herding squirrels: Parenting in a Blended Family

DESTROYED

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Tue, 07 Oct 2008 21:39:00 +0000

Alas, it is true.

The StarRainbowUnicorns were knocked to second place in week 5.

SECOND PLACE! I know it so well-- I've lived there my whole entire life. *sob*

By two points.

TWO LOUSY POINTS!!!

But I will go on-- for you, for the Moms-- I will go on. I will arrange the team and press forward and replace the guys on Bye because I CARE. Because winning MEANS SOMETHING.

Also because technically we can't quit.

StarRainbowUnicorn POWER!

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 21:37:00 +0000

Moms, it's probably our last chance to gloat-- but gloat we shall. The CentralValleyMoms' Fantasy Football team (I KNOW you all have been on pins and needles in your concern over this) is still in FIRST PLACE!

That's right-- 4 weeks in, and we are in the top team in the Fresno Blogger Bowl Fantasy Football challenge. Still. Even after last week's Bye, wherein two of our running backs and one wide receiver were out on rest and we had to replace them with recycled kitchen appliances and an old shoe.

But alas, I fear this is our last chance to brag, as I honestly have no idea what happens next nor how to save us from my ignorance. Thus IGNORE-ence shall commence as I let the team just...do its thing.

It's been a good strategy so far-- kind of like choosing "C" on the SAT.

GO STARRAINBOWUNICORNS!!!

My mom went to the hospital and all I got were these stupid genes

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 23:54:00 +0000

My father used to lament my feet. He lamented them because they were his feet.

He would apologize profusely every time he saw them, as not only are they highly unattractive on a female, he was forever plagued by ingrown toenails, calcium deposits and muscle pain.

He dreaded knowing what I was in for.

Moving up from there, I suppose things get slightly better. I have my mother’s legs and a combination of my father's and mother’s varicose veins. Joy. I have my grandfather’s eyes and my mother’s skin; my dad’s hips and the flat stomach of the women in his family; and my mother’s enormous, gummy smile.

Tracing my past outlines a fairly unattractive future. My grandmother had dementia before she died in her early 90s. Her husband--my grandfather-- died in his 70s of cardio myopathy; in a cruel twist of fate, my father passed at an even younger age of the exact same issue. My mother’s family is laced on both sides with osteoporosis, macular degeneration, varicose veins and arthritis. There are thyroid issues and kidney issues; gallbladder problems and breast cancer. Oh, and my maternal grandmother’s got an enlarged heart.

You know. So as I grow old I look forward to road map legs; blindness; stroke; a weak-heart muscle with either high- or low- blood pressure; craziness; and a hump on my back. I’ve got thyroid issues and the looming threat of breast cancer to entertain me, and the possibility of arthritis and palsy. But hey, on the bright side, longevity ran in my family too. Again.. Joy.

As a parent I recognize certain features in my kids and my currently healthy heart swells appropriately with pride. I see my sons’ have my eyes. All three of my kids inherited the gummy smile. Poor saps.

But along with the features I happily recognize, I sit watching and waiting with my son in a darkened room in urgent care. As I type this, he lays on the doctor’s table, eyes closed, head throbbing, searching for a way around the pain.

It appears that he has inherited the family migraines.

This is odd to me, for so far as I ever knew, it was only the women in the family that ended up with those horrendous, utterly debilitating headaches. As far as I look back in the line—my greatgrandmother, my grandmother and my second cousins, my aunt, me, my niece—all of us women, all of us starting around puberty. I always thought it was a “chick” thing, and always thought the guys in the family avoided yet another female curse.

But there he lays, having already described to me the horror and awkwardness of sudden, partial blindness; of the dull throb that quickly engulfs the head and is all-too-quickly followed by blinding pain; and the need for someone to help his blind-self to a dark, cool area to wait out (and hopefully sleep off) the pain. So far, no nausea; so at least he’s got that going for him.

It’s here in the dark of the doctor’s office that my father’s words come ringing back to me, his all-too-familiar refrain:

Why do we pass along the worst traits to our children?

If only I could reach over and take away the pain… would I? Having suffered through them for 15 years, the unpredictable, untouchable pain that no medication was ever able to quell, the great unknown if a ruined day would follow what at first seemed like benign sunspots? The nausea, the misery, the blinding pain… would I take them back, so he would never have to experience them?

Yes. In a heartbeat.

Instead, I sit here cursing my genes and hoping better medicine awaits this 15-year old, than did my 15-year old self.

I try to look on the upside. If my father was here, he would have a different focus. Forget the migraine. Dad would be lamenting my son’s feet.

Kids maek me smurt

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 23:56:00 +0000

I sat there, slack jawed and drooly, staring at my computer screen yet seeing nothing. I had just opened a program and suddenly could not—for the life of me—remember why.

Later I walked out of my office to tell a colleague a very important piece of information. Wait. Which colleague? Who was I about to talk to? I pause outside my office door. And about what, again?

How was I reduced to this? How have I allowed myself to become this heaping mess of forgetfulness and stupidity?

The answer comes roaring into my brain: CHILDREN. I have so many kids, clearly the responsibility has eked away my brain cells.

But, like most things in life, if I actually thought that, I would be wrong.

According to Katherine Ellison, in her book The Mommy Brain: How Motherhood Makes us Smarter, “study after study shows that having babies contributes to increased brain cells, and along with these little darlings (the new brain cells as well as the babies) come increased skills of all kinds.

“At the center of this good news is that now-familiar phenomenon, neurogenesis: the brain’s process of growing and changing through the development of new neurons. This amazing brain plasticity is encouraged by repeated new actions, especially of the “positive, emotionally charged, and challenging” variety, referred to by scientists as “enrichment.” As it turns out, the process of child rearing, beginning even in pregnancy, is enrichment’s mother lode.”

Think it’s fleeting? Not so. “In fact, indications are that the positive changes brought about in the brain by pregnancy hormones, and subsequent stimulation from our babies and children, last for the rest of our lives—long past the time our grandchildren are born.”

Read on, mammas. Apparently there’s hope for me yet!

Suzie Orman: Wow.

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 23:55:00 +0000

It's not often I am at a loss for words. In fact, I could go on for the next two hours about how I could go on for the next two hours. But yesterday, after I had my introduction to Suzie Orman, all I could say was...

Wow.

And still… wow.

Yesterday I was fortunate enough to attend the Central California Women’s Conference. It was the first time I’d ever been to this event, despite my strong desire to attend in the past.

The event was amazing—I’m always in favor of hanging out with thousands of strong, vibrant women who believe in the power of strong vibrant women. I also am a big fan of freebies, and this event offered plenty.

But the best thing I got out of this event, besides the pens, the reusable canvas grocery totes, the candle, the lip gloss, the mail openers, the candy, the notebook, the bracelets, the watch and of course, the AWESOME CentralValleyMoms.com refrigerator magnet, was the advice. The sound, awesome financial advice I got from Suzie “Crazy and self adoring but you can’t help but like her” Orman.

