Last Friday Night

It's our Friday night tradition, a family night in with pizza on the grill and a movie.  And if Craig and I are really lucky, a little naked hot tub time under the stars after the kids go to bed.  But, we weren't lucky.  Not last Friday night.

It started out like any other day, I went to Whole Foods to buy my favorite non-homemade multigrain pizza crust to make my homemade pizzas with.  And I forgot to bring my own bag just like I always do.  Dang it!  When the kids got home from school, it was the same flurry of chaos it always is.  But, today River had a rock band performance.  So I pulled the dough out and set it on the counter to rise while we scuttled out the door.

There's nothing quite as inappropriately entertaining as four 13 year old boys performing "Get Lucky" for their parents and siblings.  

When we returned home, I got out the rolling pin, greased the pizza stone and tried to remember where the hell I put the dough.  Except, I knew I put it on the counter.  And it totally wasn't there anymore.  After a hurried search through the house, I found the empty containers of 3 huge balls of dough in the upstairs hallway.  With two  very content dogs, Bonnie and Clyde.

Great.  Now, even our dogs have expensive, gourmetish taste.  Briefly, I considered whether they'd be constipated or if the flax would give them diarrhea.  Before I headed to Papa Murphy to buy a couple of inferior replacement pizzas.  Shortly after I returned home and heated up the oven, Craig arrived home from work.  And I told him the legendary story of Bonnie and Clyde and the disappearing pizza dough.  That's when he thoughtfully googled dogs eating dough.  And I felt like the worst dog mom ever.  Seriously, why did anyone allow me to adopt dogs and kids.  Why?  Because I am horrible.  I mean I leave pizza dough on the counter for god's sake.  Pizza dough that can be FATAL to dogs!

Oh no, it's not the yeast that bloats them and blocks them up that kills them.  Nope.  It's the alcohol the yeast produces that gets them drunk and causes alcohol poisoning.  Why?  Why, didn't I think of that?

While Craig rushed Bonnie and Clyde to the doggy ER to have their stomachs pumped, I distracted the kids from the fact that mommy may have just killed their beloved pets, the way I did with Copper their guinea pig a few years ago.  Which didn't involve pizza at all.  I left him outside on the front lawn by accident on a hot day where he slowly bloated and roasted.  So, basically, exactly the same thing.

When Craig arrived, Clyde has gone from a buzz to a pleasant toasting.  And they were starting to bloat.  When the medicine kicked in and they started to puke it all up.  Confirming they split the loot 50/50 between them.  What they lack in smarts and self control, they make up for with manners, apparently.

Their night was spent crated in the ER overnight for observation.  Behind bars, in jail, as far as they were concerned.

I hope they've learned their lesson.  I know for damn sure I've learned mine, don't leave any food on the counter. Ever.  Because that pizza cost us $1400.  

All the Small Things

Yesterday, this was going to be a well thought out post about how all the small decisions stress us out and make us crazy.  But this morning, I downgraded it from "well thought out post" to rant.  When I completely lost it and was in tears.  I had no idea how much I was pushing myself and how stressed out I was.  Cause I am NOT a crier!

Until I tried to send my book to Staples to print it.  And it said I had ONLY 238 pages, when I KNOW FOR DAMN SURE that shit is 250 pages and 75,080 words!  EXACTLY.

First of all, I'm not a person built for this technological age.  I like to stew things over and take my time carefully weighing all my options before making carefully calculated decisions that won't hurt anyone.  But the rest of the world is all iphone 5s, moving at the speed of light.  So, I find myself thrust into making quick decisions.  Which I suck at.  Seriously, do not have a heart attack in front of me, because I would be completely helpless. And need access to my laptop (because I don't have internet access on my antiquated phone) to research what I'm supposed to do.  By then you'd be dead.  So, I'm warning you, don't do it.

