The real problem with Jessica Seinfeld's cookbook

So, I am in Barnes and Noble, or as my family refers to it, My real home, and I spy a cute-as-a button cook book. I love cook books, and by several new ones a year. I am not capable of passing by one that looks even slightly interesting. This one was definitely interesting. It had kind of a retro 50's look to it, with an old fashioned looking drawing of young woman, hair up in a perky pony-tail, winking at the viewer as she held some sort of platter or plate. I picked it up and browsed quickly through it. I realized very quickly it was one of those gimmick cook books to get kids to eat disguised vegetables. So not for me. I don't have time to make box brownies right now, there is no way in hell I am gonna whip up a batch from scratch just so I can throw some spinach in them. I put the book back and continued my shopping without much more thought about it.

After B&N I went to Costco. Why, yes, I did go through the book department. Sure enough, there was Miss Saucy Pony Tail and her tray of I'm guessing slightly slimy brownies.

"That's odd," I thought. B&N and Costco almost never push the same cook-books. Still, didn't think much of it. When I saw the book at my grocery store, my brow crinkled a little. Being an aspiring author myself, I really admired her marketing department.

When I came home from the gallivanting, I put away all my stuff and watched Oprah, or as I like to call her, "The black Dina Lohan". Guess who was Oprah's featured guest? Jessica Seinfeld. Why Jessica Seinfeld? Well, it turns out, Jessica Seinfeld wrote the cute cook-book.

Hmmm....who knew? I settled in to watch it, and found my self agreeing with some of what she said about kids resistance to eating vegetables. A lot of what she said makes sense. And she is just as cute as her cook book. I can totally see why Jerry Seinfeld left that fourteen year old he was dating to take Jessica away from the guy she was married to while she was on her honeymoon. Any way, the whole thing was kind of cute. I was a little dubious about this Jewish American Princess being down in the trenches every night feeding her kids. I started to buy it though when she relayed her peaceful Sunday nights, catching up with Jerry while she steamed her veggies and turned them into puree. I could picture the scene of urban domesticity. I pictured a mostly white well lit kitchen, with Jerry on the other side of an expansive counter, as they talked about the triumphs and challenges of their prospective weeks.

"See," I told myself, "The rich are just like us, except for the wife stealing and borderline pedophilia." I was happy about this in a weird sort of way. Something about the triumph of maternal will over materialistic trappings. I was happy to think of her taking responsibility of her children's meals, not just picking them, but the actual act of cooking it. I was surprised because most mothers I know would hire a chef to at least help out with the cooking, if not take it over completely, if they could afford it. This includes me, and I love to cook.

I was buying it, like I said, until a couple of days later, when Oprah showed the audience Jessica Seinfeld's 'Thank You'. Twenty-one pairs of shoes. Twenty-one pairs of very expensive, high end shoes. That just blew the whole facade wide open. No woman who can afford a Forty-two shoe thank you is going to risk her three hundred dollar blow-out steaming vegetables for her kids, when she can afford to buy someone to do it for her. No, I didn't mean pay someone. So what's the point? Jerry Seinfeld got paid, um....682 trillion dollars for the syndication of 'Seinfeld', and he still does stand-up most weekends. He had that gig with American Express, and now he is in a kid's movie. I mean, I'm pretty sure she's not thinking about going back to work to ease up a little of the financial pressure on him. I am also pretty sure she doesn't even know where her kitchen is. There is nothing that rings true about Jessica Seinfeld sneaking veggies into her kids food. Maybe they are a close knit family, maybe they even eat together, but I can not imagine that they are eating food prepared by the sweat of Jessica's pretty unlined brow. I applaud her self-promotion, and at least it is something useful, and potentially good, rather than potentially harmful, (Please note, Britney Spears' mother is writing a parenting book.) I just wonder why. I have to admit, I wish I did believe it, but I don't. Apparently she has a great cook, and a caring one. One who cares enough to sneak vegetables into her kids food.

Breathing Underwater

I saw "The Abyss" many years ago. I didn't particularly like the movie, but there was a scene in there that I have thought of many times. The scientists in the movie made a way for the explorers in the movie to breathe water. The person had to get over there natural resistance to taking water into her lungs in order to be able to breathe. At the time, when I was about 18 years old, I thought of how hard it would be to fight that urge. Everything in you would fight taking the water in, but for these people, it was the right thing to do. Much of parenting has been like that for me. From the time my kids were little, throwing fits in the grocery store because they wanted gum or candy, I have had to fight what was natural to do what was right. My natural response to my kid crying is to...Stop the crying! If my child is unhappy, every cell in me wants to make them happy. Of course, this is a bad idea. It is a terrible parenting strategy to never allow your child to be disappointed. But it is not natural. I have to fight some pretty strong urges to tell my child no.