As my grandmother would say, she’s a real pistol.

From the moment she entered the room to rousing cheers and an amazing, somewhat self-worshipful bio, wherein she was hailed as the single most important female of the modern age (I’m paraphrasing); to her final moments (which were10 minutes past the end of her allotted speech time), wherein she bade farewell to even rousing-er cheers, all I could think was, “wow.”

Suzie Orman. Wow.

The bits that stuck out:

Pay attention to your finances. Do you know what you have in the bank? Do you know how much interest you’re paying on your credit cards? Stop being afraid of the information. In order to gain control, you have to understand your situation.
Don’t be stupid with your money. When you finally get ahead, stay true to your own financial goals. Which means, don’t lend it out to save someone else from their own financial crisis.
Get a Living Revocable Trust. If you die, it’ll save your family untold heartache and tremendous amounts of money trying to keep property out of probate.
Get a will.
Your FICA score is vital; take care of it. That means don’t max out your credit cards, and don’t cancel your credit cards after you pay them off. Either one affects your credit score adversely. Maxing out your cards lowers your score. A lower score means credit institutions can raise your card’s interest rate. Increased interest rates mean a longer time paying them off, and more struggle, which leads to a longer period of time with a low score, which leads to credit companies reducing your available credit, which then hurts your credit score. Seeing the pattern?
Finally, get a Roth IRA. She said a good deal on this point, but let me boil it down to this: If you have money in a 401K (a pre-tax fund), and your company offers matching funds, take them via contributing to your company’s 401K plan. Anything beyond what the company will match, however, should be placed in a Roth IRA. Suzie’s reasoning: On top of already massive national debt, the government has just bailed out Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. To fund the bailout, taxes will need to be raised. Who pays taxes? We do. Worse, taxes always increase over time. With a 401K account, your money goes in pre-tax. Unfortunately, you get hit with the taxes when you withdraw from the account. So if taxes rise over time, it would be more economically advantageous to pay the upfront, when they are smaller, as opposed to on the tail end, when you’re a retiree on a fixed income and can’t speculate what they will be.

It was a really fascinating speech. I came away feeling less fearful of my financial future, as I had some good advice to stand on.

For more information—and perhaps a better explanation, check out www.suzieorman.com.

Sydney would go nuts for this

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 19:16:00 +0000

Spongebob close up
Originally uploaded by sandrascakes

Are you ready for some FOOTBAAAAAALLLL? ... meh.

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 02:50:00 +0000

So I showed up to the fantasy football draft expecting hubris.

…I showed up expecting beer.

… I showed up with my little printout of the top 30 draft picks my fantasy football fanatic friend (FFFF) gave me, glomming onto the little bits of knowledge he passed my way. I earnestly felt I had the inside scoop. I was holding two entire pages of picks, all stack-ranked for my selecting ease. My dear FFFF explained the key to the fantasy draft—the HOW of picking what positions, the when to do it, they why you did it that way. I felt I was armed with delicious, insider information. Information that, potentially, would completely devastate the competition.

I arrive, the first of the crew, and a little nervous. I have no idea who I’m looking for, as the only guy I know isn’t there yet. The first few stragglers wander in and we make chit chat. “Are you a big football fan?” is my brilliant conversation starter.

“Not really,” is the response. Out of conversation, I stare down at my shoes. *crickets*

(Okay, substitute crickets with an explosive Bertie Higgins song via Karaoke. I know. Eew.)

I order a beer. I gulp. At leisure I notice I am the only female in our crowd of 12. (Please be grateful that I did not offer you a simile for that factoid.) Oz shows up, passes out our draft lists, and we get started…

.. Fast forward an hour and a half into the draft. My 22oz beer nearly gone, I have 3 picks that were on my list—none that were at the top. The rest have long since been gobbled up by the table full of mostly football-lovin’ men (and one "meh" on football man). Men who KNOW football (except that one guy).

And when I say know, I mean intimately.

And when I say intimately, I mean [simile removed]. They know all there is to know about the players, right down to childhood immunization records, next door neighbors, and who owns car dealerships.

“Should I pick this guy?” I ask Oz for the umpteenth time, tentatively poking the ESPN draft doc in front of me. Peals of laughter follow from the opposite end of the table, while one guy encourages me wholeheartedly.

Oz is patient. “Well, he’s suspended.” Apparently something about a dog fight.

“This one?” I try.

“Injured. Out the first few weeks of the season.”

Suddenly I’m groggy and overwhelmed. Eye wide, I stab at the next two name down. “Him, or… him?”

Suddenly the table is abuzz.

“Oh yeah, his QB is great this year—“

“—Yeah excellent offensive line.”

“I’d go with him before that guy, his team is—“

And so I am sold. THIS was the draft. Twelve people, SIXTEEN rounds of names, careful attention to crossing off players. Everybody knows the players, everybody knows the players offensive lines. Everybody but me. (And that one guy.)

I knew squat. THIS was my hubris-purging night.

Thank you OZ, for seeing me through. Your patience and guidance were much appreciated.

And so moms, stay posted to hear about StarRainbowUnicorns. Root us on. Follow the season.

Now let us bow our heads...

"Almighty and ever-living moms,
let it be known that I suffered for you,
so that you may bask in the glory that is Fantasy Football.

Go forth now in peace and love,
to serve the ‘Corns.*

Whoa-Men."

This Week's StarRainbowUnicorns Line-up:

QB: Drew Brees

RB: Steve Jackson

RB: Reggie Bush

WR: Reggie Wayne

WR: Roy Williams

RB: Greg Jennings

TE: Heath Miller

Kicker: Phil Dawson

Defensive line: Vikings

________

*That would be their nickname. At least until something better comes along.

I don't care. SUBTEXT: NEITHER SHOULD YOU.

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 18:07:00 +0000

Dear Gossip Mongers:

I am an unabashed liberal. A proud liberal. I believe in states rights, civil rights, families’ rights, government assistance when you truly need it, a woman’s right to a safe abortion, equal pay for equal work and volunteerism. I believe in the separation of church and state and with that, every person’s right to practice—or not to practice—their spirituality, and not have other’s religious views foisted upon them.

I believe that two consenting adults should be allowed to marry each other, regardless of race, gender, or sexual orientation.

I believe that two consenting adults should be allowed to live together in love and harmony and raise a family and not be forced to marry.

I respect that others disagree with my beliefs. I hope that they can treat me with respect, knowing that I respect their divergent beliefs as well.