Now, that I'm hopefully somewhere close to the end of the book process and closer to publication, INSHALLAH, I've totally stepped up my game.  I'm sending queries, proposals and manuscripts to publishers like a madwoman.  I've also become a madwoman on Twitter trying to build my "platform". The thing is, this only creates more small decisions during the day.  Do I follow this person?  Do I retweet that?  Can I tweet that or is that mean?  So, when I lost a follower yesterday, who is a real life friend, then I questioned myself even more than I already do.  Was it the vegan retweet?  Or does she think I'm a Twitter slut?  Wait.  Am I a Twitter slut?  Do I mention it to her?  Casually wait for it to come up in conversation?  Or drop it?  After much thought, I decided to drop it.  Which is totally why I'm including it in a post.  Obviously.

Then, Monday, after a pole class and much consideration of whether or not I should take this new belly dance zill (finger cymbals) class, I decided to do it.  Which is so far outside my box.  I HATE the zills because I can't do them just standing and doing nothing else.  I CAN NOT do them whilst belly dancing and trying to remember choreography and not look like I'm having a seizure.  Which of course is exactly why I'm doing it.  

And exactly why I'm torturing myself watching other people's pole videos and I'm absolutely obsessed with everything I CAN'T DO yet, like the iron x.  Oh my god, I want to do it so bad.  And a shoulder mount.  But then taking time out to try these things on the pole means taking time away from writing, sending queries, blogging, practicing the chingy-chingy-ching finger cymbals beat.  Not to mention, my four kids, husband and two dogs!

Did I have other things to mention?  I'm totally sure I'll come up with 10 other things I wanted to add to this post.  And it's pissing me off.  And I'm not going to go back to read this shit because I need to take a car in to get it serviced right now.  Before I do a whole shit load of other things that need to get done. But, at least there's snow on the peak.  It's the small things you know.

Oh, it turns out that Staples converts word files to PDF and the reformating caused the page change.  Which better be the fucking case.  Or I'm going to be the madwoman crying and shooting staples from the stapler at Staples!

(Dammit....I was totally gonna mention that writing group I had to quit and how much time it took me to realize I had to quit and how shitty and guilty I felt about that. See...I knew I'd forget something!)

Woman Problems

Every year my friend, Laura, organizes a run for ovarian cancer in honor of her mother who lost her battle with the disease.  This year, I ran it with my oldest daughter, Jade, and my friend Lisa, and her daughter, Jordan.  And it occurred to me while we were there, just how profoundly my daughter's ovaries will affect her.  And by that I mean, completely control her life.  

It's really sunny in Colorado, ok?

Right now, Jade lives the carefree life of a 12 year old who doesn't need to shave her armpits or consider whether she has the right bra to wear with that cute new strappy top.  And I want her to hold on and savor these moments before those stupid ovaries kick into overdrive with all their ridiculous hormones and screw everything up!

Because suddenly without warning one day she'll need to carry a purse with "supplies"in it.  And will subsequently have a deadly fear of wearing white pants.  (Although I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing, because no one actually looks good in white pants.  Except Gwyneth Paltrow.  Bitch.  I hate her.)

Then, she'll start liking boys.  And not the good boys either, the bad ones are always far more attractive.  You know, the ones who never do their homework and who skulk around the ditch setting things on fire.  Those boys.

Most of them will only want one thing.  And it's not the thing I want for her, which is a chastity belt.

One day, hopefully 20 years from now, after she's finished with her Master's thesis, travelled the world and established her career, she might want to start a family of her own.

But, since she'll be in her 30's then, in a healthy and stable relationship, the process of getting pregnant won't be nearly as exciting.  More than likely, it won't involve spur of the moment intimacy, more likely a graph and a thermometer.  Maybe even a specialist.

Once she's a mom, she'll no longer have bladder control and will be unable to attend comedy shows or bounce on the trampoline with reckless abandon.  Not that she'll have the energy to do that anyway.  Especially if she had to see the fertility specialist and has multiples.

It'll be right after she's purchased the pallet of Costco Super Plus tampons for her post-pregnancy Niagara Falls periods that it'll all change.

She'll wonder why the hell she's getting long black pubic looking hairs on her chin.  And why no one told her they were there.  It's like 3 inches long and jet black.  Something like that can not go unnoticed, or unplucked.