I thought it would be easier when my kids got older, but it's not. It is much harder. Now I am not only dealing with my child's disappointment, but I like my older kids, and I want my kids to like me. When I disappoint them by telling them no, I run the risk of losing their admiration and affection. They are also able now to tell me with their completely backwards logic how my decisions show my lack of trust in them. This is the ultimate betrayal to my teenagers. How dare I not trust them. I always say I trust them, but How do I explain to them,

"I don't trust the environment we live in. I don't trust that your friends parents love their kids as much as I love you. I don't trust your youth and inexperience. I don't trust your ability to make a good decision every single time. I don't trust the risk taking genes that I passed on to you. For my XX13, I don't trust your ability to blend in. You are too beautiful, and you attract too much attention. XY17, I don't trust how easy-going you are, and how much you don't want to disappoint anyone."

Yesterday, XX13 asked to go to a Halloween party at a friends house that I don't like, with a group of friends I don't like. I gave a soft no. You know, "Aw, Honey, I'm not sure, we'll have to see. We can talk about it tomorrow." I hate that. I want her to go, I want her to be happy. But I want her to be good. I don't think these kids are good. Ultimately, I guess it is true. I don't trust her. I don't believe she can be who she needs to be with these kids.

Same day. XY17 has been out with his friends. I expected him home around 12 o'clock, but at around 11:45 He calls, asking if he can spend the night at a friends house whom I barely know, and whose parents I have never met. If I say yes, I will get, "I love you Mom, good night." If I say no, I will get a curt accusation of lack of trust. He will get off the phone, possibly with out even saying good-bye. Just as it is unnatural for me to express my love for my children by disappointing them, it is unnatural for my children to accept it as love. I know what is right, but what is right is not, in this, or any other area of my life, what is easy. I have to believe that somewhere deep down, my kids know that this is love. I hope, and I really mean, hope! that my XY17 is secretly grateful that I delivered him from possible temptation. I think that kind of thinking is less likely for XX13. The scariest thing about my girl is, I don't think she wants a way out of temptation. I think she wants to stand right on the edge of it, like a campfire, feeling the warmth of it on her face, feeling a thrill when a flame flickers close enough for her to feel uncomfortable heat. That scares the Hell out of me! And because of that, I will continue to try to breathe underwater. I will continue to risk anything to be a good mom and keep my kids safe.

Ummm.... That last post ended abruptly. I finished it, but I don't know where the ending went. So any way.....Go back to it, I added on.

OK, so here is another thing. If you are sick of hearing about my mother/mothering issues, read another blog. I am working through some things.

My mother-in-law, who is about a 7.5 on a scale of 1 to 10 wanted to take XX5 today. We didn't know when MIL brought it up that the kids would be home from school today because of the fires. I agreed, assuming XX5 would be thrilled to spend the day with her grandparents. Even when I found out the kids would be home, I still figured she would be happy. The X's and Y's and I would just be cleaning, and I get a little testy when I clean, so I figured she would be happy to be out of the line of fire. In the words of the Grinch as portrayed by Jim Carrey,

"WRONGO!"

She was at first calmly resistant.

"Aren't they coming over to spend the night tomorrow?"

"Yes, Baby, they are."

"Good, I'll just save up all my happiness for seeing them then."

She didn't even look up from her book. I explained that we would not be having any fun at all. I was sure this was true, because, like I said, cleaning.

"I don't care. I want to stay here."

As I kept trying to talk her into it, she began to realize it was less than optional. Then, she began to get upset. Really upset. She started crying like she was going off with strangers. My MIL's phone wasn't working, so I couldn't even call her. She was on her way to pick XX5 up. In desperation, I turned to Xy17, who is XX5's super-hero.

"You have to talk to her," I told him, sure he could make her excited to go. He did. She would do anything for him. I should have known it would be a short lived victory when, while looking through some old pictures she came across a picture of a dog that we owned before XX5 was born, she started crying and saying she missed him. Actually, I did know, but I was hopeful. She was wiping her tears when the Grandparents walked in. She seemed cheerful, and was fine when I put the car seat in their car and strapped her in. I walked inside and started barking orders at the other X's and Y's. Thirty seconds later, MIL came in and asked,
"Can you please unstrap XX5, she doesn't want to go.
Apparently, as soon as I left her sight, she began crying. My MIL does not take rejection well, so I was expecting Hell to pay.
I was pretty irritated, but I didn't want to make XX5 feel bad. As promised, we did nothing but clean and yell at each other. As the day dragged on, I looked at XX5 and thought,
"I bet she's sorry she stayed home," but as soon as I thought it, I knew it wasn't true. She would rather be here with me on a boring day, than with anyone else on any other kind of day. This is just one of the many things I don't understand. I know it is normal, but it is not normal to me. I would have happily marched off to a play date with Joan Crawford and Michael Meyers, machete in his hand, to get out of the house I was raised in. I remember, one time, Evil step-mother commenting how I always wanted to spend the night away. Well of course I did! Between the Always Drunk Father Figure, and the Always Screaming and Cussing Mother-Figure, I would rather have been anywhere else.
And so, when my baby wants to be with me, I think I have done something wonderful, to raise a daughter that wants to be with me, but deep down, I know that is not true. Deep down, I know that my extraordinary is everyone else's ordinary.

