Cords and Fleece

“Hey! Where are my pants?” That’s Lizzy, suddenly discovering that the black bicycle shorts she wore under her dress are missing. We just picked her up from daycare. “Are they in your cubby?” “No.” “Where are they?” “I forgot.” “Where did you take them off?” “I forgot.” Why do I have a sinking feeling this will not be the first time I hear these words? “You don’t remember? Were you in the bathroom?” “No.” “Were you outside?” “No.” “Were you abducted by aliens who stole your pants?” “What?” “Elizabeth, you had to take them off somewhere. Try to remember.” She stops. She thinks. She sobs. “I want my pants! They’re my f-favorite!” “Honey, they must be at school somewhere. We’ll find them tomorrow.” We arrive home and she retreats to her bedroom to sob into her pillow over the loss of her beloved pants. (Who among us hasn’t done the same?) Eventually she recovers and rejoins the family, only to suddenly remember her MIA pants and then run crying into her room again. Perhaps it’s the GAP ad

Last week, Michael and I snuck away to one of our favorite restaurants for lunch, Flavor Thai. Here are snippets of the conversation. --------------------- "How is your house?" -- asked by our waitress. This is the standard fire-related question here in San Diego. --------------------- "Hey, let's buy a mini van." "Yea? So we can spend $400 each month for it to sit in our driveway, just so we'll have it on those rare occasions when we need to seat more than four people instead of renting a mini van for $80 a day?" OK, guess not... --------------------- "This soup makes me happy. I should remember this the next time I'm in a bad mood. I'll come here, eat this soup, and feel better. It's that good." "You want to finish mine?" --------------------- "Is that woman talking on her cell phone?" "No. She must talk loud normally, I guess." --------------------- "Look at these deserts. Sweet rice... co

Moon Sand File this under “seemed like a good idea at the time.” We I thought: We’re bored. We need projects. Let’s break out the Moon Sand! After all, the box says it’s moldable, colorful, and appropriate for 3 year-olds. But what it failed to mention was that it’s like taking a bowl of blue sand and dumping it onto the carpet. Yes, it’s moldable. But it’s also sand . Keep that in mind folks. It won't behave and stay nicely on the kitchen counter or in the bowl. It will spill ... and it will cover and cling to everything. Macy the doggie may never be the same... Garden Snails... as Pets Elizabeth has been clamoring for a pet to call her own ever since Boris died. So when she found a cute little snail shell in Grandma’s garden, it wasn’t long before the shell was living in a cream cheese container on her night stand. See, I thought it was an empty shell. Imagine my surprise when I saw her kissing the underside of the shell, only to see her lips touching the slimy gray tenant th

I’m not really here. No. I’m outside. Away. Perhaps at some local library. Or the grocery store. Or work. But I’m not really writing in my bedroom at a makeshift workstation with the door locked and a pillow tucked behind my back while typing on my vanity table. No. Officially, Mommy has left the building. That’s the story Michael is handing the girls, anyway. We’ll see if it works. I need time to do this writing thing, which has become a kind of mental addiction that keeps my head screwed on straight. Now, it seems, I begin to hyperventilate a little without my word fix, which is kind of how I used to feel all the time before writing regularly. So I must write. Because my mind/body needs it. But there has been very little time to write over the last few days. Here’s what we do, in random, chaotic dis -order: - answer many fire-related phone calls - watch the news - visit Grandma - check local fire maps - get a little work done - call friends and family often - find Magic Markers - vis

The girls and I are on the highway headed to school and work. Up ahead, it’s dark on the other side of the mountain. I get a phone call from Michael. “UCSD is closed, so you should turn around and come home.” “Really? OK, I’ll see soon.” I hang up the phone. “OK girls, see how ‘foggy’ it is up ahead? That’s smoke. Remember all the fires we saw on TV? Well, because of all the smoke, school and work are closed today.” “Are they on fire?” “No, but the air quality is bad -- it’s hard to breath. So we’re going back home.” “Mommy, why don’t you turn around now?” “Well, we’re on the highway, so I have to look for a road so I can turn around safely.” I find the road and turn around safely. “Mommy, why are we turning around?” “Because we’re going back home.” “Mommy, why are you driving us in circles?” Oh, I don’t know. To burn off some of this cheap gasoline? To make Samantha car sick? Because I’m bored? “We’re going back home, honey.” And we do. In San Diego, we don’t have snow days, we have