Out of nowhere she'll become a moody bitch overnight.  The same night that she couldn't sleep because it was way too hot and she was swimming in a pool of her own sweat.  Even though the window was open in the middle of January.

Now finally doesn't have to carry a purse for her tampons.  But, she'll need it for her AARP card, her reading glasses, arthritis medication and ibuprofen.  And room for the rolls that she'll wrap in a napkin to bring home from Sizzler.  If the economy doesn't crash before that and there still is a Sizzler...

But, no matter the journey that my daughter's ovaries take her.  At least she'll never have to know what this is...

...and thank god for that.  Cause they really make your ass look rectangular in a pair of white jeans. And the boys don't like that.

Ovarian Cancer Symptoms

Frequent bloating.
Pain in your belly or pelvis.
Trouble eating or feeling full quickly.
Urinary problems, such as urgent need to urinate or urinating more often than usual.  

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The War on Drugs

I heard the rumors before my oldest started high school there.  "That school is rampant with drugs, that's what I heard."  I took it the way I take most things, in a laid back grain of salt kind of way.  Because every school has drugs, right?  Stoners are just part of the inevitable landscape of the iconic American high school experience.  I mean if Fast Times at Ridgemont High is any indication and I think we all know it is.  So I had this whole peace-love-tolerance-don't-worry-everything-will-be-fine- very-Colorado attitude about the whole thing.  

Before the first week of school.  

Where my son witnessed his first drug deal right in front of his locker.  And we're not talking a little bit of pot either.  My kids' school, on a military installation, is inundated with HEROIN.  The school initials are AA, which takes on a whole new meaning now.  However, most of the time, I just refer to it as Heroin High. Then, all the locals know exactly what school I'm talking about.  Because although everyone acknowledges there's a longstanding problem and students have died overdosing, there doesn't seem to be a solution.  

The second week of school, 

my son witnessed his second run-in with drugs in the bathroom.  Toilets are always drug havens because there aren't cameras in there.  But, is it fair for my kid to hold his piss all day to avoid the drug culture in the crapper?  This is when I found out that the library is referred to as the pharmacy, because it's another hot spot.  So now, my kid can't piss or look up reference material.  Unless maybe he's looking up "dimebag".  So I shared my concerns with the principal.  Or I tried to.  She didn't call me back.  I got dimebagged down to the Assistant Principal.  

The third week of school, 

he found out the 15 year old girl sitting next to him in his writing class, is having twins.  She showed the teacher the ultrasound.  This of course has nothing to do with drugs, unless she was under the influence of drugs when she got pregnant.  But, I bring it up because I'm positive she's going to want to be under the influence of drugs when she pops those babies out of her vagina!

A whole month into school,

and some dumbass smokes weed on the school bus to school on a dare!  Seriously, how stupid is that?  Duh, there's cameras on the bus you little twit!  Do they learn nothing at AA? When I wrote a nasty gram to the school on a Saturday.  And got a call within the hour, because now I'm THAT mom. The one who sends her kid off to school every morning with the words "Just say NO!  And remember, don't eat the brownies!"

Yes, my friends, I have now become Nancy Fucking Reagan!  But, hopefully with better style.  

And while, the War on Drugs is actually being won by the drugs. I got a kid suspended, so Drugs:  one hundred billion points.  Nancy Reagan: one measly little point.  But, even with that minor victory, I feel so fucking high right now!

Can't Change Me

Generally, give or take, I've worn the same size pants since I was 23.  Except now that I'm 43, I don't like high waisted acid wash jeans anymore.  Thank god styles change.  Though, I'd still fit them, I fill them out differently because  I weigh 10 more pounds than I did back then.  And I don't think that's all due to an enlarged liver from my love of red wine. Ok, maybe some of it.  But, the rest?   It's muscle.

While I might look the same on the outside, except I no longer use Aussie spray to tease my hair to 80's hair band proportions, I stopped doing that in the 90's.  Except for better hair, generally I'm the same completely unchanged goofy dork girl I've always been.  But yet I'm completely changed.  Because I'm much stronger now than I used to be, inside and out.