On the list of things I don’t care about:

• Various politicos trying drugs in their youth. That Bill Clinton smoked pot in college, whether he inhaled or not, I absolutely, unequivocally do not care.
• Various politicos having made bad choices in their pasts. George W. Bush’s drug and alcohol problems as a young man are his alone, and his to own. Good for him for getting past it. Not an issue now. I don’t care about it.
• Whether or not someone served in Vietnam. Don’t care. A lot of people got deferments. A lot of people served elsewhere and elsewise. My point: It was 40 years ago. Let’s all move past the choices of their youths, and of their parents to help the children they loved to avoid being forced to serve in what was the Iraq of their generation (meaning: A big, highly-unfavorable, terrible war).
• The reported extramarital affairs of the various politicos, including but not limited to: Speaker Newt Gingrich, Gov. Eliot Spitzer, Sen. Gary Hart, Gov. James McGreevey, Bill Clinton, JFK, FDR, Thomas Jefferson, Grover Cleveland, Woodrow Wilson, Dwight Eisenhower, etc. Their lives. Their bedrooms. Their karma. DON’T CARE.

As such, I want to be clear:

I do not care and do not want to hear about Sarah Palin’s daughter. She is 17. She made a choice and is dealing with it. Had she chosen abortion, I would feel the same. HER LIFE. HER CHOICES. NOT MY BUSINESS. We owe this girl nothing less than privacy and respect.

I do not care about some 20+ year-old incident on Palin’s husband’s driving record. LET IT GO!

Leave her family alone, media. While you’re at it, leave Joe Biden’s family be, leave Obama’s family alone, leave McCain’s family alone. All of them. I DON’T CARE.

Let me say this again: I am a proud LIBERAL. Liberal is a good word, and there are many, many of us with these beliefs who are good, caring, intelligent, patriotic people. And there are many of us who are idiots (Hello, Mike Malloy). Just as there are many, many ridiculous and idiotic conservatives (I’m talking to you, Anne Coulter), and many good, kind, intelligent, patriotic conservatives, including some of my very own family members.

THAT SAID:

I DO care when people try to associate such muckraking with one side of the political arena or the other.

It’s ignorant.

Yes, there is a liberal media (Hello, ABC). Yes, there is a conservative media (Hello, FOX).

Yes, both sides try to capture viewers/readers and be opinion leaders. They make MONEY. Most times, raking muck is how they do it.

But media, there was no part of me that was ever going to vote for the McCain ticket. And seeing how Palin’s daughter ISN’T ON the ticket, nor Palin’s husband—leave them out of it. Talk about Palin's track record. Talk about Palin's ability to govern.

Some choice that was made or something that happened 20 years ago to a member of someone's family? I DON’T CARE.

I freely admit that I acted like an asshat 20 years ago.

I presume that WE ALL ACTED LIKE ASSHATS at various points in our lives.

Thank gawd I have changed.

Thank gawd you have too.

So let’s also presume that politicians have changed over the course of the last decades, just as we have, and get back to actual, important, valid, kind and respectful political DISCOURSE.

Thanks.

My fantasy WILL CRUSH your fantasy

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Sat, 30 Aug 2008 05:07:00 +0000

I was prattling about Twitter one day
Chatting in my catty, catty way
When I was taken by surprise
By a blogging blogger guyyy...
And it got me to avoid work all day!

More to the non-rhyming point, the Beehive's witty and ever-so in touch Mike Osegueda (elsewise known as Oz) threw it out to his tweets (twitter friends) that we should have a Fresno Blogger Bowl-- a blogger's fantasy football League.

I sent him some smart alec-y comment, as is my wont, and he replied: "you wanna represent the CVMoms? Seriously."

With that kind of smack-talk, how could I NOT represent? I'd show him! I'd stuff it in all those bloggers gaping maws the excellence that is my fantasy prowess!

After some detailed explanations that involved a flow chart and a few Venn diagrams, I came to understand that there is fantasy, and there is football, and then there is the space where the two collide.

In this event, I would be picking out several players based on a thing called a DRAFT (which is neither a beer nor an architectural drawing of any sort) that play for REAL teams, and tracking their season-long awesomeness. And then how well my players do compared to the other bloggers' loser players is how my team will crush the will to live out of my opponents.

My preliminary list included several Brazilian players (they always win) and of course the entire Spanish team.

And then I was "informed" that the game based on AMERICAN football. Not the European kind, which is called SOCCER here.

I knew that.

I was just checking to see if THEY knew that.

I have a friend who plays Canadian football which is a lot harder than the American version (fewer downs and more yardage) but the wussed out rules limit me from drafting him either. And that's too bad, because he is a world famous football player in Canada.

And so I will go next week to a meeting of the other bloggers (aka team managers) for the draft.

Based on my amassed sports/football wisdom, I know two things: First, smack talk is the key to total victory. Anyone who's ever seen the classic sports movie knows this to be true. The Karate Kid? All the Right Moves? The Bad News Bears? 'Nuff said. So I will be certain to work on my smack-talking skills. They're right up there with my bow staff and nunchuk skills.

Second, forget all the quarterback hoobidy-doobidy (technical term); if I wan to win, I need a good kicker. And as kicking involves the ankles, I will try to find the player with the biggest ankles. I've already begun scouring Google images.

And so I am set. My homework is ahead of me, I'm clear on my path, and my team-- the StarRainbowUnicorns-- will lead CVMoms to victory!!

OhGAWD-- That's ME?!

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 22:12:00 +0000

My biggest fear about growing old was growing boring. As I watched my parents age, it seemed to me they never did ANYTHING. I mean, they went to school events and drove us places. They went to church. But they never actually DID anything, you know, FUN. And from my 13-year old perspective, it seemed like all the married couples I knew—like my parents friends who came over most Saturday nights for dinner—were exactly like my folks. They, too, eventually entered this great long boring phase, comprised solely of raising a family.

It felt like my parents had given up on life. Like suddenly, they didn’t care about the world, but rather, had become more content simply existing in it. They were always tired, always busy with horrible things like work and cleaning and my siblings. They didn’t do anything. They were just married. Therein lied the excitement of life: Wake, shuttle, work, home, clean, sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Upon recognizing this pattern, my 13-year old self decided I would be different. I decided would not be like my parents—not in that way. There had to be more to life. I could be famous! I could live in foreign lands! I could DO ANYTHING!

Fast forward 25 years—to a time when I can actually reference my past in epoch-like chunks, aka, NOW.

My life does not revolve around my kids. It IS my kids. Lots and lots of kids. Whether driving kids, or attending functions for kids, or worrying over kids, or helping kids fall back to sleep or making food for kids or cleaning up after kids or shuttling kids from place to place… In general: Kids.

My life is also my partner, whom I am grateful to spend quality time with between the hours of 10:30 p.m. and 5:45 a.m. Time which sometimes includes conversation; usually about 5 minutes of reading; and generally 7 hours of near-constantly interrupted sleep (see previous paragraph).

My life is also work. Like most people, I work for money, which pays for living expenses. Living expenses, you know, like water and food and a place to live and gas and clothing, and more food. For kids.

I sometimes lay wake and examine our life, and I wonder how I missed the left at Albuquerque.

I didn’t understand that all the boring that I saw in my parents’ world was the gap created by what my parents had given up for me. They gave up on the FUN things and became dull because they were good parents.