I have a headache today.

I hate cleaning. I love writing. I love reading. I hate paying bills. I hate being the grown-up. I hate being responsible for the house being clean and dinner being on the table. I hate when my 17XX acts like a sarcastic buttmunch, I have to say,

"I understand and am happy that you are individuating, but you must treat the members of your family with respect." I want to say,

"Pull your head out of your ass, you spoiled little shit!"

When my 13XX wants her friend to come over because it 'so important' to her friend that I like her, I want to say

"If she didn't have such a trashy mouth on her MYSpace page, maybe there would be a chance in Hell that I would like her." but instead I say,

"Sure, she can come over, I'll find out what is important to her, and she'll see what's important to me, and we will get along fine."

The truth is 13XX deserves better. But I can't tell her that. She will take the trashy mouth's side.

When my kids are bitching at each other, I want to join in and scream the loudest. Sometimes I do.

I hate how often I want a glass of wine around 11 o'clock in the morning.

I hate that 10XY is a puzzle I can never figure out because the rules change daily. Sometimes I am not supposed to come within 18 inches of him. Other times I offend him because he sat next to me on the couch and I don't pull him over to me. I love him so much, but I don't think I love him well.

And now, I must leave beloved writing for hated cleaning. If I won the lottery, the first thing I would do is hire the most anal-retentive live in maid in the whole world.

Books

I am a reader and a writer. These things are as much a part of who I am as my heart, and kidneys. My earliest and best memories are of book. A set of Disney books, four large volumes, divided by category; Fantasy, Nature, American History, and Tales from Other Lands. Hundreds of stories were safely kept in those volumes. There were also 'Little Golden Books'. The pictures of Eloise Wilkins made me imagine a better life, a life wear daddies wore sweaters, and mothers were kind. Children were apple cheeked and dogs didn't bite when you pestered them too much. I graduated to Phyllis Whitney's books, written especially for young people. I was proud, because they didn't have pictures. They took place in Scotland, or on a boat, or in the desert. I read constantly. My aunt would laugh and say that I was the only kid she'd ever heard of that would bring a book to read while she watched Saturday morning cartoons, and I did. When I say books changed my life, I mean it. They exposed me to a world I didn't know existed. You can't desire what you don't know. The stories gave me something to desire.

It is the same today. My definition of 'story' has expanded to include good movies. When I read a good book, I'm gone, I'm in another world. I don't read nearly as much as I want to, but I still read at least two or three books a month. That is quite a bit less than the two or three a week that I would like to read, and will when I am an eccentric old lady.

Tonight, when I got home from class, Roser told me I had the night off. He would put the XX5 to bed and take care of homework. I came upstairs and ran a bath and grabbed the newly purchased "Paint it Black" by Janet Fitch, the author of "White Oleander". She is unbelievable. She is the type of author that makes you curse sleeping, and children who need to eat at regular intervals. Her books are dark and bitter and satisfying, like the burnt piece of fat on a grilled steak. She makes me want to write, just to have something in common with her. I want to stay in her sad bleak world. I want to create a world for someone else, and have them want to stay there, to give that gift that I have been given so many times.

Nobody told me....

So, tomorrow, XY16 becomes XY17. It should be a time of dewy-eyed reflection, of the mourning of the passing of time that has turned the soft contours of my babies face into an unfamiliar landscape. How I want to be sentimental and romantic, but instead I feel like a big fucking failure. Having two teenagers in the house and going through peri-menopause can do that to a mom.

XY16/17 was born 3 weeks early. I was painting the room we would briefly share. I didn't finish it.I haven't finished anything since. I tried, after I got home from the hospital, but he kept needing to be fed, or held, or changed, or something. Sigh. I was single when he was born. I was really super single, starting what would be a three year falling out with my family. I had one friend, who was there at his birth, but was no help at all when it came to what exactly I was supposed to do once he came out. I was 21 years old when he was born, and I wasn't really a mature 21. I was idealistic about what kind of mother I could be, and what kind of a person he would be. Luckily I was always a big reader, so I read parenting books like crazy. I had a well formed idea of what my parenting style would be. All of these things helped, but it has been a rough road. He and I grew up together, along with my husband, who fell in love with both of us when XY16/17 was XY7months. We were all just kids together, not even like a real family, but more like three buddies who really liked each other. It wasn't until XX13 came along that we even started feeling like a family. I am extra protective of XY17, because he is my first, and because he is far too much like me. I passed on to this one a messy gene that even corrupted my formerly anal retentive husband and caused a three month rift between myself and the aforementioned best friend. I also passed on ADD, with no hyper-activity, which causes him to be sedentary and dreamy. The ADD also allows him to hyper-focus, but unlike me, he focuses on computer games, not reading. I have also passed onto him enough intellect that he always feels a little like Charlie from 'Flowers for Algernon', smart enough to know what his shortcomings are, and not smart enough to know how to work around them. Not smart enough to not become frustrated. He has what is to this day, the strongest sense of self-preservation of anyone I have ever met. He is completely missing the risk-taking gene. Thank God. Seriously, Thank You, God! He is a good boy, and I trust him. He loves his family. I forget that sometimes. He is easily irritated lately. I am scared that I have not done what I need to to equip him to be who he needs to be. I am so scared that I have screwed up. I have never wanted do-overs so bad in my whole life. I didn't have any appreciation for what it meant to raise a human being. No one should have ever trusted me with this job.

