Crazy Girl

One of the things I love most about where I live is that I can be on the coast in an hour or so. The ocean is the closest thing my brain has to a reset button.

The last time I was fortunate to be seaside, my children and I were huddled in a make-shift tent of blankets and towels. The wind was whipping so fiercely the next day I was wishing I could market it, but there's nothing like nature's free dermabrasion.

Anyway, as we were trying to keep sand from gouging our eyeballs while still making castles, a man with a huge backpack and a tiny dog settled down not far from us. He pulled a large orange tarp-like thing out from his backpack and flapped it open. We couldn't figure out what it was...a tent? A raft? A kite?

With what looked like a bike tire pump, he proceeded to pump this thing up. It ended up looking like a giant pair of bat wings; we still didn't know what it was. He threw some sand on it to weigh it down, and he left with his dog at his heals.

A few more people came along and soon the beach was dotted with these THINGS.

The things turned out, in fact, to be kites. The people, in fact, were surfers. Surfers who used the wind as well as waves to propel them.

Kitesurfers.

Watching them launch from the beach into the Pacific was breath-taking. One minute they were standing on the shore, all laden with hooks and ropes attached to large swaths of fabric, and the next they were dancing on water.

I watched and I drooled. I swear, my muscles were twitching, just aching to experience that...gliding over the water, jumping into the air and diving back into waves; they were both surfing and flying.

Eventually, a woman strode onto the beach and began the same ritual of pulling out the tarp, pumping of the bike pump. At this point, however, the winds had picked up even more and her tarp was whipping around making it hard for her to keep it attached to the pump. I watched for a few moments, and then headed towards her.

"Can I help?" I asked.

For a moment, she was quiet. She looked at me without expression; there was enough time for me to wonder if she was silent because she hadn't heard, or if my intrusion was unwelcome. I explained myself by gesturing to the wind.

She broke out into a smile and said, "That would be great. Grab this part here."

I grabbed the wrong part.

"No, here."

"Sorry." (Why did I apologize? I need to work on that.)

"No problem. Right here."

She asked me, "Have you seen us kite from here before?"

"No. It looks amazing. It must be incredibly physically demanding."

"It is. I am crazy. I am a crazy girl. This is what I've chosen. I'm a crazy girl...I didn't chose to stay home and crochet or cook or have kids. I chose this."

Okay, honestly, for a split second I felt a bit defensive (yet there was nothing judgmental in her delivery; she was clearly thinking out loud). But for the rest of that second, and for the following minutes, I chatted with amazing woman as we got her gear in order. She shared about kitesurfing, and I talked about my life.

Eventually, she also threw some sand on her kite and went off to put on a wetsuit. She asked me if I'd be able to hold up the kite when it was time for her to launch. I gushed that I would love to; the concept of being a part of this experience, however tangentially, thrilled me.

I filled my kids in on the details they weren't able to hear and waited for her to come back. I kept my eye out for her as we built more castles, as I read to my little one or read my own book as my boy read to her, as we shared some sandy sandwiches.

But then I saw her, Crazy Girl, in the water slipping her feet into her board while another wet-suited person held up her kite. Somehow, I'd missed her reappearance on the beach, and I'd lost my chance. The disappointment crept over me as I watched her take off, gliding across the water.

I looked at my kids arguing about how best to build a moat for their sandcastle, "NO! The moat should be a circle and we make a river to the water!"

"NOOOOOO! We bring the water to the moat!"

"NO!"

"NO!"

Even as I started to intervene to make sure their argument didn't continue to escalate, I was aware that I was so glad I chose to be the Crazy Girl With Kids.

With every choice, there is a loss.

Reset button pushed.

Like you haven't thought the same thing. Oh, you haven't? *Ahem*

I was sitting in my family room today, and this little bug flew past me. I don't know what kind of creature it was, just that it wasn't a fly nor a mosquito, so it was cool with me.

It buzzed around the room a bit, as if checking out the piano and bookshelf and sofa and walls. Then, seemingly bored, it made a beeline (HA! But it wasn't a bee!) out of the room. It proceeded to go through a doorway, and purposefully made an abrupt right turn to go down a hallway. It went right down the center of the hall, and deftly turned the corner at the next jog.

That buggie knew the floorplan of my house! My jaw dropped and I thought, "Wow, how fucking cute that the little bug totally knows where it's going!"

So, this is the type of gripping news you've been missing due to my blogging sabbatical. Stay tuned for more!

My advice to the writers and producers of the Sex and The City sequel, because I think I am that important.

Not too long ago, one weekend afternoon I was faced with a mountain of laundry (plus other random chores) and a quiet house (husband was out with the kids).  That's quite a rare occurrence. The raining made it a cozy, stay-at-home afternoon...also rare.

So, I flicked on the TV and checked out the movies I could order from our cable company (again, a rarity). I wanted something mindless as I was going to be in and out of the room and didn't want to be bothered with a plot (I am so deep).

Sex and the City it was!

Despite the fact that I did occasionally watch the TV show, and admittedly sometimes even enjoyed it, I had no desire to go to the theater with my friends to endure watch the movie without being able to openly mock it. I mean, two-plus hours of Samantha's rasping double-entendres in her roller coaster delivery? In fact, double-entendres from all four of them? Hard to take. 