I was late in this realization-- it came in labor, actually, mid-push-- that when you have kids, you are no longer the center of your universe. You simply cannot be your primary focus AND still be an engaged parent.

Because part of being an engaged parent means shuttling kids around. And worrying. And working so they have food and clothes. And cleaning and cooking so they grow and are fed and yadda yadda yadda.

And even though I do all these boring, boring, ungawdly boring things, I realize didn’t end up like my folks after all.

See, all those other married couples I knew? They were my parents’ friends. Yeah—my parents had FRIENDS. People that came over for dinner, or that went on family vacations with us. People they laughed with and with whom they enjoyed conversations—ACTUAL grown-up conversations.

When was the last time my partner-in-crime and I had anyone over for dinner?

When was the last time we were social outside our little family unit?

*crickets*

Our kids may be the sun in our world, but even the Earth needs the moon to function effectively.
Clearly, I need to start acting like my parents’ type-of boring.

Help a Mutha Out: Random notes on saving money

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 02:02:00 +0000

My ridiculous MUST SAVE MONEY FOR GAS price shopping has taken me across town to all kinds of stores, clipping coupons from the paper, scouring sales ads in print and online and hunting high and low in-market to find the best deals available.

It's not that I am cheap.

It's that I hate finding out I spent too much.

That, and... okay, I'm cheap.

Recent discoveries:

Inexpensive Vegetative Perfection
- The awesome fruit stand at Willow & Herndon: I do all my veg shopping at non-grocery outlets lately. This stand is my constant. Why? Fantastic quality. Amazingly low prices. Local fruits and veggies. From onions and garlic to strawberries --YES! STRAWBERRIES!-- to green beans and squash and tomatoes to nectarines and peaches, this stand has everything my family eats without having traveled across half the country to get to my table. It is actually RIPE. I mean, tomatoes are RED (not orange). And the price is excellent.

Food & FREE Family Entertainment
- Clovis Friday Night Farmers Market: I'm a little late with this, as it is apparently a summer activity and will be ending soon BUT, if you have a free night (like say, tonight), check it out. Old Town Clovis has an amazing, block-long farmers market with music and food stalls and lots and lots of produce. It's a great family event and, if you want to go indoors for a bit of history, check out the Clovis Museum on the corner of Pollasky and 4th.

COFFEE!
- Trader Joes: I like good coffee. Peets? Starbucks? Two words: OVER THEM! The coffee is nice, but expensive and frankly, I'm not THAT big of a fan. My best coffee-by-the-pound find in terms of quality, price, and good JuJu can be found at Trader Joes.

First, the coffee is Fair Trade, which means the middle man was removed from the haggling process, and the grower (who does all the work) actually gets more money for the product. Second, it's organic. I'm a fan of organic. 'Nuff said. Third, it is great coffee, availale in a variety of roasts all for about $5.99 per pound. And for a caffeine hound like me? That, friends, is the perfect coffee storm.

Cheap Finds
- Winco: Hunting for the best deals, grocery-wise, I've recently turned to two places for non-veg items. Winco is one of those awesome rediscoveries. First, for name-brand products and dairy items, they have really good prices (that are r-bst free, too). Second, I make lunches for my kids. I load up on chips here, as well as bread and now... LUNCH MEAT.

I don't do bologna or Oscar Meyer packaged sandwich meats, but not for snobbery or health reasons (which, for my character, either would be fitting). Truth be told, I love bologna, or did when I last had it at age 12. Nothing was quite as delicious as bologna on white bread with mayo and mustard, and a bit of green leaf lettuce. Unfortunately heath class ruined my ability to ingest such ambrosia, when I learned that scientific scrutiny of such meat revealed bits of cockroach and other non-meat items in said preformed "meat."

So if I wanted a deli sandwich, I relied on the roasted, sliced $5+ per pound items in the glass case.

Until recently.

In the meat case, one can find small hams and whole roasted turkey breasts available.These are much, MUCH cheaper than buying presliced deli meats. "Yes," you say, "but they are WHOLE. I like it sliced, and when I try to slice it, the meat ends up in slabs. Eew."

To you I say, "deli counter." And when your puzzled face makes that little-tilted, wde-eyed grunt of non-understanding, I say, "Take your small ham or roasted turkey breast to the deli counter and ASK THEM TO SLICE IT FOR YOU." Because they will. And cheese, too.

The price on Jennie-O whole turkey was $2 less per pound than the stuff in the deli case. And cheaper than the Oscar Meyer Deli select stuff by about the same margin.

The ham was also about that much less per pound.

I found better deals on brick cheese, too. The deli staff is more than happy to slice these items for you, and you will end up saving enough for maybe a gallon of gas... depending on how much you buy, of course.

- Vons: In short, MEAT. Watch for their sales. They have in-paper coupons and amazing 2-for-1 sales that, at the right time, are the best I've found. Recently, I got buy-one-get-one-free on packaged ground turkey.

So okay, Moms. I've shared my finds. But I NEED yours! If I'm going to be able to feed and clothe six kids in the current economic environment, i'll need all the help I can get.

Any advice you can share??

How not to manage your finances

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 01:55:00 +0000

1) Visualize that your ATM card is connected to a gigantic pit of money.

2) Use the little transaction record book to balance out the wobbly leg on your kitchen table.

3) Go out to movies, buy new clothes, and sign up for online services. Often.

4) Tattoo your social security number on your bicep and then just hold your arm steady in front of people as often as possible.

5) Open as many credit card accounts as is possible, and max them out instantly.

6) Repeat step 5.

7) Toward the end of the pay cycle, decide lack of food in the house means it is a good time to begin eating out. For every meal. Repeat loudly and often: Cooking? What’s that?

8) Make sure your spouse has similar spending habits (easier for finger pointing)

9) The day before payday, as your checking account is showing a balance of $1.06, vow to get super financially responsible.

10) Celebrate payday by taking the family to Flemmings.

Faces of Goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 20:19:00 +0000

The blood pulsed through my head like a bullet train.

I was sitting on the floor in the bathroom, staring at my wall but not really seeing it. The little plastic stick sat feather-like in my hand, yet the blue plus sign at its tip weighed a thousand tons. My vision was swirling as my world capsized: I was too young. I had nothing. I wasn’t ready. My largest dream come true stared at me, all I ever wanted poised, ready for the larger embrace-- the most perfect and frightening thing in the world-- and still my brain screamed WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

I was 22. I’d just graduated from college as a drama major. I had a part-time job at a bank, I was living in Los Angeles, taking acting classes and attempting half-heartedly to get an agent.

Those dreams were gone with the wave of a wand (albeit through a stream of urine). I rose from the floor and splashed off my face. My eyes were huge and dilated with shock. “Goodbye,” I whispered, and walked out the bathroom door and into my new life.

___

It’s 1987. My sister has just burst into my bedroom and woken me from a light sleep; she squeals with delight and shoves her left hand in my face. The giant rock illuminates the darkness as she announces the news that she is planning a fall wedding.