If love was enough, I would be the best mother in the world. If love was enough.... It's really not fair, that love is not enough. It's not fair that being a good mother takes consistency, and perseverance, and self-sacrifice. It's not fair that you can love your kid so much you would gladly cut your arm off for them, but not realize what they need is more of your time and attention. It is not fair that I, who crave time by myself like other people crave water, would get a kid who needs my company more than anything else to feel loved. It's not fair that I didn't figure it out until he was almost ten years old. It's not fair that I don't get do-overs.

So here I am on the eve of my oldest child's birthday. Tomorrow I will be all smiles. I will joke and make his current favorite meal. (Spaghetti Carbonara, no vegetable, Cherry Cake with Chocolate frosting, in case you were wondering) I will talk about the night he was born, and how he was the coolest baby ever. I will talk to him about what kind of a little person he was. I will remind him how he never tried anything until he was sure he could do it well. It will be a silly celebratory day, with family, and food. But I will be remembering how I got the most impossible job in the world, I will be asking God what he was thinking, entrusting me with this one, this baby. He really was the coolest baby in the world. He was the coolest kid, and he is showing signs of being an incredible man. He deserved the best mother in the world, but he got me. Not only me, but me with no experience, no patience, and for a good portion of his life, no Prozac. I hope that he is able to understand that I have always wanted to be the best mother to him I could be, and I hope he is able to forgive my shortcomings.

Motherless Mother

"Mommy, will you be with me the whole day tomorrow?'

My 4XX asks as I put on her barely pink cotton jammies, that have been washed to otherworldly softness. Her question is a common one, asked by 4 year olds everywhere. But this innocent question settles in my chest. Her love for me is a book that I am not quite smart enough to figure out. She is going through a stage that all my children have gone through to one degree or another. She wants me around all the time, but with her it's different. With her, everything is different. She is an intense, bright child. XX13 was never me, she was herself. She is the me I aspire to be. She asks for what she wants. She believes she is great, and accepts that the world will love her. She is always right, on both counts. She is perfectly proportioned, physically, never dealing with my narrow sloping shoulders, or too short upper body. I wear V-necks to make my neck look longer. If her neck looked any longer she would resemble those women who wear the brass rings around their necks. My role with her has always been clear, though never typical. She is a natural born caretaker. I walk unsteadily in my relationship with her. I used to wonder if I would have been like her if I had not lost my mother at such an early age. When XX4 came along I got my answer to that question. I could never have been XX13. She is my husband's, my sister-in-law's, my mother-in-law's, never mine. She loves me, but it is a patient, tolerant love. She thinks I am funny, and an acceptable fashion consultant if no one else is around, but she is her own, and her father's.

XX4 is Mine. All mine! Her wavy hair, her short neck, her dimples and deep-set eyes. She can't be still unless she is drawing or reading. Her temper often gets the best of her. She talks non-stop, and always wants to know the 'fancy' word for everything. 'Parched', not 'Thirsty'. 'Starving' not 'Hungry'. 'Exhausted' not 'Tired'. Oh yeah, she's all mine. She loves me with an intensity that makes me a little edgy. I have no experience with this type of mother/daughter love. Often, like tonight, it feels like a cool breeze blowing across an open wound I forgot I had. Why? I always want to ask. I do not have a point of reference for unconditional mother love. I need to be reassured all the time. I need her to have a mother, and be who I could not be. She is who I could have been. But she is also who I can never be. I will continue to be the mother I am called to be, but I will always feel the absence of the mother who wasn't there.