(As an aside, my husband and I often entertain ourselves by lapsing into Samantha's vernacular to make anything sounds dirty, "Oh, you're go-ING to make an OM-elette, are you? Let me HELP you with the SPAT-u-LAH.")

Anyway, this movie fit the bill mindless visual and auditory entertainment.  Sadly, though, after a while I found myself thinking...and remember, I was trying to avoid thinking; it was supposed to be a No Thinking Afternoon of mindless entertainment and laundry folding.

The movie predictably starts (well, after an odd montage from the TV show to bring unfamiliar viewers up to date on it's complex character arcs and plot points) with a voice-over from Carrie, which went something like this, "Year after year, twenty-something women come to New York city in search of the two L's...labels and love,"

Really?  

Really?

Twenty-something women don't move to New York City because that is where their career takes them?  Nor for access to museums and world-class restaurants and Broadway and kick-ass pizza by the slice, and the sheer excitement of living in one of the world's most diverse, fast-paced metropolises...and, and, and?

I shook that thought off, and as I watched the movie I was dumbfounded by that Carrie was so freaking obsessed with labels.  Sure, designer apparel was also revered in the series, but at least Carrie brought her own Molly Ringwald "Pretty in Pink" irony to her wardrobe.  None of that in the movie...it was slathering over labels for label's sake, even to the detriment of the other "L" (Opps!  Sorry!  Guess I should have warned to about the quasi-spoiler there!).

As the movie continued, I was struck by the fact that despite being released less than a year ago, it is horribly dated.  The conspicuous consumption rampant in this movie, I thought to myself, just wouldn't be relevant in this post-October 2008 economy.

Yeah, and then the next day I found out they are filming a sequel.

Wii Fit can bite me

So, I got a Wii Fit for Christmas...I had my son, who is ten, hook it up to our Wii system. He's better at that than I am, and my time is far better spent losing at WordTwist on Facebook. He went through the whole syncing process, etc. (Oh, and I beg to differ WordTwist people...'lumen' IS a word).

When he got to the Body Test area (the one that would tell me my BMI is atrocious, I am sure), the freaking thing started to spaz (technical term). It kept telling us to "Step off the board and press A." Ummmmm...we are not on the board, NEVER were on the board. My son kept pressing A. And pressing. And pressing. And pressing...

My kids wanted to cry, so I spent ages online trying to suss out the problem. Nothing worked. Talked to customer service at Nintendo today, and after some shrugging on their end (I could *hear* him shrugging), they decided to try sending me new software. If that doesn't work, it's the plank for the board.

At least I don't know my BMI yet.

Rainbows & blogging templates

I think I need to shake things up around here. Get back in the groove of writing on a semi-regular basis.

I don't know what my deal is. I've got some sort of blogging writer's block. I have about five or six gazillion posts in my queue...none of them completed. I start writing, stop, stare at the screen, say, "Eh," and walk away.

What's up with me?

I haven't told you much about my most awesome new house. Or the fundraising auction that I am organizing for my daughter's preschool. Or that I've lost weight since quitting Zoloft (yea me!). Or that our finances are really starting to look up (despite the fact that my husband's in the banking/mortgage industry. But he's one of the good guys!). Or. Or. Or.

Maybe it's just that I started using this bloggy here as a vent for all the negative stuff going on that I forgot how to write about wonderful things...like rainbows and soft, fluffy kittens and life going well.

It probably also has something to do with the fact that I still don't have my own laptop. Or camera.

Oh! Good! Something to complain about!

Except that I am probably getting a camera this weekend. Not for sure, but probably.

AND, it's looking pretty good that I'll be getting a new computer by the end of the year.

Great! NOW what am I going to complain about? It's not fair! I don't have anything to complain about, dammit!

Oh! Excellent! That's what I can write about...how much my life sucks because everything is going so flipping well.

Wait.

I dunno. Maybe I should play with the template. That's always fun.

Location, location, location!

The Past:

Last year, at this time, I was lamenting the impending sale of my dream home.

Last year, at this time, I was freaking out...trying to keep the world together for my kids while simultaneously dismantling it. I didn't know where we were going to live. I feared being homeless.

Last year, I was scared and angry that I was facing one of my worst fears. Financial instability. And not thrilled with the pity.

---------------------------

The Present:

This year, I am loving the new home we moved into last month. Still renting...but as much in love with it as we are the "dream home" we sold.

This year, I learned that location doesn't matter...what matters is, we are a family that loves and laughs together. Location, location, location...irrelevant.

This year, I realized what I knew all along...money isn't what is important.

---------------------------

I didn't need this financial kick in the ass to remind me of this...as I said, I knew it all along.

But I'm here to tell you that living it brings it all home.

More from the Peanut Gallery (or, Peanut Allergies Suck)

When my daughter was eighteen months old, I left her with a friend while I ran a couple of errands (had to pick up my eyeglasses, and zip to the local running shop to buy some paraphernalia for my upcoming half marathon). It was the first time I was leaving her with someone other than a family member, and I was ridiculously nervous.

My friend, whose daughter was (and still is) bestest friends with mine assured me that she'd hover over my girl as much as she does hers. I thought to myself, It's only thirty minutes, she'll be fine.