And then we’re in the kitchen toasting the happy couple My father calls him “son.” We order a pizza and laugh over the proposal story and I watch my sister as she walks on air. Her dream has come true, she is marrying her prince.

My parents are elated for my sister’s happiness; their smiles are rich and genuine. We say our goodbyes as the couple drives off into the night, my sister high as a kite, and my parents now strangely silent.

___

Her eyes are large and teary. She lays on the gurney waiting for the orthopedic surgeon to come in and deliver the news which she knows can’t be good. Her largest fear, her darkest nightmare has come to pass and though she tries her best to lay still, the muscle spasms increase her pangs of anxiety.

Blind and permanently on oxygen, my 91 year-old grandma lays fearfully as the world speeds by. Her day began with the anticipation of church and lunch with my mother, and was interrupted by a fall and a trip to the emergency room.

Her fragility amazes and frustrates her all at the same time. And when the surgeon announces that she has broken her hip, not in one but in a few places, her heart monitor begins to beep rapidly. He gives her options: Do nothing, remain in pain and never walk again; or, attempt surgery with her enlarged heart and poor circulation. Yes, she could die; in fact, that is a distinct possibility. But there is a stronger possibility that she will live, and walk again, and be pain free.

A spasm hits.

She opts for the surgery.

Within an hour she is wheeled into pre-op; my mother and I sit with her as the nurse is somehow able to remove her wedding ring from her gnarled, arthritic hand. Unseeing, she begins to cry. She has never taken the ring off, and some part of her fears that it is an omen.

My mother and I, the eternal Pollyannas, tell her how much we love her and how we’ll bring her some dinner back from the café and of the plans we’ve made for her post-surgical therapy and oh, how she has the nicest nurse and goodness, aren’t we all lucky she was able to get into surgery so quickly and… anything else our fretting minds can conjure up behind our calm faces.

And when the man in the flouncy teal hat and matching scrubs begins to wheel her away, we reassure her of our love and her safety. She acquiesces, and says she will see us after surgery. But her eyes are wide and fearful when she says, “Goodbye.”

Tiny hands clutch my pant legs, tiny beet-red face presses into my thigh. “Please, mommy! Nooooo!!” my third child wails. The entire car ride was filled with the pronouncement, “I don’t want to go to school,” which turned into ear-piercing wailing and crocodile tears. I’ve seen this dozens of times in the faces of her older brothers, depending on the day, the angle of the sun, and how much breakfast was—or wasn’t—consumed that morning.

The beautiful spring day tugging at my desire wasn’t helping any; it was almost as strong as the crying face that deflated my spirit.

What kind of horrible mother was I? Look at this crying mess of a child! Couldn’t I just call in, perhaps, take a last-minute vacation day? We could go to the park and feed the ducks.

…except that I have 3 can’t-miss meetings this day. And deadlines. And we’ve been here before. I need to go to work. She needs to be at preschool. I need to get PAID. Being around other small people and coloring and learning the alphabet is not a bad thing for her.

I bend down to hug her, one final kiss before I head to work lugging my heart of stone. Her face is small and hot, and her runny-nosed kiss makes me want to die. “I love you baby,” I whisper, and the teacher’s overly enthusiastic voice suggests Syd wave to me from the window.

“Bye-bye,” I say as I wave at my small, frowny girl with tiny hands pressed against the glass. But my mind is saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I hide. I watch. Almost instantly my little actress is smiling and laughing with some other girls, wiping the wet from her face. “Bye-bye,” I sigh.

Step one: I'm powerless. Step two: Nevermind.

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 17:12:00 +0000

Hello. My name is Traci and I’m an addict.

I realized my “problem” when I attempted to scarf down a frozen burrito this morning too-soon out of the microwave. The result: My tongue was charred beyond recognition. It’s this little black lump-like thing, now. Ouch. Let this be a lesson to you all: Addiction = BAD.

Naturally it didn’t stop me from continuing to eat the burrito via the hot-mouth dance: Alternating too-hot food (placed in the mouth so that the tongue *barely* touches it) with a flood of cool drink. Progress in the following manner: chew, flood, chew, flood, chew—until the coarsely masticated food is no longer scalding. Swallow; repeat. It’s not at all enjoyable, though I believe it does fit Einstein’s definition of insanity: “…doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” (“The food will get cooler! It will!! D’Oh!”)

My addiction of late is not hot food, per se, but the ambrosia that is the frozen burrito (which is eaten hot). It’s like the gods put their heads together and decided that one day, there would be a food that is both chewy and hot, the perfect texture and taste and would simultaneously encourage the human gullet to exude wood-chipper-like behavior. (Thank you, Dr. Phil, for the analogy.)

Our vending machines here at work are RIFE with frozen burritos. Abounding. Overflowing. Teeming with the suckers. And, YES, I am aware that I can buy a sack of ten for $2 at FoodMax, but it’s my ADDICTION that keeps me buying them here at work for $1 each.

Honestly: I don’t want ten burritos loitering in my humble abode —I’m adult enough to admit how that would be disastrous. I mean, I’d have to keep the sack at home and do you have any CLUE how many CHILDREN I have? SCADS and SCADS of children. My house is practically CRAWLING with them. Those Hoovers would scarf down my precious burritos inside of 30 seconds, and then where would I be??

(SIDE NOTE: What is it with kids and the constant EATING, eating, always EATING? And then the GROWING? It’s like some vicious, never ending, amazingly expensive cycle. Alas, I digress.)

And so yes, dear reader, it is to you (and to those that follow me on Twitter) that I profess my love for, and shameful addiction to, the frozen burrito. It has almost reached caffeine-sized proportions. NOTE I said ALMOST.

I therefore take the first step, and admit herein: I am powerless to the frozen burrito.

I also acknowledge that there is a power above myself that could restore my sanity.

This power is called Costco. I think I can get an ice chest for like $15 and keep the suckers at work.

Problem solved.

Addiction? What addiction?

European Travel: I spy a thumb in my eye while I fly...

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 03:47:00 +0000

JUNE 26: We were intensely, immensely excited for our trip to Europe. We started the day at 4 a.m.; the camera came out 45 minutes later. Above, the first picture of our European adventure: The exotic locale of McDonald’s in Kinsgburg. We felt so international!

It was a fairly brisk trip to the airport, minus the whole LA freeway driving thing. It could have definitely been worse, but thank GAWD we padded our travel time as much as we did. You never know what to expect at check in. In our case, it was pretty packed (a youth soccer league was ahead of us).

Notes from the plane:

· Thumbs up: Thank you, security agent, the only kind person in all of LAX (and coincidentally, NOT an employee of U.S. Airways), who was amazingly cool and funny. She got us excited for our trip.

· Thumbs up: I applaud the ambitious efforts of the ESL Asian woman who repeatedly attempted to understand the computer at the self-check- in kiosk.