“Mommy, can I have another fork?” “Sure, the utensil drawer is right over there.” “Mommy, can you find Baby Doll for me?” “Not until you look for her first.” That I don’t immediately get up from the dining table to fetch another fork has nothing to do with laziness. After all, did I not just come home from a long day of work, head straight to the kitchen and make a spaghetti dinner without first taking off my shoes or going to the bathroom? And when I don’t stop folding the laundry, or washing the dishes, or going to the bathroom to hunt for baby doll, it’s not because I have a cruel streak. It’s because I want my girls to be independent. Trust me -- some days it would be a lot easier just to do their bidding. Asking Elizabeth to get her own fork causes the following sequence of events: she disappears under the table (where are you going?), finds a lost Froot Loop (what is that?), threatens to eat it (don’t eat that!), throws it back on the floor (pick it up!), tickles my foot (please

College exams and college debts Crazy bosses and bad commutes Moving up and moving down Doubts and silence Crying kids and howling cats Labor pains and mortgage bills Closed minds and slammed doors Death and taxes Headaches and backaches Sexless nights and granny undies Bad hair and graying pubes Not and Tonight Yes. After 16 years of marriage, And all that , Sometimes you do What you gotta do. Seriously. And they all lived happily ever after. Previous Comments

I was reading a book. When I read, I have a game I like to play. The game is simple: I sit down, open a book, and see how long it takes for a child to need me, interrupt me, or otherwise compel me to stop reading. On average it takes less than two minutes. 30 seconds is common. I call it “Readus Interruptus”. I have no choice but to play this game. Trying to read before going to bed is useless since I usually fall asleep during the first sentence. The silver-lining is that I have become a very thorough, if not extremely slow, reader. It takes weeks to finish a book (if I can maintain interest in the book long enough to finish it). Thoroughness comes from reading the same sentence over, and over, and over again. "Camilla heard a horrifying sound emanate from her bedroom. A slow, painful wheezing whispered her name. (Camilla... do it...) The sound was both distant and close enough for her to feel as hot breath on her neck. She had to face the creature once and for all, but wasn’t s

Deep Tissue Massage: therapeutic spa treatment or the physical rearrangement of meanness? You decide. I’ve had 6 massages in as many years and Sunday I had my first deep tissue massage. As I understand it, a deep tissue massage works deep inside the muscles to release toxins that form as knots. My “toxic knots” prefer the neighborhood of my upper back and shoulders and I looked forward to evicting the bastards once and for all. I expected the experience to be painful, and indeed it was. Toxic knots don’t leave willingly... or quietly. It would all be worth it, I told myself, when I emerged relaxed, peaceful, and in love with the world. So I breathed through the pain and kept my moans to a minimum. Afterwards, I was fatigued and grumpy. Tired I expected, but grumpy ? Actually, grumpy is not quite accurate -- more like evil and ready for a fight. What happened? Is this normal? I knew I was in trouble when I found myself yelling at people before leaving the spa parking lot . My toxins wer

Our family was grumpy -- except for Elizabeth who was sick with fever and stayed at Grandma’s House on Friday. In fact, she was out of her mind with happiness while the rest of us dragged ourselves to school and work. When Lizzy learned she was sick enough to stay at Grandma’s the next day, her hot cheeks broke into a wide grin and she jumped on the couch. Poor sick child. Friday morning, with a fever of 101, she primped in front of the mirror in preparation for her day. “Mommy,” she said, placing a tiara atop her head. “Even though I’m sick, I still want to look beautiful.” Don’t we all... “I’m happy I’m going to Grandma’s house.” “We’re going to Grandma’s house!?” exclaimed Samantha when she heard this freaking fantastic news. “Yaaay!” Oh, boy. How do I say this? “Um, you’re not going.” That didn’t go over well. She tried to convince us that she, too, was sick -- but the thermometer doesn’t lie. Sorry, kid. You’re gonna have to throw up the cat or something if you want us to believ

  Dawn over at Must Love Tots is doing some pretty remarkable things, including: Throwing a benefit to defray her parents' medical costs after beating cancer. and Attempting to become a Surrogate Mom for a friend. Wow. So, if you're feeling generous or need to gain some serious Karma Points in your favor (you know, for pushing over that old lady to be first on the bus and secretly giving your children the piece of chicken that fell on the floor), then head over to CafePress and buy a cool Stronger Than Cancer T-shirt or thong (yes, I said thong ). Previous Comments  

After searching every Target in a 20 mile radius (and there are so many in San Diego), I finally found some Melissa-approved Hanes “her way” undies. It’s been a long journey, but well worth the trip. They provide good old-fashioned comfort, color, and coverage in a kicky bikini style. (Sorry, but I can not abide the thong.) I bought this style/brand before, but they must have all shrunk in the wash, because my old ones don’t fit anymore. Strange. I know it has nothing to do with the complete rearrangement of my hip bones and internal organs after surviving two pregnancies. So it must be the wash. However, just to be on the safe side, I went up a size. You know -- to allow for future shrinkage. This afternoon I went to the bathroom happily sporting my new undies. When I looked down, I saw on my, er -- love box -- a small, white inspection sticker with the No. 14 on it. This isn’t the first time I’ve discovered the little sticker down there . It also happened with the last batch I bough