Twenty-five minutes later, as I hopped into my minivan, heaving a sigh of relief because I was headed towards my girl and could scoop her into my arms in mere minutes, my cell phone rang.

It was my friend, "Does your daughter have a peanut allergy?" she asked.

"I don't think so; we've never let her have peanuts. Why?" I answered.

"Just wondering. I have some granola bars here that have peanuts in them. Wanted to know if I could let her have one."

"No, please don't. I am keeping her away from peanuts until she is three. I have food allergies; I am super paranoid!"

At this point I was nearing her house, so we hung up.

When I got inside, the rest of the story was made clear to me.

My friend, who loves my daughter dearly, asked me, "Does her lip look swollen?"

Sure enough, my daughter's lower lip was swollen, just on the right side. My friend had given the girls a granola bar to share; as soon as my daughter put a bite to her mouth, her lip swelled up.

Thankfully my friend was savvy enough to know what was going on. She confiscated the bars, and watched my daughter with a hawk's eye. She's CPR trained, was at one time a First Responder, so she knew what she was doing, and what was going on. Her call to me was as much about finding out my location and how soon I'd be arriving as anything.

We watched my girl for hours; I called the pediatrician and followed their instructions. Later that week a trip to the allergist confirmed that not only did my daughter have a peanut allergy, but a severe one.

How could that have happened? An allergic reaction never happens on the first exposure to a substance. It takes at least one prior exposure for the body to build an immune response...the first time is always a gimmee. I had never given my daughter peanut butter, or any peanut product in the past.

Or had I?

Peanut oil is widely used in a variety of products, and machinery that processes peanuts also processes other products that don't have peanut ingredients. Clearly my sweet girl had been exposed to peanuts at least once prior.

Labelling has come a long way. Now companies are required to inform consumers if their product has peanuts in them; many go beyond that requirement and add if the product shares equipment with peanut products, or if the facility processes peanuts. I am eternally grateful for that; reading labels has become FIRST nature to me.

I understand that peanut butter is a staple in most US households. It's a great source of protein, most kids love it, it's convenient and inexpensive. I'd urge you, however, to hold off on serving it to your young children until they reach an age where you are certain they won't develop a sensitivity to it.

What is that age? It's unclear...I'd say six is a fairly safe bet. Not for sure, but probably fine.

The problem with a peanut allergy is, one time the child might have symptoms that are so mild they go unnoticed. The same for the next ten times. Or forever.

Or, they might get a swollen lip. The same for the next ten times. Or forever.

But...they might get a swollen lip, and then the next time go into anaphylactic shock, be unable to breath and suffer other serious system failures.

And die.

There is just no telling.

Peanut allergies are notorious for being totally unpredictable. They can come out of seemingly nowhere, and there is no way to know what will happen with the next exposure. Might be fine. Might not.

Next year my daughter is supposed to start Kindergarten. I don't know what I will do...frankly, with a life threatening allergy, I can't say I'm all too keen on the idea of assuming that she'll be fine.

The last time I did that, we discovered her allergy. She was in good, loving, capable hands.

What if the next time, she's not?

It ain't just a river in Egypt, or I don't need no stinking fan

You know what I'm in right now?

A big old heap of denial.

We are moving a week from tomorrow and I haven't packed a box in days. Oh, sure, right after BlogHer I went nuts for a few days and collected boxes, filled and labeled them. It felt great! I was ahead of the game!

Since then...nada. Been taking the kids to pools (because, you know, I need to get geared up to living in a home with OUR OWN POOL), reading, not writing much here, scouting for contributors for Blissfully Domestic's relaunch, tweeting, sleeping in late (LOVE it when my husband works from home), weaning from Zoloft (as if that's an activity that takes up actual time), using my elliptical which may or many not* spontaneously combust, looking for my keys (nothing new there), and just generally finding anything super important to do other than pack up this household.

*Okay, I need to explain this one.

I love my elliptical. Love it. If it weren't for that fine piece of machinery, I'd probably have gained far more than 30-some pounds while on Zoloft.

The thing is, my daughter (who is four)(oh, sorry, her voice in my head makes me tell you that she is four and a half) likes to be right next to me allofthetime. Which means, while I am working out, she wants to be on the elliptical with me. So, we've struck a deal. She can stand in front of me while I pedal as I am warming up and cooling down (ssshhhh...don't tell her that really I only let her be on there for a minute each time as I really slowly pedal and pretend to exercise). I explain to her that it just isn't safe for her to be with me while I am going fast.

Really, I think she has tricked me. The thing she likes most about being with me on the elliptical is toying with the fan feature on the console. She plays with the little lever and angles it towards her face. "Ahhhh...that feels goooooood, " she says.

So I indulge her, then boot her off the machine. She plays happily with her dollhouse nearby while I start my real calorie-burning mode.

Yesterday, however, something went amiss. When I started sweating glowing I smelled a freaky burning smell emanating from the li'l fan bit on the console.

"Do you smell that?" I asked my daughter.

"Smell what?" she responded.

And then the smell was gone. I chalked it up to my imagination.

After my workout was done, I turned off the fan.

It didn't turn off.

I hit the button a bunch of times, but to no avail. The machine's fan had taken on a life of it's own. It refused to submit. It wasn't going down for anyone!