· Thumbs down: Amazed and disgusted by the desk agent, standing directly behind said kiosk, who refused in every aspect to assist the Asian woman (even after my family and I spent 10 minutes trying to help her) in navigating her way. Of course the desk agent had no problem assisting us.

· Thumbs down: My body exudes waves of intense dislike aimed at the woman sitting behind me, who tapped me on the shoulder and immediately complained about me reclining my seat. Then complained again 2 minutes later, after I'd already repositioned it to accommodate her girth (to my great discomfort).

· Thumbs down: The woman who ends up in our row. She freaked out when she thought we were in her seat. In the end she was right, but we were sitting there unintentionally and tried to be kind about it. Her instant, over-the-top reaction was unnecessary.

· Thumbs up: Later, to the same woman when she turned out not to be a total arse, but someone desperately afraid of flying. Also, a talented cross-stitcher.

· SIDE NOTE: I still hate the woman behind me.

· SIDE NOTE: Prediction: The retro-cool gift coming to Target next X-mas will be the USB powered turn-table, available for $19.99. Of course it is on sale now via SkyMall for the low-low price of $229.95. Or thereabouts.

· Thumbs down: The cheap-ass airline who charges us hundreds of dollars for the ticket but refuses to serve free soda pop. Cheapos.

· Thumbs mid-point: There’s a lemon in my drink. I love lemons. But I read this story. GAH!

· Thumbs down: There’s a distinct lack of drink in my drink.

· SIDE NOTE: Even though First Class consists of the first 4 rows, and I am sitting in the 5^th row, I am not allowed to use their lavatory. The flight attendant did not evict me, however. Just almost. Why is it these flight attendants never smile?

· Thumbs up: The woman behind me has dozed off. I want to throw peanuts at her sleeping face.

· Thumbs down: The airlines no longer serves peanuts.

More than your Emo boyfriend.

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 21:36:00 +0000

On June 26, 2008, my partner, three nervous teenagers and I ventured off to Los Angeles, where we boarded a plane, and then another, and eventually woke up on a transatlantic flight headed for Dublin, Ireland. The whole vacation itself consisted of three cities—Dublin, London and Paris—and if you were to ask any of the teenagers, they would say the trip’s purpose was three-fold: First, to eventually catch up with Madeline, our oldest daughter, who was traveling with a student group in the British Isles; second, for each—our oldest son, Trevor, our nephew Colin and Madeline’s best-friend, Darlene—to see Europe; and third, to afford Trevor and Colin the joy of cramming in the faces of their peers (aka OTHER family members) they fact that they have been to Dublin FIRST.

Naturally, we adults had an agenda too.

DIGRESSION:
My partner in crime and I have many, many things in common. We each like the color blue. We each brush our teeth twice a day. And we each grew up with devoted, family-centric parents who—while offering untold numbers of family camping-trip-based vacations—themselves never traveled abroad until they hit their retirement years. And to both my partner and I, international travel was exactly that: Something we both yearned to do, yet felt only retirees were supposed to enjoy.

And that is when the swirling black cloud of death descended upon both of our lives.

First my father passed, and I was inaugurated into the Dead Dad’s Club (ooh! Matching jackets!).

Sometime later, my then-not-yet partner earned his Dead Mom’s Club lapel pin.

And sometime even later, after the easy laughter and puppy love of early dating, and after slightly-deeper monologues about child rearing, came the soul-baring conversations about these enormous, earth-shattering losses that had changed our lives in many startlingly similar ways.

Such conversations gave rise to various, life-altering realizations, the most profound of which being: Life is for the Living.

Why did we keep saying, “Someday, I will visit X,” when we could visit X now? Why did we compartmentalize all that we wanted to experience into a chunk of time not destined to occur until a series of far-reaching conditions were met?

It was a very scary, but very serious, question. Why did we keep putting off all the things we really wanted to do on a very-distant later? What if, after all the putting off, and more putting off, and STILL more putting off… what if there was never an “on”? What if later never happened?

We both saw firsthand: Death permanently invalidates all the dreams you have sitting out there.

And so we, my partner and I, began making different choices. We began redefining our lives in terms of the now, as opposed to the maybe later.

I planned a trip, an unconventional trip, and planned on taking my sons. After some time, my partner agreed to come along, to meet us on our unconventional trip and so it was that in June of 2006 we met up in Machu Picchu, Peru, and went on to see the Amazonian Rainforest together.

Okay so now we’re getting to the crux of this missive . (I know, finally, right? Bear with me.)

It was on this trip that we realized and saw—truly saw for the very first time—how enormous this great wide world is.

*forehead slap!*

Each of us had lived in many places over the course of our lives, and had always understood that there was more to life than what was in front of our faces. Our parents had said that very thing to us—WE had even said that very thing to our kids: THERE IS MORE TO LIFE THAN WHAT IS IN FRONT OF YOUR FACE. Duh, right?

Still… it doesn’t really sink in until you actually have something different in your face.

For my boys, seeing how people in Cusco or Iquitos or deep within the rainforest live— that was life changing. We were old, seeing this, REALLY seeing this for the first time. But my boys, they were young. They got the realization early and maybe it would change who they became and how they lived their lives, how it affected their choices? Maybe they could avoid getting sucked into the “maybe later” rut, and live in the now?

We left to visit a small bit of the world, and came back with the understanding that there is MORE TO LIFE.

There is more to life than School. There is more to life than College. And Church. And Family. And Fresno and Clovis and CALIFORNIA. There is more than the United States of America, more than just the English language, more than the dollar and the Euro and Lays potato chips and your Emo boyfriend and your X-box. There is more than just YOU, in your little world, with your real and perceived, serious and not-so-serious, dilemmas. There is so much more than you’ll ever know or be able to understand unless you go out and see, really see it for yourself.

A whole wide world churns, grows, cries, laughs, buys, sells, produces, EXISTS just beyond your doorstep, and no matter how deeply involved you are in your own tiny little area, thinking that whatever is in your face is all there will ever be…

You’re wrong.

There’s more.

That was our agenda: To share this message with these up and comers, as they approach the next steps in their developing lives.

That, and to cram in the faces of our friends that we saw Dublin FIRST.

Most. Humble. Mother. EVER!!

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 16:19:00 +0000

My boys got an agent. As in, they are officially represented by a talent agency. It's a wonderful and strange thing to think my boys are actors and they are pursuing their dreams of fame and fortune and supporting their mother's early retirement; and yet it is quite another to place those thoughts into reality.

My boys are really actors! Who will be acting! They (with the help of their father, with whom they live during the summer months) actually went on auditions and procured an A-list agent. And now, they have headshots.

Behold, my awesome sons! I am only a little bit proud when I scream, OH MY GAWD THEY ARE SO HANDSOME!!! Check them out:

Harry

Trevor

But at least I'm not bitter.

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 16:00:00 +0000

When I booked my flight to Europe, I was going for cheap. Months in advance I began trolling various online flight aggregators in search of the best flight deals. And time and again, I noticed the same airline has the best fares—if only by $50 even—than the nearest competitor. And since our trip was on the double-cheap, and since $50 could translate into a museum pass somewhere (let alone a meal), I decided to go with what appeared to be the most economical choice.

