Which one is for you?

I am so grateful for my book club. We always laugh, and drink. We discuss the book too. In addition to the laughing, drinking and literary discourse, some very important hypothetical questions are raised. The debate on Tuesday night was...Adam Sandler or Adrian Brody? Completely objectively I put the question to you. Doughy, aging fratboy, or lean sexy serious actor? I'll keep my vote to myself, but I would love to hear from you. Which nice Jewish boy floats your boat?

I have no real hope I will be able to explain what I am feeling right now, but I am compelled to try.
I am at the library finishing up some work. I have been working non-stop since Thursday, between editing and my own articles. I finished up and was sitting here with earphones plugged into my laptop so I could listen to my i-pod songs while I rejoice in being done. While I was sitting here a girl of about 11 came and sat in the same section as me. She is awkward, with long dark hair pulled back in a messy pony tail. She is dressed in nothing my own little princess (sarcastic) would wear. Worn shorts, baggy t-shirt, bunny ears, (for Easter I'm sure.) She is too tall for her age, with feathered eyebrows over wideset eyes. She is buried, nose first in a graphic novel. She has a look that is equidistant between defiance and apology. I know that look well. I wore it for years before defiance took over. Defiance was my answer to being rejected; by parents who would rather be dead than be with me, who would rather drink themselves unconscious, anything but be with me, hear me; rejection from peers. Most, not all, found my vocabulary off putting, my swift mood swings, my preference for the printed page to a living breathing companion unbearable. Defiance served me well for a while, until I found the One who would never reject me. My Savior and Creator led me to others, my husband, his family, dear friends. I sit here writing this, comfortable, happy, confident. I look again at this little girl, on the brink of growing up. I see the beauty hidden by the soft childishness of her facial contours. I can tell by the way she carries herself she has no idea she will, one day soon, be beautiful. I want to place my hand on her head and say, "It's okay, everything will be fine." I want to talk to her as though she were me, almost 30 years ago. I want to tell her, "You will beloved some day by the people that matter most." I want to tell her, "Keep reading, it will save your life." I want to tell her, "You matter." She's not me, but she could be. It is hard for me to see someone that reminds me of myself at that time of my life. I like myself so much now. I hate to be reminded of a time when I did not.

I Wanna Know What Bored Is....

Sung to the tune of "I want to know what love is," by Foreigner.

I have interviewed two restaurant owners, (married) and two married organic farmers in the past two days. Tomorrow at 8:30am, which is when I should be drinking my second cup of coffee, I will instead be interviewing another organic farmer. I blew off writing the articles I am working on today because my brother and sister-in-law were unexpectedly in town for a couple of days. We decided to go look at model home Roser and I are interested in and then go to lunch.They brought my crazy cracked out stepmother with them from Sin City. That's always fun. My brother and his wife were bickering nonstop. That was fun too. XX5's shoes overnight became too small, so she complained loudly and often about her pinkie toe getting squished. Still more fun. After lunch I ate an almond croissant just to put myself out of my misery.

I will be reading Unless for book club. That will not be miserable. I will be writing non-stop from 11am tomorrow until 11pm tomorrow evening to get my stuff in on time. I see another almond croissant in my future.

That was quite a response. Thank you so much. The truth is, after sitting with it a few days and dealing with the fall-out, I have come to a conclusion.

I like how the nose rings look. I had a strangely bonding moment with my 13 year old daughter. We were exhilarated and high-fived. It was better than going on a roller-coaster with her. I came to some other conclusions to.

I am a kick-ass wife and mother.

I am committed to my family.

My family has never had to deal with me wanting independence, or fulfilling my own needs before their own.

I was a punk in my teens with (for a short time) a mohawk. It was always combed down around my aunt. I was the type who put my real clothes in my back-pack and changed at school. I had to defy convention at every turn. I felt a need to stand out and separate myself from the crowd. It was no better in my early 20's.

As a mother, I have been perfectly conventional, except for my unusually cool I-Pod selections. If I want to walk around with an earring in my nose, then for frick's sake, everyone can just deal with it!

And if I want to have the kind of relationship with my children in which they run their rebellion past me, and you don't like it, well then, kiss my ass.

People will make judgements on my kids, but those who are willing to look below the surface, to get to know my kids, those people are in for a treat.