Back to School

And so...It is my 13th year of first days of school. XY16 is starting his senior year of high school, and XX4 is starting her first year of pre-school. Yeah, planning ahead was never my strong point. So I take XY10 to his first day, because I didn't find out ahead of time who his teacher was. I have had a child in elementary school for thirteen years. At first I was one of the younger mothers, unsure of myself, and insecure in my role, as a 25 year old mother of a kindergartner. I thought there was some value to what people thought of me. I tried to fit in with the other mothers, and was mortified that I couldn't be one of the classroom helpers because I had a little one at home. I didn't have a sensible haircut, and I didn't have sensible shoes. I did not have my sea legs as a housewife yet. I tried to make friends with the right women. Ooohh, it irks me to think of it now. Yuck! What a different experience it was this year. As I looked at the PTA moms with the sensible haircuts and the comfortable shoes, I thought, "Thank God". Thank God I now know who I am. Thank God I appreciate the mother I am. Thank God I have latched on to my own value system, realized it works for me, and been faithful to it. I know that there are mothers who think if I am not volunteering to be the class mom, the team mom, the driver for every field trip, that I must not be a very involved mom. They are soooo wrong. I am very close to my kids, but my relationship with them is up for neither display, nor judgement. Damn! It feels great to say that!

Happy Birthday Prettyface

My best friend. The one who knows me and loves me anyway. I met her the day after Thanksgiving in 1985. I was loud, she was quiet. I was confident, she was shy. I had never been loyal to anyone. She was loyal to me. I revealed myself to her slowly, waiting for her to leave, to see her loyalty was wasted on me. She never got the message. She thought I was great. But, she made me great. Her expectations of me are always so high. I break my nails and bloody my knees trying to meet them. She met someone who wanted to be her best friend. He had to settle for being her husband instead. When I met someone who could handle me, she had to sign off on him. When people hurt her, I want to hurt them. When she was hurt badly, I thought the pain would kill me. I wanted fly to her, to be instantly by her side, to fix it. Instead, I sat on my back porch, and smoked and cried. I love her, I have to. She owns part of my heart. A very important part, a part I can’t live without. She has cared for it very carefully. I have tried to care for hers as carefully. I haven’t always been who I should be, who she deserves as a best friend, but I have loved her, every day, since the day after Thanksgiving, in 1985.
Happy Birthday, Prettyface. You are the best thing Sandy ever did, and the best thing that ever could have happened on August 16.

Hey, if you are reading this blog, please let me know. You don't have to leave a clever, or even well thought out comment, just something to let me know my shouting is not being absorbed by the wind.

I don’t remember my mother. Not at all. There is no hazy memory of being held in her arms. I don’t know what she smelled like, and I don’t remember her kissing me. She died when I was four months old. She killed herself by overdosing on drugs. It wasn’t an accident though. She left a note.
I always knew I didn’t have a mother. I wasn’t adopted until I was five. I spent the first few months after her death in an orphanage, some time with one aunt, and then I was moved to my father’s aunt and uncle. This was far from the end of my troubles. I was a small boned pretty child with unusual coloring. I was sad and very needing of physical affection. I was not easy to love because I was strange, and quiet, and smart. I was also hyper, never able to sit still, always fidgeting, moving, nervous, unsure, and trying to wring love out of the environment I was living in. I was never able to. My aunt, Pat, couldn’t love me. I was nothing like her natural daughter. Her bold, stocky blond, blue-eyed daughter consumed every drop of maternal moisture in Pat leaving nothing for me but harsh words, and assurance that I was completely unlovable. Not that she ever said that of course.
“I love you, I just don’t like you,” I was told so often.
So, I don’t remember my mother. I don’t remember any mother. It left a furious need in me. As a child, starting around seven, I would sit in my room and create a mother. My mother. Pretty, easy to talk to. She could sew, bake, cook, and dress stylishly. She became a companion, at times when Jesus and His Mother were not enough to get me through.
With each age came a different longing. At seven or eight, I wanted to be held, and touched and told I was beautiful. As I got a little older, I became focused on terms of endearment. Pat would call Trish ‘Honey’ and she called her husband ‘Babe’ but she never used a sweet name for me. I asked her about it after school one day.
“Why don’t you use a term of endearment for me?” I asked. I did use that actual phrase. At the time I asked she hemmed and hawed, but later that day, she got mad at me.
“You lazy bitch!” Then she threw back her head and laughed her harsh smokers laugh. “There’s a term of endearment for you, Lazy Bitch!” Seventeen year old Trish looked away from her mom and down at the table where they were both sitting.
As I entered my teens, my thoughts about my mother focused on facts about her. How old was she when her period first started? How big were her feet? Was she pretty? Did she read? I knew nothing at all. I had seen no pictures, and had only Pat’s terse information that, “She got sick and died.”
In my later teens, after I found out how she died, it was only, always, “Did she love me?” I would never believe she did.
I waited for the pain of this fact to ease. I thought when I got older I would get over it, but I never did. When my son was born, I worked on becoming the mother I created. This helped a little, but it was like taking an aspirin for a headache that was so fierce that the pain leaks through the medicine. When my daughter was born, I would hold her and weep little tears onto her tiny down covered scalp. I would whisper into her head,
“No one has ever loved me as much as I love you.” As more children came, and my husband and I were busy, my pain faded to the background. It has not lessened in intensity, it just isn’t important anymore. I have become an excellent mother. I read everything about parenting I can get my hands on, and I chose a good mate, a good father, who was raised by a good mother who helps me find the way when I get lost. My husband’s good mother has become like a mother to me. I forget though. I forget to call her when I am sad or sick, and this hurts her. It’s not personal; I just don’t know how to be a daughter. I know how to be tough. I know how to bake, sew, cook, and decorate. I dress well. These are lessons I learned from my mother, because they are the things I thought a mother would teach me. These are the things I teach my own daughters, and my sons for that matter. I love them fiercely; always fearful that they may lose me the way I lost my mother.
The other day my thirteen-old daughter was asking me about losing my mother.
“I think you’re lucky you were so little, I mean, you can’t miss what you never had right?”
“Well, babe, if you lost me right now it would hurt, but you would have memories of me. You know what kind of movies that I like, and how I dress. You know what my perfume smells like, and how old I was when my period started. When you got sad, you could think of me, couldn’t you?”
She agreed. She would have memories, which would carry there own kind of pain, but it would be a very different pain than the pain of not remembering at all.