Two words, dear readers: NEVER AGAIN.

Four words, dear readers: WORST CUSTOMER SERVICE EVER!

And whether you’re 10 or 110, kindness and customer service matters. But see, you don’t realize just how important it is to be treated with a modicum of respect until it’s gone.

As an avowed, unapologetic feminist, I have no problem stating that all of the old biddies (and they know who they are) working for EXPURGATED Airways should be fired or forced into retirement, the lockers containing their personal items pilfered and the contents of said lockers deposited in various airports strewn across the country. But not before they have been repeatedly bashed in the elbow with an overloaded drink cart.

All the juvenile (both literally and figuratively) male attendants who look up to and emulate the crappy attitudes of the older set should also be axed, their eyes super-glued mid-roll and forced to RINSE the gel from their hair and their overly applied cologne with the deep blue waters of onboard lavatory. This all should be done, of course, AFTER being doused with piping hot coffee.

There are apparently no youngish female attendants, nor aged male attendants, working for this airline (or at least working any of the legs that my family and I flew). I cannot therefore make a recommendation to EXPURGATED Airways about how these sub-groups of employees should be treated, but based on my experiences of customer service with the rest of the company, I’m going to lump them in with the previous. The youngish females, then, will be known as stinky, self-absorbed brats and the aged men as asses. Old-fogie asses.

Whatever. Come up with whatever non-stereotypical, non-sexist, non-gender-specific insults you prefer, so long as they are childish and offensive and descriptive, and that is EXACTLY how I feel about the customer service personnel with this airline.

But the issue goes so much deeper than simply the flight staff.

If an entire company’s staff is miserable, from the greeter (who looked like this) to the ticket taker (who looked like this) to each and every flight attendant (who acted like this), I’m not really sure where the fault of such a tremendous failure in customer service lies.

Is it with the individual? Certainly these people should bear the responsibility of their actions. Isn’t that one of the basic tenants of life? The Golden Rule? Treat others as you would like to be treated. Unfortunately it appears that every individual working for this airline—or perhaps, just the individuals working in Los Angeles and Philadelphia—likes to be dominated, condescended to and verbally abused, sexually harassed and ignored because of their race or age or gender, and thus expects that treatment in return. Yet, having been on the receiving end of such abhorrent behavior, I can’t imagine anyone prefers such treatment. (I can’t speak for fetishists, however.)

Yet I also can’t help but blame the corporation, the master entity who both allows and apparently fosters such horrendous customer service. After witnessing a ticket agent ignore a woman because English was clearly a distant second to her native tongue; after being verbally abused and herded by various staff members (“Get in this LINE! NO! You people—OVER THERE!”); after witnessing my seat-mate get doused with coffee by unapologetic and somewhat inebriated flight attendant; and after watching various passengers receive eye rolls and annoyed sighs for any request, I sought out a supervisor. I relayed to him all that I had seen and how we all—my family and the greater public—had been treated by the staff of the organization. I was professional, yet frustrated; he was nonplussed and unapologetic. When I requested that he forward my suggestion that the airline’s staff revisit customer service training, he agreed that it was an obvious, necessary step and followed up with, “Ma’am, that ain’t ever gunna happen.”

I wished him well in his union’s upcoming labor negotiations (but I secretly didn’t mean it. I’m not entirely certain he caught the undertone).

No matter who is to blame for such horrendous behavior and despite the strong language herein, I have largely moved beyond my misery of my flight experience with U.S. Airways—oops, I meant EXPURGATED Airways. Since my return I’ve heard many stories about this airline from lots of other people, and the endings all seem to be the same: NEVER AGAIN.

So there you go. For all future travel plans, whatever they may be, I will fly with other airlines. I strongly urge those of you who may have future flight plans to think twice about how you spend your hard-earned vacation dollars.

cross posted from centralvalleymoms.com

World travel.

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 18:29:00 +0000

I have been away for a few weeks, visiting our sister countries across the pond. Many amazing good times. Several trying ones, but only when dealing with Americans. What is THAT?

Check the photos:

See PARIS!

See DUBLIN!

See LONDON!

I gotts mad Photoshop skillz

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 23:11:00 +0000

Campfire Stories: The Most Horrible Story of All

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 22:13:00 +0000

We sat around the campfire, telling ghost stories of one kind or another. There was the one where the couple on Lover’s Lane end up with the hook in the door; the one where the escaped mental patient shows up at the campfire itself, to the terror of the campfire listeners; and then my children’s favorites, the stories I find most horrifying of all: The stories of my social mortification.

“Come on mom, tell that one!”

“What one?” I feign.

“You know, the ONE. The Most HORRIBLE Story of All!” Seeing the glint of fear and anticipation in their eyes, who am I to disappoint?

*sigh*

“Alright. Here goes….

“She was fifteen-years old. A simple girl in search of simple things, a girl who was kind and naïve; a girl who was exactly like you (“but smarter!” they shout) and looked like you (“but cuter!” they sing) and dressed like you (“but cheaper!” they laugh). In fact, this girl could be you, any one of you…”

“Except she wasn’t!” They ring out.

“No, she wasn’t. Lucky for you.

“One random Wednesday evening the girl, who for the purposes of this story we will call ‘Graci,’ and her best friend went to her church’s youth group. It was almost like any other night at youth group: There would be teens, there would be laughter, there was going to be a teen-only mass. And even better…”

“The boy she liked would be there!” the kids fill in.

“Exactly. The boy she had the biggest crush on ever in the history of big crushes: Darren Brown. He was cute. He was funny. And best of all, he was smart. Very, very smart. Yes. You see, kids, Darren was Brain Attractive—and that's the most desirable-kind of attractive there is for a girl. Next to Funny Attractive. Which he also was.” The girls all nod in understanding. The boys all look down at their shoes.

“Everything was perfect for young Graci that night. She was wearing her khaki shorts with the white Venetian-blind style shirt and her white Keds without laces, the tongue folded down. She wore her stonewashed denim jacket with the sleeves rolled up two times, her long bangs cascading delicately into her eyes, her white Ray Ban-knock-offs perched on her head… she looked AWESOME. She felt awesome. And yet little did she know the night would go horribly, horribly wrong.”

Panic fills the kids’ eyes. They huddle closer together, wrapping their arms around their tiny bodies, hugging each other for comfort.

“The group was meeting at the director’s house and the priest was there to officiate the short mass. Everyone was crammed in the small living room and to Graci’s surprise, Darren ended up sitting RIGHT NEXT TO HER! She was amazed. She was speechless!

“Her mind whirled with all the possibilities. Maybe she would get enough courage to talk to him? Maybe… maybe HE would talk to HER? The priest began the service, everyone listened respectfully. But Graci was only partially listening. She was trying to calm her breathing. She looked up to find that Darren was smiling at her.