A Break From Drama

If there is ever a time during the month when it will be difficult to post everyday, it will be between now and the 20th. My deadline for turning my monthly articles is the 20th, and no matter how hard I try, I can never seem to get interviews done and information culled before the 17th. Tomorrow I have two interviews. I will then be writing non-stop until Thursday, except for a break Tuesday night for something I planned without thinking. Which is, of course, unusual for me because I usually consider things so carefully. (Insert rueful chuckle.) Roser came home from his trip with XY11. He was a sight for sore eyes, as was the hair lollipop. They got many autographs from ball players. I know you are all dying to know how Roser reacted to the piercing. Not telling. At least not now.

I am currently reading Cane River. It is a little too soon after Gone With the Wind to read a Southern book that includes the Civil War Period, but I have gone to far to stop now. I'm sure most of you know how that goes. What are you reading?

Running with the Bad Moms

I am so seldom in this position. I am usually running with the conservative moms. I am the one who doesn't let my kids watch South Park, or even watch PG13 movies before they are 13. I never let my boy's choneys (underwear) show when they sagged their jeans. My girls have to dress modestly all the time, no matter what. My kids have to call adults Mr. or Mrs., or at the very least, Miss, as in Miss Michelle. I allow my younger three children very little freedom without me.

Now, all of a sudden, I am in the other camp. I have made many decisions that made me unpopular with my kids. Now I have made a decision that has made me unpopular with parents whose opinion matters to me.

I thought I didn't care what people thought of me, but it turns out I do. I have always parented according to my conscience and it has served me well. My kids are amazing and overall we are a close family. I let XX13 get her nose pierced because I think it looks cute. I was willing to allow XY17 to pierce his lip because he is 17 and has earned the privilege of looking the way he wants by doing everything else right. He brought it up for the first time over a year ago. It has taken him that long to get his grades to what I required in order to say yes. I consider most piercings temporary in that once you remove the post, the remaining hole is nearly invisible. I would never agree to something I would consider permanent. I would never agree to the large wholes that many boys, and some girls put in their ears. I am for very long and thoughtful consideration before getting a tattoo. I recommend a year, minimum. I have also made my feelings clear about how I feel about tattoos. I am not a big fan. I have told my kids if at some point they get one, it should be someplace where it can only be seen if they are wearing a bathing suit.

I am adamant about allowing my children some autonomy with their appearance. I realize that people judge you on your looks. My children are experimenting with sending different messages. Unfortunately, I seem to be sending the loudest message of all.

Today was the Caribbean Queen's baby shower. I co-hosted it with JM at her house. It was just what you would expect at a baby shower for a little girl. An explosion of pink and flowers and fancy china.
JM, who has been my friend for 14 years was speechless when she saw XX13 and our pierced noses. I thought we would have to get the smelling salts. It was not pleasant. She got over it quickly though.

The Caribbean Queen is from St. Lucia, and always talks about her birthplace as though it were Heaven on Earth. She makes it sound like so much fun. She says that the food is so fresh that it makes you horny all the time. I am not sure if this is true or not, but I would love to find out.

Roser and XY11 are still out of town. Hopefully XX13 and her friend and I can watch either 'Scream' or 'May'. Both scary movies.

There were three readers at the shower. Very Nice.

See that puff of Smoke Floating By? That was my Parent Card

A few things. First, 'Nanny Diaries' is not a comedy. Do not be fooled. I have seen 'Feed the Children' commercials that were less depressing.

Second. I found out why XY17 has been in such a good mood. It clicked when he said he's had no appetite for a week. Her name is Faith.

Third. If you have been waiting for an opportunity to judge me...your wait is over.

XY17 texted me to ask me if I would take him to get a double lip piercing called 'snake bites'. I was at Costco when I got the text. I knew it was coming. XY17 mentioned it many times. I have always been very laid back about my children's appearance, as long as it is modest, and not disrespectful. Of course 'not disrespectful' is open to interpretation. XY17 has dreadlocks, and XX13 has been reprimanded at school for showing up with hot pink hair. I would be sad if at any time one of my kids chose to get tattooed, or got their ears stretched with those types of earrings. Beyond that, we can discuss it. I agreed to take XY17 to the tatoo parlor to get his lip pierced. Twice. I brought XX13 and XX5. XX13, for some time, has wanted to get the cartilage in her ear pierced. I didn't mind that at all. Then she brought up something we talked about months ago. She asked if she could get her nose pierced.