Everyday Magic

I have been very aware, and a little annoyed by my xx13's clinginess. I had a super busy day, with the gym, ballet, senior high registration, vet, more ballet, and grocery shopping. I spent a lot of time with various combinations of children and was really ready for a solo trip to the grocery store, which mothers know, is on par to jetting of to Paris for coffee and a croissant. XX13 and XX4 were not really in favor of me taking a solo trip, and I didn't have a good enough reason to say no, so they came. We went to one of those cheapo stores where you have to bag your own groceries. Hate that. But, it really is way cheap. We got in and out pretty quickly, and all in all it was a pleasant trip to the store. We entered the store at about 7:00pm. It was still light out. When we left the store, the sun had gone down. XX13 and I were discussing how disconcerting it was for day to turn to night when you are unaware of it, when XX4 piped up.

"It's dark out, Mommy, it got dark!" She was really upset about it.

"Do you want me to change it?" I asked. Then XX13 had an idea.

"Close your eyes," she said. She had XX4 keep her eyes closed 'til we passed under a street light.

"Now, open them!"

"It's brighter!" XX13 and I grinned at each other over XX4's head. XX4 was so excited! I pulled XX4 out of the cart and held her kind of high. She spread her arms out and said,

"I'm flying!" She was so happy, and felt like she had been part of something magical, which made me feel like part of something magical. I swear saw pixie dust when I brought her down to put her in the car.

I am writing like crazy. I was given a paying freelance gig at the newspaer I write for. I met my editor for lunch today. I have been waiting to say that for at least 5 years! I am also hard at work at novel number three. And with these developments, I am abandoning friends and family at breakneck speed. I am a notoriously bad multi-tasker. I can write, or I can be a civilized human being. I need to work on that.

Once, every 7 years, Roser feels like going to the beach. Why yes, he has lived in Southern California for the past 32 of his 42 years. Where in Southern Callie? Oh, about twenty minutes from the beach. But he would rather be any where but at the beach. So yesterday (Sunday) he announces he felt like going to the beach. I don't mind the beach but I don't go to the beach on the weekends. Why would I? But I nearly fall off the couch when I hear Steve wants to go to the beach. And I make sure its gonna happen. And it does. Yay! A day on the 8x8 foot square we managed to claim for ourselves. Yay, another evening spent dislodging sand from my nether regions, and the nether regions of xx4. I assume the rest of them dislodged their own sand.

Interesting couple of days. It was my last night at work last night. (I work at a wine bar)I told my boss I was quitting, and gave her a month's notice. She said

"I have to talk to my husband about it." I never heard another word about it. I went into work last night, and a bunch of my friends came in to see me off. Near the end of the night, Stalina, (my boss), and her husband came in. They opened a bottle of champagne and a great! Shiraz. We then headed over to an Irish pub, where we kept drinking. I think someone put formaldehyde in my wine, because I got so sick. I think it was 7th or 8th glass that someone tampered with, because that was when I felt really sick. We came home and I snuck up stairs and made it to the toilet in the nick of time. I'll tell you what though, my commitment to vanity is absolute. I could not even stand up straight, but I washed and moisturized before bed. It was like a compulsion. I couldn't not do. I was so spinny that sleep was out of the question. Around 3am I couldn't fight it anymore and drifted off. Unfortunately, no-one told my xx4 that mommy was out tying on on last night, so she was in my room at 7:30am. Every sound she made sent daggers through my skull. I very, Very reluctantly got up and fixed her cereal. Greedy, Selfish child. After I fixed her breakfast, I had my breakfast. Coffee and 5 Motrin. After about an hour I came upstairs, intending to nap, but xx13 caught me and made me watch "The Descent", because nothing comforts a gut wrenching hangover like cave dwelling cannibals! Another greedy selfish child. Good movie though. It's xx13 and my second foreign horror movie in a week. We watched Night Watch from Russia a couple of days ago. I think the next time I have a hangover though, I'll just have chorizo burrito.

