11:00 I sat down to read the paper and fell asleep. Of course I couldn’t doze long cuz I had to pick up my kid at 1:30. (Please read with a “holier than thou” tone. Thank you.)

Oh, and don’t forget, I work Saturdays. Well, go ahead and forget. Cuz you can trust me to REMIND YOU!!!

See, it is VERY important to me that you know HOW VERY BUSY AND PRODUCTIVE I am, every day.

It is such a lie.

There are days when I look at my desk and I look at my To Do list and I whimper.

And I walk away.

Some days I feel so overwhelmed that I rifle through the pantry scraping Cheetos dust out of one of the bins. And drink maple syrup from the bottle. And make lots of quesadillas with tons of hot sauce. (Thank you La Victoria!)

There are days when I move shit around on my desk, sigh heavily and then put on a Crown of Thorns.

Which, by the way, a Crown of Thorns? Super uncomfortable to nap in.

If you see me with downcast eyes, unable to meet your gaze you’ll know my Dirty Little Secret.

But damn, wasn’t “Slammerkin” a really great book? #slacker

Working it out . . . Twitter Style

My early were passionate. At least that‘s what I thought.

In the early days on Twitter, I made some friends. I was making relationships friends and ending my parental isolation. All was good.

But every now and then, I would get on my soap box. #fuck #ididitalot #enthusiastic

Some days I’m mad at the crazy Real Housewife. (Hey, you fill in the location of your choice – there’s one lunatic on every show. #Kelly #Danielle #NeNe.)

You know Angry Birds? Well, I was the Angry Tweeter.

Do you remember the Super Bowl game when CBS took the Tebow ad, which was a smarmy play against abortion rights?

Well I committed myself to sit at my computer from 8 am to 8 pm. I didn’t own a laptop. That is dedication Man! Crazy and dedicated.

I tweeted all day things like: Fuck CBS, Pro Planned Parenthood, Give to NARAL, Get your laws off my body. (Okay – not literally my body cuz uh, I’m a little older now than I was during my Radical Feminist College Chick days. I’m still Radical. And still a Feminist. But it turns out I am no longer agitating for myself, personally. #menopause.)

It was a long day. (Listening to my husband shout at the game, laugh at the commercials and enjoy loud sounding Ruffles-Like snacks.)

But dammit, I was educating people. In a very hostile manner. All 800 of my followers.

Shortly therafter, 750 followers.

Cuz I was going to change the world, one Bot at a time. (That was before I discovered Twit Cleaner.)

And don’t forget all those followers who were following two people from three years earlier. Yeah, I really changed policy in America that day.

But now? I’ve learned my lesson. I’m here to relate and hopefully entertain.

However, every now and the . . . #birther #FuckDonaldTrump

Bikram Zumba

Ahh, Zumba. I was just sure adding a Zumba class to my work out routine would change my life. And it would be so easy and fun!

Cuz I’ve got my Pilates groove on now for better than a year. (By “groove” I mean I show up twice a week to pray for the class to be over or to have a massive heart attack and die quickly.) And don’t get me wrong. Pilates has changed me. My kids don’t have to tie my shoes for me anymore.

But I’m a Big Girl and I need some AEROBICS in my life.

Enter . . . Zumba class.

So I go to this over-crowded, not super-expensive gym and join. Just for the Zumba. (Arriba! Arriba!)

And they hold the class in this corner of the gym that has NO VENTILATION.
And it is crowded. Cuz Palm Springs chicks want their ZUMBA.

And believe it or not, there is an ongoing dispute over whether or not to TURN THE FAN ON! (WTF? It is Palm Springs, People. It’s a 100 flipping degrees out.) Cuz some of these delicate flowers are afraid they might catch a cold. From the fan.

So it’s crowded. And it’s hot. And there’s no air.

Why, now that I think about it, let’s just refer to it as Bikram Zumba.

So during Bikram Zumba, I look around the room and realize I am always the biggest or 2nd biggest chick in the room. These women look amazing. And they are wearing tangerine pants with ribbons dangling down their legs.

Me? Well I do love to try to rock the Fat Chic, but in BZ (that’s Bikram Zumba to you!) I just wear my standard yoga pants and a big, hangy down, T-shirt. And a giant sport bra. Cuz that’s how I roll. Or bounce, as the case may be.

And I can’t manage the fancy footwork. So I try to swing my arms with Zest. But it is crowded. So I invariable slap someone. #oopsie

And I can’t seem to make any friends in this class. Is it my tomato red face combined with my bad attire? Is it the flailing arms while my feet don’t move? It is the fact that I keep running to the clock in the other room to see HOW MUCH LONGER THIS SHEER HELL AND TORTURE WILL CONTINUE? Is it my witty jokes about how I hope I don’t need an ambulance soon?

No matter. Cuz whatever the deal, I keep showing up. And flailing. And sweating. And shouting Arriba!

And all that Latin Music? It makes me want a margarita and a shredded beef taco with a crispy shell.

And cuz I’m dehydrated? Make my margarita a double, with salt. Arriba!

Mommy, Do You Remember the Naked Ladies?

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

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

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.

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

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?

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?

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