"Daddy will kill me dead," I said. She pushed a little. I gave vague answers. Finally, I jokingly said that if she got her nose pierced, I would have to get mine done. "You should!' the two older ones said.

We got to the tattoo parlor, in the same shopping center as a Smoke Shop and a radical clothing store. And many, many people smoking in the parking lot. We had to wait a slightly uncomfortable amount of time for the piercer to return from taking his car appointment. XY17 can't have facial piercings at work, so in order for this to work, he has to be able to put clear plastic retainers in while at work. We found out that the piercing had to heal for at least three weeks before you can put the plastic retainers in. It wasn't going to work. XY17 was very disappointed. XX13 asked if she could still get her piercings done.

"No," I said, "This was Xy17's day. We'll do it another day." We left for home. XY17 had a concert to go to. XX13 was sullen and silent. I was pissed and hurt. I had been looking forward to an evening with her. I spoke to her about it a little, but I could tell she was upset. After a while she apologized, but she was still very quiet.

We got in the car to go to Trader Joe's and Pinkberry. Then, in the car, she began to talk.

"It's just that XY11 got something special," (Baseball trip with Roser) "and XY17 get something special," (Concert an hour out of town) "and I have been so good, with all the stress on our family. I have really tried, and for me, I have really good grades. It's not fair." she said, ending with the universal lament. I could not argue with her. She has been so good. She tries to get along with her brothers. She helps take care of XX5. She seldom pouts, she never cries. She is unfailingly dependable.I told her she had to choose, ear cartilage or nose. She said nose. I called the tattoo parlor. Then I called Roser. He was not happy. But he wasn't going to say no. Neither was I. The other thing I could not do was have her go through it alone.

XX13 and I are both the owners of one extra hole in our heads decorated with lovely sparkling studs.

XY17 got in the car yesterday and announced there was a going away party for a friend of his who was going to prison. This was the first I had heard of it. XY17 doesn't have those kinds of friends. Most of his friends have been friends for years, and I know most of their parents. We are a conservative family oriented group of people. We are certainly not the type of people who have children who are convicted of felonies. My first thought was, 'How will this influence XY17'. We talked about it a little, and I decided to let him go. It is a boy he spends a lot of time with at school, and a close friend of one of XY17' best friends. In other words, as far as teenage boy's friendships go, this was a close one. I have always taught my kids to have compassion no matter what. I had to let him go.

I talked to Roser about it, after briefly considering lying about it. We agreed not to exploit the situation by trying to hammer home a lesson about responsibility and choices.By coincidence, I made one of XY17's favorite dinners, (chicken noodle soup) but he didn't eat a bite. He sat quietly on a chair, barely responding to my questions. Shame on me, I didn't realize how preoccupied he was with his friend's situation.

He finally said, "What do I say to him?"

I wasn't thinking about how serious it was. "The best thing to say to someone in a tragic situation is just 'I'm sorry'," I said.

When he got back, just before 10pm, I was already getting in bed. He didn't have his key, so I had to go down and let him in. I made just a little small talk with him, expecting to go back up to bed, but I could tell, for the first time in months, he wanted to talk. I sat at the kitchen table while he leaned up against the counter.

"I wish you could have met him. He really is great guy in spite of everything." I believed him. He had already told me the kid had a really rough upbringing. He got his diploma yesterday, several months ahead of time. XY17 was sure he would make good use of his time in prison to get his Associates Degree.

"It's so weird to think, he's going away for to years. Not to college though. Someone I saw almost every day is just gone." And then my six foot tall, 22o pound 17 year old son did the most surprising thing.

He cried.

He cried, and let me hold him for a moment. "I'm so sorry," I whispered into his neck, the very thing I told him to say to his friend. "I'm so sorry," I repeated, "This is a lousy way to be introduced to the grown-up world."

I let him go and he wiped his face. "D's truck got stuck and we all had to pick it up and push it," he said with a misty eyed grin. The tears spilled over again as he said, "Just like every other weekend." He quickly wiped his face again, and turned away to get water. I know he and a I and all of his friends were realizing how many times their friend would think of his last night with his friends.