This is not a joke. And yet, I thought you may find it funny. Some day I will. These are e-mails back and forth between myself and a member of one of my writing groups.





A-

Please let me know if I can send you a revamped version of my story. If you would rather not I understand. but I found your critique very helpful.
Bethany







Bethany

I will be glad to critique anything you have, as I am trying to emulate your style. You are the absolute best wordsmith I have encountered.

A-





I laughed, and laughed. I was so pleased and embarassed. I was in the middle of another email so I did not send him this response:





A-

Hahahahah, Flattery will get you nowhere, or is it everywhere. Thank you

B-



I was going to attach the story I wanted him to critique, but before I could, I got this email.







Bethany
Yes I will be glad to critique your story. Yesterday, I critiqued for a Bethany in Germany and I thought it was her I was answering a few moments ago. I didn't see the "Rogers" until after I sent the E-mail.
A



Oh, It is truly wonderful to be me!

Writing 7/17/07


Oh man, my column is due in 3 days and I haven't even started. I'll write about something easy like "Serving Temperature". It'll probably take an hour and a half at the most.. I need to start my research. I better check my email first, just in case my editor wrote to me. She never has before, but who knows. Oh, Suzy sent me a forward. Those are usually funny. Okay enough of that, it's research time. Let me check the wine sites I like. But first, I better check TMZ to make sure no starlets were caught drunk driving. That has to do with my column. I mean my column is about wine,and you know, drunk driving, any way, I'll just check real quick. Oh there is a blog link on this wine website. She's from New Zealand. Does that count. I'll save it and read it later. Back on track. Research. What happens when white wine gets too warm? White wine,White wine. I wonder if we still have that Chardonnay? That sounds good. I'll go outside and have a glass of wine and that will inspire me to write my column. White wine and a cigarette. I'll have the wine first so I can taste it. I just need a little break to jump-start my brain. Ahh nice. As soon as I'm done I'll start on my column. It won't take long. I have some research done. Not exactly, but I've some pages saved in my favorites. Well one page.

I have wine books too, I can use books, I don't have to use the internet. Not that I don't have the discipline, of course I have the discipline. I just need to be diverse in my research. Oh, look, the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe. I should re-read "The Tell-Tale Heart". We were just talking about that story in writing group. I love that story. No! No! I don't have time to read it now. I'm writing my column.
This chair is uncomfortable. I'm going to take my research materials and my computer and get on my bed. That's better. Nice and comfy. Here comes oldest daughter. She wants to finish watching "The Haunting". She didn't want to watch it before because she wanted me in here while she watched it. That's fine. I can still work on my column with the TV on. Besides, I've already seen this. I hope she pays attention to the movie because some of these plastic surgery pictures are pretty gruesome. O my goodness! Jenna Jameson had Vaginoplasty? That is sooo gross!


"No, K, you can't talk to me, I'm working. this is very important. This is Mommy's job!" Jeez, the kid needs to show a little respect for what I do for a living. Not that I get paid to write the column, but still, it's the princple of it. This is exhausting. Writing really takes it out of me. I should have another glass of wine,... and some popcorn! Right after this part of the movie I'll go get them. I think this where the little ghost children play with Lily Taylors hair. No! I'm not watching this movie. I AM WORKING! You know what though? I am really too tired to do this tonight. I'll just do it tomorrow when I wake up. It'll take me an hour and a half at the most.

Pilates 7-13

Okay, I’m a little late, but there are still mats left. Wait, why does everyone have weights? That’s okay; I’ll just grab a mat and throw it down here, OOPS, oh Damn, that’s slippery. No one saw. Just be more careful. I should have brought my own mat. My mat is prettier than anyone else’s here. And bigger. I have the biggest mat. No problem. I’ll use this stanky old mat. I’m no snob. This is me caring about myself and my health; I’m not here to impress anyone. The instructor will probably be able to tell that I have been doing Pilates for Quite a while. Those DVDs from Costco have been very helpful. See, she looked right at me when she said “Beautiful form”. The girl next me is so young and thin and she had to quit ‘the hundred’ before I did. You just can’t tell how fit someone is by looking at them. Wow, I’m starving. I should have had more Teddy Grahams before I came to the Gym. A lot of women in here are wearing make-up. That’s so stupid. What are they here for? To pick up guys? They’re just gonna clog their pores. Oh, look how pretty that girl is. Maybe I should wear make-up. And stretch, down to the toes. OH GAH, Look at my Toes! I need a pedicure. EWWW. This is harder than I remember. I’m in the back. The teacher won’t even know if I just sit this out. We’re lying down anyway. Yeah, that’s much better. Man a cigarette would be great right now. I’ll have to pick some up on the way home. Look at the color up there. What is that? Chartreuse? I think so. What color is Puce? I can never remember. We are sitting up now. And….roll forward. Ugh, I can see that girls but crack. And hers. Oh my gosh, why did that one even bother wearing pants. Geez, if I’d wanted to be a proctologist, I would have gone to butt doctor school. Why did the teacher look at me when she said we can modify this pose if it is too hard? Does she think I can’t do it? If that old lady over there can do it, I can do it. It’s not like it’s a reflection on my character if I modify. Why can that old lady do this? Ow Ow, Ow! Stop looking at me. It’s my first time in this class, what do you want from me? Lying back again, very nice. I can see the TV from here. That is a cute outfit on that rapper. I love T-shirts over long sleeved blouses. Is that still in for women? How will I know what to wear now that Gilmore Girls isn’t on anymore? Ow, Ow, thighs burning, need to rest. The music is really quiet in here. What is that song? OhNO! Is that Dust in the wind? I’m going to be in a bad mood all day now. And knees to chest. That would be a lot easier if my stomach was not bigger than my chest. Rolling, ow, rolling ow. Class is almost over, and we haven’t gotten to the laying down relaxing part. There is no laying down relaxing part? I like my DVDs. They have a laying down part. That was great! I’m definitely taking this class again.