Finally I pulled out the big guns and unplugged the elliptical itself. I sure showed that console fan who was boss!

After a series of phone calls and tech support stuff and warranty investigation, two things were revealed:

1. The machine is no longer under warranty.
2. The machine needs a new console, which will cost $427.36. Before labor.

So what I'm going to do is remove the cover to the console and disconnect the fan. Ha! Take that console manufacturers!

(Told you I can waste time. Do you have any idea how many boxes I could have packed in the time it took me to write this post about nothing?)

When in Rome?

This is a post that has been knocking around in my head for quite some time, but one of those I just never got around to writing. In light of recent political thangs, I was reminded of it...but suddenly a bit reluctant. I don't want this to come across as a post about a particular candidate, because it isn't. It is, however, about a phenomenon I've witnessed for years and it really makes me twist off. So here you go!

Let me start off by telling you a little bit about myself: I studied French for over eight years...all through high school and college. That's for a solid eight years, not intermittently during that time period. After I graduated from college, my roommate and I instituted "French Sundays" and we only spoke French on those days so that I wouldn't get too rusty.

That same roommate also taught me some of her native Portuguese. And a bit of Spanish.

In my twenties I also enrolled in German classes at a local community college.

When my son was of preschool age, he showed a strong interest in learning Spanish...so I enrolled him in a program for little kiddies and their mommies. It was great for both of us. All three of my children either have or will learn non-native languages...I firmly believe it is not only a wonderful academic exercise but also a key to understanding other cultures.

Plus I just LOVE how it feels to articulate myself in a new language. It is uniquely thrilling.

So with that caveat, I must say I take great offense of this notion that we Americans are backwards and unenlightened because so many of us don't speak a second or third language.

I've been extraordinarily fortunate to have spent a lot of time in Europe. As I looked forward to my first time in France, I was thrilled to be able to buck that stereotype I'd been taught all of us ugly Americans deserved. I was going to take my pretty damn good French vocabulary and accent and WOW them in those French-speaking countries. Plus I would use my rudimentary Spanish when I could! And maybe I'd just speak French all over Europe and be super awesome!!!

Guess how many times that happened? Let's see...once in Provence a B&B owner kindly indulged me. That's all I can remember. Oh, no wait...their was the bartender in Paris who totally mocked my accent. That's a funny story for another time. Remind me, 'kay?

Sure, there were other times that I got to flex my linguistic muscles, but what usually happened was as soon as the first French (or Spanish) syllables were out of my mouth, whomever I was talking to would wave their hand and say (usually with a polite smile or wink, sometimes with an impatient roll of their eyes), "That's okay, let's speak English." It was disappointing, but whatever. I got over it.

When two Europeans from countries with different languages get together, guess what they usually speak? English. Because, the thing is...English just happens to be, for whatever reason, the default language. On the internet and in real life.

If you live on the border of Italy and Austria, there's a geographic imperative that makes learning more than your family's native language tongue a highly valuable skill. We simply don't have that in the United States.

I would LOVE for there to be languages taught in our grade schools from Kindergarten on. For what it's worth, I'd also love for there to be art, music, and PE, to name a few. I'm supplementing my kid's education with foreign languages. And art and music and PE.

My point is that I'm sick of being told we should be ashamed of our ugly, unenlightened, and inferior nation because we travel abroad and speak English. I know there are those who fit that stereotype, but for the most part I think it is an unfair characterization.

I defect

So, as I mentioned, this li'l blog o' mine has been getting an overhaul. Thought it was time for her to look all perty.

I can't take credit for the look, though. The lovely and talented Karla of Fruition Designs was slaving away on it while I was whooping it up in San Franscisco.

Right now I'm trying to sport an uncluttered look. No worries, that'll change. I know some of the links don't work...that'll be taken care of eventually as well. Anyway, some of the blog bling is gone, some of it is back.

This, however, is back up:



Actually, "back up" isn't technically correct because the one I used to have up was this:



What isn't going back up is this:



No, now...don't get me wrong. I DO still totally kick ass! And Guy Kawasaki is super nice and not only allowed me to park my blog at his site for the past few weeks, but also hosted an amazing partay at his home and graciously allowed me to attend. And drink wine. And eat. And pick up super swag.

It's not you, Guy, it's me.

Well, it's kinda someone else. Yes, classic love triangle.

My paramour AllMediocre. I cannot resist the siren call that is AllMediocre.

The thing is, AllMediocre became more than just a holding tank for those of us wanting to get to Alltop. It's a true community. I miss the community. I miss my friends at AllMediocre.

BUT dammit Meghan won't grant an exception to her rule for me (I KNOW!) which states very emphatically that you can't be a member of AllMediocre if you're on Alltop.

So, while Alltop and Guy were very good to me, I have no choice but to go back to AllMediocre...because while the bling and validation from AllTop were awesome, I'm here on the interwebs because of YOU. The community. The interwebs interaction and bloggy love.

Thus I must invoke the words of my beloved Steve Martin and say to AllTop,

"I break with thee. I break with thee. I break with thee."

~throwing dog poop on their shoes~

BlogHer recap #2: Or, the one about being got.