I had to put my 'Mom-Hat' on for at least a little while. "The best thing you can do for your friend is pray for him every day. What he has to face won't be easy. You pray that he makes good choices while he is in there and stays safe. The other thing you can do is live your life well. Don't squander your freedom or take it for granted. You have an opportunity to further your education and pursue your dreams. Right now your friend doesn't."

I would never want my child to think about things like 'What will happen to my friend in prison?' I would never choose for my child to have a friend that would make a decision that could get him convicted of a felony. I know, though, that at different times in our lives, we may be tempted to make decisions that we never would at another time. Some times these decisions have dire consequences, other times the whole thing is nothing, swept under the rug. I don't know what will happen with this. I don't know if my son will stay friends with this boy, or if it will be an 'out of sight, out of mind' thing. I want to protect my boy from everything, but know that he must be strong enough to withstand the influence of others.

As for me, I will be praying for this boy. As hard as I am, as much as I believe in being tough on crime, it is a tragedy that a 17 year old boy, not even to the beginning of his life, will be in prison for two years, and then, for the rest of his life, an ex-con. If you want to pray for him, his name is Joshua.

The Hair Lollipops

To make up for telling XY11 I couldn't take him to the skate park, I told him he could have some friends over and skate in the cul de sac or go to the neighborhood park. He came with one of his friends, named Christian or Cody or Daniel, because as far I can tell, all of his friends are called Christian or Cody or Daniel. XY11 showed up with his skinny tight jeans, skate shirt and long puffy/shaggy hair. Christian/Cody/Daniel also had...tight skinny jeans, skate shirt and long puffy/shaggy hair. A third boy showed up, another Christian/Cody/Daniel looking just like the first two. By the time the fourth boy showed up, I am embarrassed to say I had a hard time picking XY11 out of the crowd. It was like football season. They all had bony shoulders stretching out there faded t-shirts, and holes in the knees of there jeans. The only thing not angular and slim on these 10 and 11 year old boys was their gravity defying hair. They all looked liked Tootsie Pops that had been dropped in cat hair. They looked like hair lollipops.

A fourth boy showed up named Brock. That was not his only nod to individuality. He had a baseball cap with a skate logo on his mass of hair. It had to be an extra large.

Boy! Isn't this fun?!

So...Blogging every day. Whose idea was that anyway? I am feeling very guilty for telling XY11 he can't go to the skate park for two hours with no adult supervision. What is wrong with me that I feel guilty? I don't actually feel guilty for saying no to that; I feel guilty for saying I would take him and be there and then having to cancel. I didn't realize when I said we could go that spring break starts next week. I would have put it off anyway, instead of having to cancel for work.

XX13 wants to go to Disneyland with two of her friends. That's all. Just three thirteen year old girls at Disneyland. Yeah, and when Hell freezes over they can all go ice-skating there too! What in my psychotic over-protective parenting style made her think I would say yes.

Roser is taking XY11 to see their favorite baseball team's spring training. XX13 and I will be watching chick flicks and horror movies. There will also be pancakes and bacon for dinner. I'm predicting a good weekend. I am sure there will be a cartoon to make XX5 happy too.

Vegtables vs. Shoes

I am joining a CSA soon. The acronym stands for Community Supported Agriculture. You are basically buying shares in a local organic farm. You pay ahead for six weeks of food. I am very excited at the prospect of feeding my family fresh, organic, locally grown produce. Roser keeps referring to it derisively as 'the vegetable club'. He mentioned it to the kids tonight.

"If I am paying $250 for vegetables I'm gonna care whether or not you finish them."

"What?" XY17 squawked, "For vegetables?!"

"No," I said perhaps a little defensively, "It's organic produce, and it's $35 dollars a week."

XX13 piped in then.

"Think of the shoes we could get with $35 dollars a week."

"We'll have rickets if we don't eat fruits and vegetables," said I.

"They'll be be looking at our cute shoes and people won't notice. They'll be distracted."

I thought this was excellent logic for about two and a half seconds. Then I remembered the conversation we had earlier at dinner.

XX13 said, "I think Shelley's aunt is like a nun."