“She smiled back and shyly looked away. OH MY GAWD HE WAS SMILING AT HER! That was a sign, right? I mean a boy smiling at you, out of the blue like that? That is a sign that maybe he thinks you’re cute, right? Wasn't it??

“Then it was time to recite the Our Father, and everyone held hands. And Darren was sitting next to her, which meant he ended up holding her HAND!

“Graci was stunned. She couldn’t believe her good fortune! Sure, the seating on the floor was pretty uncomfortable, straining her back, but she was sitting next to DARREN BROWN! It was worth the discomfort. Because, when it came time to give the sign of peace, everyone hugged. Which means she actually HUGGED Darren Brown, the cutest, smartest boy in the whole-wide room!

“It was the most amazing night of her life. The communion began and everyone started to sing. She sang softly and tried to use her best voice—she kept looking up from the Missile to show she knew the words but tastefully looked down on occasion so she didn’t come off too much like a show-off. Darren sang too, and he had a nice voice. She was in bliss. A state of pure and total bliss. Her leg was asleep, sure, but this night was fantastic.

“They’d all been sitting pretty still for a long time. Being on the floor and all crammed in the living room like that, everyone’s limbs were slightly contorted like the amazing rubber lady at the freak show. And Graci had a dead leg. She felt the overwhelming need to move, if ever so slightly, just to pull some blood back into her foot. She wiggled her toes, moving them just a bit. She scooted herself up to better posture. And then...

“The song ended. The room hushed. And in the split second of silence between the song’s end and the priests final blessing, like a small frog's ribbit, Graci flatulated.”

The boys at the campfire squeal with laughter. The girls sit in quiet mortification.

“Graci remembers nothing past this point except this: She never wore that outfit again.”

An Open Letter to Stupid People

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 22:55:00 +0000

Hey, you! EGGHEAD!

Yes, I’m talking to you, tough guy. Mr. Auto Mechanic with your Fu Manchu mustache, Popeye forearms and weathered skin like leather. You who could beat me senseless by just looking at me.

You, sir, are an idiot.

So are you, little old lady with the lavender, polyester pants and fluffy white hair that matches her tennis shoes. You are a complete and total imbecile.

You girls there, you teenagers heading to the mall in your tiny denim skirts and oversized sunglasses? You are just as big a pair of fools as that computer-geek couple in their late 40s with their black socks and running shoes, or the preppy twosome trying to be all sporty in Tommy Hilfiger.

Yes, I am talking to all of you Stupid People.

Congratulations. You are all top winners in my daily, personal Darwin Award effort. Each and every one of you suffer from a particular kind of DUMB and it really ticks me off that I, a simple woman who does not know you from Adam, care more about your very existences than any of you do.

I applaud all of your efforts to find alternate transportation, or insert more exercise into your daily routine, or take yourself on a stimulating outing. And yet, when I look at each of you, I wish you’d stayed home and couch surfed instead.

There are those of us who take bike riding seriously. We do so because we have almost been hit several times by soccer moms who cannot see us in their oversized SUVs while conversing intensely on their cell phones; cursed at by home boys, frat boys and cowboys who’ve been inconvenienced by our properly executed left turn; and had drunken partiers nearly run us off the road on their way home from casinos. Some of us know what it’s like to undergo hip or knee replacement surgery after having been clipped by a lax driver, or to spend months nursing a broken shoulder because someone rolled through a stop sign.

We cyclists all have our war stories, our almosts, our near misses; each is different and special to the telling. But the one thing we serious bicycle riders—whether we’re toddlers or adults—all have in common: We ALL wear HELMETS when we ride. It is WHY we CAN still TELL OUR STORIES. Why we continue to make it through another commute or trip out to Millerton.

And all of you, from cute little granny to the rockin’ Fu, to the ridiculous girls who were also riding on the WRONG side of the road to the sporty couple out on their morning “date” to the mom with the 3 kids tooling around on a Saturday—get your fat heads out of your… armpits… and put helmets on them. On your fat heads, I mean.

If you ride a bike—whether it is 10 feet or 10 miles—WEAR A HELMET. And, Stupid People, stop thinking that because you are over 18 that wearing a helmet somehow doesn’t apply to you. It does. It applies to everyone, even Stupid People. Enough with the worrying that it will crumple your hairdo, or that wearing one will make you look uncool. HELLO?? Of course wearing a helmet will make you look uncool! Of course it will crumple your hairdo! The alternative is that you end up looking like a complete freak with a crumpled HEAD without using one. Have you SEEN what steel plates do for fashion? NOTHING. No one designs with accommodating steel plates in mind.

You know what? On second thought, DON’T. Do us all a favor and don’t wear one. If you’re stupid enough to put your life on the line because it is an inconvenience to you or an embarrassment to have brain protection, maybe our society as a whole is better off without your special brand of self-absorbed absurdity.

But first, please buy helmets for all your children and force them to wear them every time they get on a bike—especially your toddler with the tricycle. You see, that way we can ensure that your funeral will be well attended.

Thanks.

Procrastinators: Read this... eventually.

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 14:06:00 +0000

I stare at the page, and it stares at me. We regard each other amicably enough, though I know the page is thinking nasty thoughts, and if I listen close enough I am pretty sure it’s got a potty mouth.

Right when I decide that it’s time to begin, that I need to start writing down what I sat to write—oh holy Hannah, what is that noise from the closet? Seriously? The shoe rack collapsed. Okay, so after I fix the rack-- wait. My bed isn’t made. Someone downstairs wants something to eat. I just walked in my room to get something—what was it? The laptop! Okay—so, after I fix the shoe rack, pick up the shoes, change my sheets, make my bed, start my laundry, make a peanut butter sandwich for kids five and six then macaroni and cheese instead, clean up the cat vomit, turn down the TV, go upstairs again for the laptop plug, change my shirt, change my shirt again, put on some face lotion, watch kid number four show me his Halo maneuvers, listen to kid number one fret about friends, go back downstairs with the laptop plug, then I will begin…wait…. What was I doing?

Oh yes. Procrastination. If it were a nation, I would be its Queen. Apparently, and though it feels contrary, I am not alone in my ability to put off for another day all that can be put off... for another day. And another.

If you're like me, you'll be happy to know there may be hope for us yet. On today’s Talk of the Nation on NPR, “Procrastination expert Timothy Pychyl and self-professed "structured procrastinator" John Perry discuss[ed] the latest research on this type of behavior and how to prioritize what's really important.”

Listen in!

Three Tiers for Mr. Jarman!

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 02:15:00 +0000

J cake
Originally uploaded by girlmonkey

Hip, hip, hooray!
Hip, hip, hooray!
Hip, hip, hooray!
I baked this cake last week for Harrison's teacher.

Jana's 9th Birthday Cake

noreply@blogger.com (girlmonkey) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 19:43:00 +0000

Jana's 9th Birthday Cake
Originally uploaded by artofdessert

OMG-- what a great looking cake!