I have like five dozen different BlogHer posts banging around this head of mine...like one with funny anecdotes of drunk bloggers, others with reasons why you should go next year if you didn't this year, informational posts with the nuts and bolts of the conference itself (because despite all the posts and photos to the contrary, there actually was a serious conference going on), linky posts full of who I met and how fabulous they are. Giveaways of some swag I don't need. Oh, and juice on the Big Bloggers.

And I'll get to those, at least some of them. Later.

But for now, I just want to tell you one big HUGE reason why I loved the weekend, and how I've come away changed. Honestly, like it was some uber-spiritual revelatory retreat weekend or a summer camp where I lost my virginity (not that I experienced either of those, but I imagine they'd be similar).

I kept waiting to become overwhelmed with anxiety, or shyness, or vertigo, or something. What I ended up being overwhelmed with, right from the beginning, is a sense of being surrounded by kindred souls.

You know how in your "real" life if you start talking about your blog to a friend their eyes start to glaze over? Or they get a confused look on their face?

You know how in your "real" life you have to go through a bunch of verbal gymnastics when you try to explain to others how these people you know online are definitely not a bunch of big hairy perves? That they really are friends in the truest sense?

You know how in your "real" life NO ONE gets what twitter is all about?

At BlogHer, I was surrounded by 999 other people who got me. I got them. We got each other...and it was crazily liberating.

It was so flipping relaxing to be amongst people who not only didn't roll their eyes when the word "blog" was mentioned, but instead wanted to hear about it. And who had a blog of their own that you wanted to hear about. With whom you could exchange your bloggy greeting cards and just be yourself.

Where I could just be myself.

That thought really struck me for the first time on Thursday night as I rode a shuttle from the Westin to the Alltop/Kirsty party in Atherton (at Guy Kawasaki's house). Apparently the party was in a Bermuda Triangle of sorts, because the shuttle drivers kept getting lost.

I was sitting next to VDog who knows the area well and kept saying,"Dudes, we're totally going the wrong way. We're heading away from Atherton towards Redwood City. Snap!" People (and by people I mean a shitload of big name bloggers) started whipping out iPhones and trying to locate the party and our shuttle location on google maps.

I was texting with Mrs. Flinger who was on the shuttle ahead of us...they were confirmed as definitely lost. Pretty soon we were, too.

Then the fun really started...the bus did about seventeen U-turns. It was a two lane highway, so really they were more like 72-point turns. Curb-hitting, cars honking, bloggers complaining turns.

After the third U-turn there was a collective groan followed by a silent split second, which was broken when Laid-Off Dad announced, "Let's all tweet this RIGHT NOW!"

Everyone burst out laughing...that's when I had my mini-epiphany. It's a rare crowd where someone could say that and everyone gets it.

It was so nice to be got.

If I may interrrupt the guest posting for just a minute...

Let's give a big interwebs Happy Birthday to my husband!

As you read this, I am entrenched in BlogHerDom. He, however, is running around San Fransisco with our youngest two kiddies. No complaints from him that his birthday is all about me and my bloggy lovefest...how awesome is he?

Super awesome. He's my best friend, my ultimate confidante, my LUVV-ER, my bestest half. He's the father of my FBNOML (who might as well be of my loins, I love her so much), the Daddy to the two kiddies I birthed myself, my partner in crime and the one person who knows me better than anyone else.

So Happy Birthday, Mr. watch me! No, watch me!

I love you. Sorry I'm stumbling into the hotel room drunk tonight. It's those dang blogging beyotches. I'll try not to wake up the kids.

You, I'll wake up.

California cell phone ban just makes oh so much sense!

I've tried to avoid this rant, but screw it...I'm pissed.

As of July first, California passed a law and now it is illegal to drive with a cell phone to your ear. It's not illegal to use a cell phone while driving mind you; you just can't have it to your ear. There have been ads and commercials galore here for months, "Get your hands-free device to comply with the law!"

Why is this? The person who wrote the bill was worried about people driving distracted by their cell phones. Never mind that there are already laws in place against driving distracted...we needed to have one specifically addressing cell phones, it seems.

Oh, and there aren't any studies indicating that driving distracted by a cell phone is somehow more dangerous than driving distracted by, oh I dunno...kids. Or CD changing. Or fast-food eating. Or make-up application.

Now, let's walk through this, shall we?

You're driving, and your cell phone rings. Since it's unlikely you have your little ear thingy in, you need to fumble around and find it. Distracting. You need to shove it in your ear. Distracting. After that you are as engaged in the conversation as you would be if you were holding the cell to your ear, right? Still distracted!

Let's say you want to make a call. You can. You can still dial your phone. Distracting!

And guess what! You can still text while driving. Because that's not at all distracting!

I can also still use the speaker phone function of my cell, and hold it up to my mouth so that the person to whom I am speaking can hear me. Right in front of my face. In my field of vision. No, not at all distracting.

Furthermore, if I so chose, I can hold a banana to my ear while I drive. That's not illegal. I can hold a latte to my ear, or a flashlight, or a stuffed animal. Just not a cell phone.

Because that would be too distracting.

Once more, our tax dollars hard at work!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Onto a happier topic...

BlogHer is just days away now. Like, count-on-one-hand-days away.

Do you think I can lose twenty pounds by Friday? No? I didn't think so.