Shelley is a dear friend of mine who was the recipient of some Amish Friendship Bread starter I had to get rid of. XX13 and XX5 did my dirty work tonight before dinner. I didn't know XX13 was using teen speak for an actual nun or that the aunt was conservative like a nun. I asked for clarification

"I'm not sure. Shelley introduced her by saying 'This is my aunt, Sister Mary,' and she was wearing a huge cross and one of those outfit things that nuns wear." By now, as is not unusual, we are all rolling! XX13 tries to defend herself by saying,

"I didn't know if she was just from somewhere that women dress like that and..." her voice trailed off as she finished, "called each other Sister."

"And where would that be?" XY17 asked grinning for the first time in weeks.

"I don't know," XX13 said laughing along with us, "Maybe she runs an orphanage or something."

Just so you know, this is the girl whose advice I almost took about buying shoes instead of vegetables. In some ways, the organic apple doesn't fall too far from the locally grown tree.

Who else thinks the Monday after Daylight Savings Time should be a national holiday? I am sitting here with a messy house really wishing today was 'Watch All the Stuff on your DVR' day. Alas, it's not. It is a normal day, not 'Read One of the 30 Books You have Borrowed from People Day', or 'Beat Your Best Text-Twist Score Day'. It is 'Get up Off Your Lazy Ass and Do Some Laundry Day'. This is not one of my favorite days.

Sunday...

Today was a friends little girl's birthday. Friend is the Caribbean Queen. She is a beautiful girl from Saint Lucia. She had the party at one of those blow-up jumpy places. XX5 was invited and XY11 wanted to go too. I called and offered to pay, but was told to go ahead and bring him. The Caribbean Queen's husband is a Marine as beautiful as she is. XY11 was very excited to meet him. My son wants to be a Marine. He is fascinated with war, history and politics. To him meeting a Soldier or a Marine is like meeting a football hero. I am very proud of him, even though it breaks my heart. I think it is something he is, not something he wants to do. The way being a writer is who I am, not what I do.
XY17 wants to be a teacher. That also makes me very proud. There is nothing that could make me prouder. XX13 says she wants to be a stay-at-home mother. Again, so proud! It stands to reason that XX5 will be a girl in a bar with tequila in holsters mixing shots in peoples mouths. Not that there's anything wrong with those girls, but still...

Readers are part of a culture all their own. Their are different types of readers, but I am referring to the die hard, three or more books, mostly novels a month. If that number seems a little low, it is because I do not have enough hours most months to read much more than three or four books a month. If the number seems high, you are not a reader. We are a snobby bunch. Magazine readers don't count, nor do newspaper readers. You must have a low self-help book to novels ratio.

We tend to find each other in crowds. In families, the bonds are especially strong. I have a cousin who has taste similar to mine. We have been exchanging books for years. I sent her out of my home one time with her arms loaded with books. She returned the favor when we went to her home. Another cousin has the weirdest taste ever, but I love it. She gives me haunting esoteric tales that I never would read otherwise. Because of her, I had to buy Lolita by Nabokov online. I was too embarrassed to go into our little independent bookstore and buy it. It would have been worth the embarrassment as it turns out.

People who are not readers are often resentful and jealous of the time the readers in their lives spend reading. I is an uneasy thing on both sides because most readers do not spend nearly as much time reading as they want to.

I had known a woman for about eight years when she lent me a book called Gloria. She never lets you know her opinion unless you ask. I inquired about the book all she would say was, "It's hard to say what exactly it is about." I knew she was a reader, we were even in a book club together. I read the book not even knowing if this friend liked the book. I was enthralled by the story. When I talked to BK about it, I found out she loved this strange lovely book too. I saw her in a new way after that. We have become very close in the three years since then. When I found out she loved that book, I felt like I found someone who spoke the same language as me, or saw the same strange colors I did. Like I found someone from my tribe.

My very best friend grew up in a trailer park with a mother who liked to date ex-cons. She grew up dirt poor, and with no real positive influences, but she is one of the most amazing people I know. She reads all the time. I think reading changed her life. I know it changed mine. It exposed me to worlds I never would have known existed.

Are you tired too?

Have you ever been so tired you actually feel your brain rolling around inside your skull like a ball bearing?

Have you ever been so tired that the act of listening is painful? So tired that you wish the person talking would fall into a non-dangerous coma just so your ears could have some rest?