It was Samantha’s turn for a Time Out. When the girls sit in the chair , I pretend to busy myself by cleaning in a nearby location. This tactical maneuver enables me to see when they get out of the chair (which is inevitable) and I can make a swift butt-to-chair replacement. Both of my girls are natural negotiators and use time spent in T.O. to polish their skills. It’s not uncommon to hear: “Mommy, you hurt my feelings!” “Grown-ups need to listen to kids, too!” “I’m sooo hungry!” Yea, they’re that good -- well on their way to becoming professional manipulators. But Samantha, yesterday... well, that was too much. It’s possible she may have won. I put her in the chair and set the timer. She cried as usual. “I don’t want to be in Time Out! I wanna get out!” This is standard T.O. ranting and I was ready for it. This is usually what they yell prior to their first escape attempt. After I put her back in the chair, Samantha pulled out all the stops, however. At the top of her lungs, she crie

My first thought upon entering Activity Room 1 for Beginner’s Tap, was: Huh -- no one’s wearing tap shoes, followed by, Oh my God -- no one’s wearing tap shoes! I knew I was in the right class, but it never occurred to me that in this beginning tap class, students might wait to get their shoes after the first class. I momentarily panicked at the thought of everyone silently tapping in sneakers while I was unable to conceal my offbeat clanking in Grade-A Certified Tap Shoes. After all, it’s much easier to fake it when your feet don’t sound like gun blasts. Curse my over-prepared self! My mind eased when a student pulled out his taps. I wanted to kiss him, but instead said “hi”. He said “hi” quickly and turned his attention back to the beautiful, curly haired Isabel who wore Irish dance shoes. More people arrived and ultimately half the students brought taps. Thank frikkin' God. Our group consisted mostly of college girls fresh from Rhetoric classes and weekend keggers. There wer

Michael pushed the start button on that little red stopwatch he uses to time everything. It was my turn to be timed. I grabbed my purse, bolted from the car where Michael and the girls waited, and raced to the grocery store. The challenge? How long would it take for me to buy two heads of cabbage and two cans of sliced potatoes? (Isn't married life exciting?!) I said less than five minutes. He said, “Oh, yea?” The race was on. I jogged across the street to the Albertson’s and noticed two pollsters stationed on either side of the entrance, ready to knock me over the head with their clipboards. Damn. "Are you registered to vote? Are you registered to vote?" they asked. “Yes! I’m registered,” I said, sprinting between them. But they weren’t just interested in my voter status -- they wanted me to sign something. “Canyousignthepetitiontostopthe...?” they tried to ask, but I was too fast for them. Leave me alone! I thought. Yes, you’re trying to change the world and make it a

I was a much better dancer before I bought my first tap shoes. Now, with an expensive receipt from Capezio and an empty shoe box on my dresser, I know I have my work cut out for me. Let’s see. How can I describe the sound I made as my feet took my tap shoes for a test drive across the tiles in our family room? How about: clack, clunk, scrape... thud, thump... thump... clack. What rhythm. Guys, you forgot to tell me this shit is hard! Seriously, I tapped better in my bare feet prior to strapping these things on. What happened?! How do you tap dancers do it? You’re geniuses. Truly. Which makes me wonder -- is this just a small glimpse of the apparently large gap that exists between my fantasy self and my real self? If so, what else do I suck at? Could it be that I’m really not a Kung Fu master waiting to unleash my high-kicks on a world of parking space thieves and deceptive Gap clerks? Is it possible I don’t have a novel lurking in my gut or a sultry nightclub performance in my future?

Disneyland has everything: Roller coasters, Lollipops the size of your head, and small doses of mental trauma. I only hope Samantha won’t be too traumatized, and that in the long run, the happy-family memories will outlast the memory of being laughed at by her family and a crowd of total strangers. Right now the girls are two and four -- a great age. At Disneyland, small children are solicited to participate in spontaneous performances that magically appear on Disneyland street corners. The New Orleans Ragtime Band, Merlin’s Magical Sword, and the Pumpkin Festival are a few that appeared on our path. Elizabeth caught on right away and eagerly participated. She was so damned cute dancing to the New Orleans Ragtime Band. She banged her tambourine, shook her booty, and earned her beads. (No, she didn’t have to show her boobs, although I’m sure she would have if asked.) A brightly-dressed performer (they were all brightly-dressed) took her by the hand and together they headed a small ragti