So, if you are going to BlogHer and we meet and take a photo together, please make sure your camera has the "Shed Twenty Pounds Off Subject Filter," on, 'kay? Thanks!

While I am gone, all laptopless and cameraless (really, someone ought to just buy me this stuff so I stop complaining), my blog will be in great hands. As everyone wants a piece of Watch Me Christine, my inbox was not literally flooded with hundreds of requests to guest post while I'm at BlogHer.


There were enough, however, to grab a hat, throw in a handful of names, and draw some straws. Or, rather, names from a hat. Mixing metaphors is never a good idea.


And thus, without further ado...here are the keepers of my castle while I am away. These are some amazing women. It's hard to guest post; you are putting yourself out there in a whole different way. I'd love it if you gave them some comment love (this is a great time to de-lurk)!



We've got:

• Darla, from Beauty Inside and Out, is a dear friend of mine. She has been nudging me along, ever so gently for months, to get my ass in gear and get my online store up and running. And by nudging, I mean sharing every last bit of information she's gained over the years, and her advice is full of pearls because her store has had phenomenal success. She is also very active in her 11-year-old's life and holding down the home front when her Chief-of-Police husband is working his long shifts.
• And there is Katja, who has personally made me four degrees from Oprah. And three degrees from TomKat. She will be gracing us with her words. She is a beautiful soul (and, dangit, is beautiful outside, too...she used to be a model) and never fails to inspire. You can find her at Skimbaco.
• Astacia, a tweeting friend of mine, blogs at Life on the Run will be doing me the honor of sharing some of her insights while I'm gone.
• Kim, also a tweeting buddy, is from Rainy Day Diamonds, has a funny tale to tell about a recent expedition she took. Hilarious!

Early Bird Special

In preparation for our impending move, I've been looking at everything we own and asking myself, "Do I really want to move it?" Turns out, I often don't!

So, we had yet another garage sale. That's the third in less than a year. I've come to learn a little about the garage-saling community over these past months.

There are those that come for specific items, like clothes for their kids or books or garden tools.

Then there are those who are just out scouting for deals, often to resell on EBay. A lot of them know each other, too. I overheard some talking about the great deals they'd gotten last week, what sales they'd hit today already, where they were going next. Who knew!

And, last but oh so definitely not least, are the Early Birds. They show up before you've even got your stuff set up, let alone priced. I get all frazzled, because more often than not they hover and shadow me, asking how much stuff is, and I have no effing clue.

At our last sale, this one guy was there and hour and a half before the advertised time, and hung out for hours. He and his beady little eyes were making me nervous; I was starting to think that maybe he was going to stay all day and then club us over the heads and take our loot.

Instead, he drove off with a pick-up truck full of furniture, bicycles, accessories and who knows what else for next to nothing. We essentially gave him hundreds of dollars worth of stuff (and I'm talking at garage sale prices, NOT retail) to get rid of him. Sucked.

Yesterday I had a different Early Bird experience. This lady was super nice and chatty and seemed totally normal. She bought a bunch of stuff, packed it in her car, and I thought she'd redeemed my opinion of the average Early Birder. I'd even given her a bunch of free stuff because she'd told me some story about helping an exchange student furnish their dorm room. Sucker.

But then she came back asked about the clothes; I was selling a bunch of stuff I haven't worn in ages. I told her, "Most of the stuff is 25 cents a piece, except for the evening wear...that's priced individually. "

The thing is, this woman was probably five inches shorter than me and far heavier. Nothing I was selling was going to fit her.

A few minutes later she was scurrying to her car, her arms laden with clothes. I thought I saw the purple of one of my "individually priced" dresses. I asked her if she was buying the clothes, and she said, "Oh, I already paid him," over her shoulder as she jumped in her car and zoomed off.

I walked back to where my clothes were and sure enough, she'd taken every last one of my fabulous dresses, including several designer names. I looked around, and the only "him" that she could have paid was my ten year-old son; my husband must have gone inside.

"Did that lady pay you for the clothes?" I asked him.

"Yup! Three dollars!"

She knew what she was doing. She walked away with hundreds of dollars worth of dresses. Literally. I was going to sell some on EBay if I couldn't fetch a decent amount for them at the garage sale.

What kind of a person does that?

Where I whine and complain

Two mornings ago I awoke to an incredibly loud PHWAP - PHWAP - PHWAP outside. I looked out the window, and there was a huge helicopter flying over my home. It had two big propellers and clearly it meant business. Serious fire-fighting business.

Yesterday I was driving with the windows open, and I pulled up to an intersection. I realized the guy in the car next had a cigarette in his hand, which was dangling out his window. And I didn't smell it.

Today I walked outside and was immediately hit by the scent of a bonfire...but, of course, it's not a bonfire. It's the smoke that's settling all over Northern California because there are too many wildfires for them to even keep count.

Our normally Mediterranean blue skies are grey. Our cars are covered with a fine layer of soot.

I know I shouldn't complain; none are near us and we are in no danger. But still, it sucks. We are cloistering indoors because outside it smells like a bar from my college years.

But we're going to make the best of it...we are going to grab some snacks and snuggle on the couch and watch Tootsie. Why Tootsie? Because yesterday it arrived in the mail from my bloggy buddy Neil, who kicks my ass at Pathwords on Facebook yet liked this post of mine enough to reward it with a movie.