Have you ever been so tired that you watched The History Channel for twenty minutes because you're too tired to change it?

Have you ever been so tired that the commitment you made to blog every day for the month of March seemed like a really bad idea?

Have you ever been so tired that you went to sleep with a half a glass of Napa Syrah, slightly fruity, well structured, still on your nightstand?

Me neither.

Costco

I am trying to blog every day for the month of March, so some entries may seem a little random.

I was in Costco with XY11 and XX5. I needed dish detergent, so of course I spent 240 dollars, because that is a reasonable financial penalty for running out of dish detergent, right? Any way the whole Costco buffet was going on, and the kids were snacking accordingly. There was a Yoplait Yogurt sample kiosk. I'm sure that's because there are dozens of people who have never tasted Yoplait. Anyway, XX5 looked for the "white" kind because it doesn't have chunks of fruit in it. She got strawberry instead.

"Mommy, there's things in it!" she said showing me her little paper cup of yogurt.

"Yes, Baby, there are little bits of strawberry in it," I confirmed.

"Will you please eat them all for me?" It didn't even occur to me to think of this as an unreasonable request. As a matter of fact I just did it. Not because I was in the mood for little slimy pieces of pale strawberry chunks, but because she was not. As a matter of fact, I missed one. She pulled it out with the little plastic spoon, and I sucked the offending piece of fruit from the surrounding yogurt. That's it. Princessa didn't want the strawberry bits. So of course Mommy ate them.

I used to love it when I had dignity. That was cool.

I got XX5 a book today; "Horton Hatches the Egg" on sale at Kohls. I Have a huge collection of Dr. Seuss and Seuss-like books for the kids. I have been wanting this one for a long time though. After dinner, (Baked Tilapia, roasted asparagus and rice) I sat and talked with Roser in the front room for a while. When he went to do some work on the computer, XX5 came in. She had chocolate ice cream all over her sweet little face. I sent her up to get jammies on and brush her teeth. I assumed she would wipe her face off when she saw how dirty it was. Silly me. When she came down and snuggled up next to me, ready for her story, I told her about her dirty face.

"I won't die if I go to bed with ice cream on my face," she said.

"Do you really want to take that chance?" I asked her.

She just shook her head and sighed, "Even if it was oil it wouldn't kill me." It is hard to argue with logic like that.

I picked up the book and began reading. XX13 came in, eating a bowl of ice cream.

"Oh, I want to hear this story," she said as she got comfortable on the couch across from XX5 and me. I continued to read.

"Can't you come over here? I can't see the pictures," she said. That was XX13, that couldn't see the pictures. XX13, as in, Girl, aged 13 years. Sighing, XX5 and I moved over to the larger couch. We started again. Right around the time we figured out Maizey the lazy bird wasn't coming back, XY11 shows up and squished in between XX5 and the arm of the couch.

We got about halfway through when XX5 asked if we could finish up in her room. She told me she had looked forward all day to snuggling up in her bed. The problem with going to read in XX5's bed was, XX5's has a single bed. There wasn't enough room for both the older kids, XX5 and me, and the book. We compromised by getting in my bed and finishing the book.

It was wonderful.

I was in bed with my three youngest kids, reading to them. I know there is a finite amount of these moments left. I thank God for every one.

By the way, even if XX5 was willing to risk it, I wasn't. I wiped her face off before bed.

Just Call me Pancho Villa

Every time I go to get my eyebrows waxed at a Vietnamese nail salon they ask if I want my lip done. Every time they ask, I get insulted. I would know if I had a mustache, wouldn't I? It turns out, maybe not. I was in my daughters' bathroom tonight, and I got up close to the mirror look at my skin. It was a little bumpy and I was checking for pimples. I found some, but more disturbing, I found several, no, many brown hairs on my upper lip. They couldn't just appear out of nowhere, could they? I tilted my head this way and that, hoping I was wrong; hoping they were the shadows of blond, silky hair. Nope, no shadows. I turned from the medicine cabinet mirror I was looking into and checked the big mirror. In the big mirror they disappeared. In the big mirror they were the soft baby-fine blond hairs I was used to. Turning back to the medicine cabinet mirror made them reappear. It was like some cruel optical illusion. I was upstairs to tuck XX5 into bed when I made this discovery, so I couldn't address it immediately. I finished singing and saying prayers and went downstairs to watch TV with Roser and XX13. As I sat there, I could feel the mustache growing in thicker and darker. My pores ached a little as the hair follicle stretched them. Even with the aching pores, and ever thickening facial hair, I held out hope that when I went up to my own bathroom to get ready for bed, they would be gone. The whole thing would just be an unpleasant hallucination. I was also prepared to believe that if I could not see the mustache, it did not exist. Well, I checked my up till now feminine upper lip, and found that they are there, and they are real. In addition the the mustache, the hairs under my chin are reproducing like Brad and Angelina. It will hurt like a mother to pluck my lip, so I have to get them waxed. I hope Vietnamese facialist are not given to gloating.