• I was born in November of 1968
• My mother killed her self 4 months after I was born
• I am the mother of 4 children, xy 16, xx 13, xy 10, xx 4
• I love my kids more than I thought possible (cliche, but true)
• My kids love me and like to spend time with me (no, seriously)
• I truly love and admire my husband
• I read a lot
• I write a column for a local newspaper
• I hope to have my fiction published
• I am a Christian
• My father remarried when I was 10, and I have 2 sisters and 4 brothers
• I love my father even though he is bi-polar and very difficult
• My life is complicated by the fact that I feel responsible for my sisters and brothers, and my husband and I are always trying to help, often not successfully
• My son is addicted to World of Warcraft and I hate it
• I like to sew but I'm not very good at it
• I love to cook, and I am good at that
• I am extremely inconsistent
• My friends are important to me
• I am close to my husband's family
• I spend too much time on the internet
• I watch too much TV

I went down to the city this weekend, with Roser (husband), his sister and her husband. (Friends with sister-in-law, friendly with s-i-l's husband) We went on a dinner cruise and then out dancing. The cruise was interesting. We had the cutest (personality and looks) waiter, but the food tasted like wedding food. That was not a huge problem, actually, because the moment the boat started moving, my stomach started flipping. It took 6 glasses of Champagne to feel normal, and by then I was too full for the extremely well cooked Snapper stuffed with crab, or, Krab. (not sure which)

Right next to our table was a young coulple celebrating their 1st anniversary. They had done some pre-partying and were lit by the time the cruise started. Apparently the four of us were irresistable to these two drunk kids. They latched onto us all night. When the wife started dirty-dancing with me, Roser had enough and scootcheded me right off the dance floor. We deboarded at around 10:30 and we were all still in the mood to party. S-i-L and I changed out of our fancy dresses, and she put on jeans and a shirt her boobs wouldn't flop out of, and I put on shorts and a strapless top. I made a concession to comfort by putting on Flip-flops instead of my nice strappy heels. That was a huge mistake. I was comfortable alright, but, the city is like shoes on parade. Every thing from slip-on stilletos accented with flowers to the most beautiful pointiest pumps imaginable. I stayed on the right side of obsessive jealousy until I saw a pair of purple patent leather platforms. Who has purple patent leather platforms? Not me, that's who. I feel powerful in heels, and the girl in the purple patent leather platforms was stealing my power! Even Roser commented.
"I can't believe with all the shoes in your closet you wore flip-flops out dancing." I can dance in heels, and walk in them. It wasn't worth the comfort to not feel like myself.
I still enjoy going dancing, but it's different than it was when I was younger. Then, I felt so free, and was able to surrender completely. While I was dancing nothing else existed. For those hours I was not thinking about anything. I don't think that's even possible anymore. Roser doesn't really enjoy dancing, so I am thinking about him, and whether he's enjoying himself. I still dance like a stripper, only now I am a little self-concious about it. I am a natural flirt, and I make an effort to tone that down. And there is also the fact that 75% of the people in the club are closer in age to my oldest son than to me. Once not long ago I was in a club with several of our friends. I was feeling so hip, (I know, use of that word by definition makes me not hip) because I knew all the songs that were being played. As I was sitting there swaying, and swinging my head to the music, it suddenly hit me, struck me so that I suddenly stopped moving as I realized, the reason I know all the songs is because it's the music my kids listen to! I suddenly was smacked in the face with the reality of my age. I am not 22. I am a middle-aged mother of four. Being young is not a state of mind, it is a fact of chronology. I think I'll start a support group for the chronologically challenged. We'll hold all our meetings in dance clubs.