By the way...did you notice that I'm all dot-commy now? Adios, .blogspot.com! I'm running with the big dogs now. Well, nipping at their heals. Okay, I can see them way up there, I think. Or maybe that's an illusion from the smoke.

Today I am a man

Inspired by Neilocha, (on whom I have a bloggy crush) (see how I awkwardly didn't dangle one single participle there?) (I think?) who challenged us to write as if we were the opposite gender (or is it sex?) (I can never remember).

My girlfriend just won't let up.

It was great in the beginning...the sex was awesome.

She got me, you know? As if I'd known her forever. FOREVER.

We spent all of our time together; I never saw my roomates because I was always at her place, and that was cool because we were busy filling each other in on the details of our lives we'd missed, you know?

Did I mention the sex was awesome?

But after a few months, I started to FREAK. She wants to be with me ALL OF THE TIME. Sure, it was cool in the beginning, but now...come on! It's time for us to get back to normal, our normal routines. I need my dude time, and her friends are getting on my nerves.

I'm thinking that what we might need is to slow things down a bit here. Stop being so girlfriendy-boyfriendy and cool off a bit.

Yeah, I totally love her. But she's stifling me. I need some time off. Sure, the sex is still great and I don't want that to stop, but I need my days back. Maybe we could just spend our days apart and hook up at night.

That sounds like a great plan. I'm going to run that by her tomorrow.

Into the light of the dark, black night

The other day I was lounging on my sofa; it is next to a big window that faces the street. As I was reading, I heard the clip-clack sound of someone running in shoes not designed for said activity. I looked up, and one of the college students who lives next door was scurrying past.

"Huh," I thought, and went back to reading.

One and a half sentences later my doorbell rang. There she was, standing on our front porch.

"A baby bird fell and is in our driveway," she announced.

It honestly took me a split second to realize why she was telling me this. Oh, she wants me to come help her, I brilliantly deduced.

"Would you like me to come over and help you?"

A look of gratitude flashed across her face, "That would be great! It just fell onto my driveway. I don't know what to do. It's just laying there."

At this point I'm wondering what she thinks I can bring to the situation. Not that I mind helping, not at all, but I couldn't figure out why she needed assistance.

"Do you think we should put it back in it's nest?" I asked. "They say you're not supposed to do that because then the Mama bird will boot it."

She just looked at me with an uncertain look. I was thinking that was probably the best route to go...better than leaving it laying on the ground, right?

I wasn't prepared to see what I came across. I'd pictured a cute little birdy, unable to fly, confused and looking up at the branches from which he'd fallen.

Not. the. case.

This tiny little creature didn't even look much like a bird. It didn't have feathers...just pink skin with a few scattered tufts of down. The beak and legs looked soft, as if they were molded of orange jello. The poor thing was prone on the cement, its entire body struggling to gasp for breath. There was something trailing out of it; I wasn't sure if it was intestines or the poor thing had lost the contents of its bowels from the landing, or the stress.

It was clearly not going to make it.

I looked at the girl- well, woman really, she's probably twenty or twenty-one- and I knew I couldn't tell her that.

"Ummmmm, he looks pretty badly injured," I said. I looked up, trying to find the nest. "Where is the nest?"

"What nest?"

"The one he fell out of."

"Oh, he didn't fall out of a nest. His mom was carrying him and dropped him. He fell pretty far."

Ugh. Either a Mama bird is going to start dive-bombing us for hovering over her baby, or she's rolling her eyes at us for doting over the runt she dumped.

"Well, let's see..." I stammered.

She asked, "Should I get a box and some towels?"

I looked at her and realized that despite the fact that she's somewhere around twenty years old, she was looking at me with the same expression my four-year-old daughter does when she's got a boo-boo (medical term), Please, make it all better.

That's why she came to me...she needed a grown-up. Right now, even though she's technically an adult, she needs someone to take control.

"Yes, grab a box and some towels. He's going to need to go to a vet. Do you have a car? Can you take him? I can't, I have to get my son from school in a few minutes."

She said she could and ran off to get the emergency medical supplies for the bird, and I stood so that I blocked the sun beaming down on the poor bird. I imagined the bird being taken into a vet's by this sweet college student, and them graciously thanking her and telling her, Don't worry, we will take good care of him.

And then looking at each other after she left, wondering what they should really do.

I looked at the little orange beak, opening and closing as the bird tried to breath. I pictured a little dropper, guided by a vet's had, hydrating the bird drip by drip. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe he'll be okay.

The student rushed back and handed me the box full of towels. I really, really didn't want to do this...but I crouched down and gingerly attempted to scoop him up. His little body was limp and I was horribly afraid I'd squish him, but after a couple of attempts I was successful and placed him in the box, his makeshift nest.

"Thank you so much," the student said with a huge sigh of relief.

One evening a couple of months ago I walked by her house while taking my dog for a walk. It was dark outside, so the large picture window facing the street glowed like a movie screen. The dining table was filled with laughing students, and the aroma of their meal reached me on the sidewalk. I smiled, remembering back a couple of decades to a dinner party I threw while at college. I got all nostalgic for those years of young adulthood....the burgeoning independence, the future wide open before me all full of hope and promise, the developing friendships you just know will last forever. I have to admit, I was a bit envious in that moment as I passed by.