Open Letter to My Husband

Dear BH,
I met you almost exactly 17 years ago. I was working in a sleazy bar and you and your best friend came in after a wedding. I tried to work you for tips but failed. You asked me for my phone number, just like five or six guys a night did. For reasons I still don’t understand, I broke precedent and gave it to you. Before I did, I told you my flaws as I saw them. I was not nearly as attractive out of the dim lights of the bar; I wore glasses when I didn’t have my contacts in; and I had a seven month old son. You didn’t care, you still called. I tried to keep you separate from my beautiful mixed race son. When you picked me up for a date, he was already at the sitter’s. One day, after we had been dating for about three weeks, you showed up unexpectedly at my apartment. When I realized it was you at the door, I said out loud, “Oh no!” You later told me you thought I had another guy in there. You were sort of right. My little man was there. You met him before I would have introduced you. He worked his calm wide-eyed charm on you. Over the next year, you fell in love with us simultaneously. The feeling was mutual. We married. The charming baby turned into a mouthy four year old. You approached fatherhood from a logical angle whenever you could, emotional when you couldn’t fight it anymore. You have always understood that true love is always accompanied by action. You coached DB’s baseball teams. You took him camping. You rolled your eyes over my head, so he knew you thought I was crazy too. It has always been obvious that there is more than meets the eye with DB. He is half black, and you and I are both white. When people meet the two of you together, they assume you are his father, and I am his step-mother. No one can tell by your behavior that you are not his father. He can’t even tell, even though he knows. He told me once, about four years ago that he was so grateful he didn’t have a step-father. He forgets that there is any other man but you responsible for his existence. He is right. You are the man responsible for everything he is. He stands like you, argues like you, laughs like you. I could never have taught him how to be a man. I taught him to learn about the world by reading. I taught him to have compassion, to have empathy. You taught him the importance of ambition. You taught him when to walk away and when to stand and fight. You taught him that a man appreciates the females in his life. He got his dark skin and curly hair, wound into messy dreadlocks from someone else. He got everything that matters from you.

Open Letter to a One Night Stand

Dear SD,
You are an occasional subject of conversation in my house. Under normal circumstances I would not even remember your name. You and I were friends for a brief period in 1989/1990. I don’t remember the names of our other friends, although for about five months, we were all inseparable. The only reason I remember you at all is because we were sexually intimate one time, again, very briefly. So briefly in fact, that you were done before I could tell you I was not on the pill. As a result of that otherwise completely forgettable, drunken encounter, I have a seventeen year old son, who looks exactly like your brother. My husband asked me recently how you could not care if I was protected against pregnancy. I said it was because it wouldn’t have affected you at all if I got pregnant. I sort of just threw it out there. After I thought about it for just second, I realized I was right. My having a child has for all intents and purposes has not affected you at all. I remember a phone conversation with you, about ten years ago, in which you told me you though about “your son” every day, and every thing you did in your life was to bring you to a place where you could have something to offer him. I recommended a card on his birthday, but you said you couldn’t afford a stamp. Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that you do think about the kid, oh, let’s just say, once a week. I think I am being damn generous here, but okay, once a week. When he was growing up that equaled 21 meals I had been responsible for. Ten outfits I had washed, one set of sheets I washed. When he was much younger, it was three episodes of night terrors that I got up in the middle of the night to deal with. On some weeks it was four or five times he didn’t make it to the toilet to barf, four or five messes on the carpet my husband or I would have to clean up. When he was 13, it was six times I cried myself to sleep, wondering if I had done all I could to raise him the right way. Now that he is seventeen, I am crying again, wondering again, “Have I done all I could?” You will never convince me that having a son means anything to you or your lifestyle. When I told you I was pregnant, I told you I didn’t want anything from you, and you could be as involved as you want. Every time we moved, I made sure you knew where we were. I made sure, through your mother, that you always had a phone number for our family. I have not had the same consideration from you. When my son was young, I cared. I had the most amazing, most beautiful child in the world, (like every mother) and I could not understand why the one other person in the world who had a genetic link to him didn’t care to know him. Because I was in a relationship with someone, the same someone, since my kid was seven months old, it didn’t matter for long. Having a child has affected your life not at all. And yet I know you claim him. You tell people you have a son. You asked me during one of only two phone conversations we have ever had if I would consider giving him your last name. Were you fucking serious? You were.
When I was told I was pregnant by a tired distracted doctor working in a medical clinic, he also told me I was in the process of miscarrying. I went immediately to a friend’s house, and waited in bed, trying to keep the little zygote I was carrying safe. I began changing my life. I did not want a baby, but I was compelled to act like a mother. I quit Diet Coke and smoking and drinking. I started drinking milk by the gallon. I worked until one week to the day before he was born. Every minute, every decision is about how it affects my family, of which, he was the first member. You have nerve. You did nothing, NOTHING to contribute to this child except have sex with me, 17 years ago. Your life has not changed at all. What is that like? Because my life has never been the same.