Looking at the student before me, baby bird in hand, that memory flashed through my head. I realized how young she really is, how much I've grown in the past twenty years, and that no matter how enticing the trappings of her world might look from a brief outside glance, no way would I want to return to it.

"I'm really glad I could help," I answered.

Dare I hope?

The last few weeks, I've been feeling pretty down, my peeps.

Money's not been tight, it's been downright squeezing us dry.

We've had a few mechanical issues in our home...and by mechanical, I mean both of the human skeletal and the architectural plumbing sort.

And on the emotional front, things that had once kept psychic demons at bay have been threatening to no longer work.

As if that wasn't enough, my laptop has been finicky and thus my connection to the Internet (TO YOU!!!) has been sketchy at best. So I've been pretty much reliant on my husband's laptop. Which is with him 90% of the time. Niiiiice.

Oh, and I am due to have a repeat mammogram in the next couple of weeks because the one I had six months ago had some suspicious specks. *Gack*

I've been...scared. Unsure. Isolated. Fighting hopelessness. Broke.

Then, out of nowhere, a situation fell into our laps. One that would give me hope, and take away a lot of the crap I've feared the past few years...not that it would fix all of our problems, but one that would make a lot of things better.

I don't know if this situation will work out. I'm afraid to really hope, because what if I get too excited and positive and it all falls apart? What if I am left where I am, minus the dream of this new, most delicious carrot dangling before me?

So. I am trying to pretend the carrot doesn't exist, and fighting the urge to indulge in fantasies.

But should I be revelling in the dreams while they are possible? Is it better to indulge and have hope thus risking disappointment, or just pretend that hope doesn't exist?

These are the days of our lives

Earlier today, I was IM'ing with a good friend who lives on the other side of the country, and I was asking her advice about another friend, whom she's never met. More specifically, how I should be responding to a particular situation in which I find myself regarding this friend. A situation that has slowly devolved and become potentially insurmountable to our friendship, unless we suddenly are able to turn back the hands of time. I'm still working on that Master of Time, Space, and Dimension thing.

Then later I was talking on the phone (sooooo last millennium *yawn*) to another friend who also lives far away, about another friend who lives even further away. This phone conversation revolved around our concern for this friend and his declining mental and physical health. We spoke for nearly an hour, while his friends in the background chastised him for not hanging up and enjoying a Cinqo de Mayo drink with them.

(I must stop right here and emphasize that both of these conversations revolved around helping the party about whom we were speaking...this wasn't just idle gossip, people...it was very, very busy and industrious gossip.)

Anyway, these two conversations left me feeling strangely happy yet unsettled.

I love that I have friends in my life, however frequently we talk, that are part of my chosen, extended family. I revel in the fact that our stories are woven together inextricably, and that the fabric that is created will keep us warm in our coldest moments, and serve as a hammock when we want to kick back and relax.

But these two conversations today also reminded me of others that were once a large part of my life whose thread, for whatever reason, frayed away forever from the fabric that is my story.

And I worry that the two people about whom we spoke will also, one day, be a part of my history instead of my present.

Belly up and hit the tap

Not long ago I was at a friend's house, and my four year-old asked me for a glass of water. I grabbed a cup and headed over to the sink.

"*GASP,*" my friend exclaimed. "Don't use that water, use the drinking water!"

"Oh, yeah, right, I don't know what I was thinking," I mumbled as I made my way towards the water tank I'd use countless times over the years I've known her.

Mere months ago I would have had the same reaction as her. In our last home, we had a state-of-the-art reverse osmosis water filtration system; only the purest of H's and O's made it through to our drinking water. When we moved to our rental home, it didn't have any filtration system at all, so we switched to bottled water.

But the thing is, we are on a budget. A serious budget. The paycheck-to-paycheck kind of budget (and sometimes we don't make it that far). Things have to give; items that were once necessities become luxuries.

Like bottled water.

At first I did the Sacrificial Mom thing and saved the bottled water for my kids, and I started to drink *gasp* tap water. It tasted...weird. Then I thought of how I grew up drinking municipal water (except for those years we had our own well), and how that water probably tasted very similar to what I was presently attempting to choke down.

Then I had a very interesting conversation with a friend in town whose husband is an environmental engineer; he just happens to study water. Guess what he drinks? And his kids?

Water from the tap.

He emphatically states our tap water is perfectly fine, and he knows it as well as anybody, and certainly better than most. He is so confident that it is safe his children have been drinking it from the moment they first swallowed something other than breast milk.

He's not alone; as much as forty percent of bottled water's source is from municipal taps. Furthermore, municipal water is regulated by the EPA...not so with some bottled water. So I started to feel better about drinking tap water and giving it to my kids.

Then I noticed how our recycling container wasn't as full as it had been, and how when I threw a container into it (our city provides each house with 65 gallon curbside recycling bins, half for paper products and half for plastic and glass containers) it tended to crash against glass rather than bounce off plastic. Hmmmmm...

That's right, now that we aren't buying bottled water by the gross we have greatly reduced not only our cash outflow, but also our plastic consumption. And that alone can't be a bad thing.