Kitchen Mojo

As you know, I love to cook. I like to stretch a little, and experiment. Last night I decided to make gnocchi with browned butter, fried sage lemon zest and Parmesan cheese. Well, I didn't put enough flour in the potato dough, so the gnocchi was to soft and doughy, even though it was cooked long enough. The seasoning was great, perfect in fact, but the texture was all wrong. I am so disappointed. It would not have been so bad, but the previous night, I made carbonara for XY11's birthday dinner. I made half again as much as I usually do, but I didn't make enough sauce for the pasta. I was looking at the pancetta and white wine mixture thinking, "I really have to add some pasta water to this so there is enough to coat all the pasta."

For some reason I didn't, so the carbonara was so bone dry, it was almost inedible. That was a rookie mistake, and while making a dish I could normally make in my sleep too! That was not the one that started it though. On Sunday, I made red sauce, and eggplant Parmigiana. I salted the eggplant to draw out the bitter juices, and I forgot to rinse the salt off. The final dish was so salty it made my mouth hurt. Every other element of the dish was great. The sauce came out well, the eggplant was sliced nice and thin, the cheese was browned. It looked perfect, and tasted like a practical joke.

Tonight, I redeemed myself. Roser and I were kicking it upstairs. My brother and sister-in-law took the older three kids to the mall, and XX5 was watching Little Bear. We were relaxing and started talking about dinner.

"Let's make homemade pizza," Roser suggested. When we make pizza we generally do a barbecue chicken pizza with teeny tiny onion straws made from scratch. It tastes great but didn't appeal to me.

"Let's make a steak and Gorgonzola pizza with caramelized onions," I countered.

"That sounds good," he said, "But I was thinking we would make two. What should the other one be?"

We decided on a roasted vegetable one. My brother and sister-in-law were back and hanging out while Roser and I cooked. There was a lot of prep work for the pizzas. I made a light tomato sauce and roasted asparagus, mushrooms, red pepper and grape tomatoes for the veggie pizza. I started sauteing the onions for the steak pizza. I wanted them to have plenty of time to break down and get silky. If you do them too quickly they get hard and possibly burnt. Roser grilled a steak while I reduced cream for the sauce. I added some of the Gorgonzola cheese to the reduced heavy cream for the sauce, and I saved some to sprinkle on the pizza. We used prepared pizza dough. It's raw and you stretch it out yourself. The pizzas both came out very good. The onions were very dark brown, and so sweet they reminded me of sun dried tomatoes. The Gorgonzola cheese was just tangy and earthy enough to assert itself without overpowering everything else. the veggie pizza was delicious too, although next time I will let the veggies sit in a colander after I roast them so the pizza is not at all soggy.

I feel like I have my kitchen mojo back. Tomorrow family is coming over to help celebrate XY11's birthday. I hope I can still cook tomorrow.