I know because this extremely shy, introvert, dork girl got up in front of a real live audience to perform at the pole dance recital on Saturday.  

With an impending migraine from my social anxiety.  And I firmly committed to a day of social hibernation the next day.  So, it seems the more I change, the more I stay the same.  

13 Going on 30

For all the times I whine about my kids whining, there's a whole other side I often neglect to mention.    The things that they do that amaze me that are beyond their years.  The things that I didn't learn until I was well into in my 30's. And I'm completely amazed by them.  Things like:

CURIOSITY:

My kids never shy away from asking a question.  Ever.  Especially if it's "What's for dinner?"

SOCIABILITY:

Despite being raised by a shy introvert, I have some kids who are sociable extroverts.  They can talk to both kids and adults and hold an intelligent conversation.  Who did they learn this from?

UNIQUENESS:

My kids are comfortable in their quirkiness.  Although they are still completely embarrassed by mine.

PROBLEM SOLVERS:

I'm a quiet panicker when problems arise. It's my kids who are the ones who come up with the best solutions.  I have them brain storming on world peace right now.

EXPRESSIVE:

My kids will express every need they have.  Every single one.  I couldn't even make a list of my needs, let alone articulate them.

SELF-CONFIDENT:

When I go to compliment my kids for these things, their response is usually "I know mom." Not in a cocky way, but in a confident way.

DISOBEY AUTHORITY:

Sure, my kids know how to obey authority.  But, even more important, they know when to politely disobey authority when they suspect the authority figure is a misguided idiot.  And how many of those are there out there?

So basically, we've reached the point where I'm learning just as much from my kids, if not more,  than they are from me.  They are well on their way to being the people I always wanted them to be, independent thinkers.  

Now, if I could only get them to think they like squash...

High Anxiety

Just like everyone else, I have fears.  Heights and being eaten by an alligator are near the top of that list.
Thank god I don't live in Miami anymore, where kayaking brackish waters scared the piss out of me.  Although no one could tell cause I was already wet.  But, I digress.  As a shy, introvert, my #1 top fear has always been social.  Which is why I'm a writer.  Blissfully alone with my thoughts, with a keyboard for a companion.

The thing is, I really like people a lot.  I just want to meet them one at a time when I'm not dressed up to look presentable in uncomfortable clothes in the morning.  That's when I have most of my energy to force myself to do things I absolutely don't want to do.  Of course, that's not how social occasions work.  They're generally large affairs with plenty of people, wearing high heels, in the evening.

Luckily, this one is smallish, I'm wearing my cute flip flops and a t-shirt dress in the late afternoon. Because after the initial stress of deciding whether to go or not to go.  And making the phone call to commit, hoping against hope you'll get their voicemail, after all that, then comes the stress of what to wear. I never want to be the most dressed up person there.  Or the most casual person.  Both mean you stand out. And that's the last thing I want to do. I've even gone into my closet in search of a forgettable outfit to combat this.   Usually, I try to go middle of the road and think about what the other party goers, who I don't even know, might be wearing. Which creates a lot of What not to Wear hypothetical scenarios for consideration. And, it's exhausting.

The day of the event, I'll try to distract myself.  But, I won't.  I'll obsess over what I'm going to say.  Imagining I'll drop the salsa all over my dress and the cilantro will inevitably get stuck in my teeth.  Making it uncomfortable for the person I'm trying to talk to while I do my friendly listening smile I practiced in the mirror that morning.

The more I try to stop this vicious cycle, the more it plays on repeat in my head.

Finally, when it's time and I walk in to introduce myself, I get so nervous, that I can never think of intelligent things to ask or say.  I totally draw a complete blank and become a total freakin' moron.  Every stinkin' time.

Which is exactly what happened yesterday at my friend's baby shower.  What I didn't know when I rsvp'd is that two other friends of mine would be there.  Thank god.  But this moron amnesia, it's not just verbal.  So, when it came down to playing the obligatory games like they do at showers, I had nothing.  Absolutely nothing in my head to put down on that piece of paper.  Which made me feel really awkward, so I just wrote down smart ass comments as fast as I could to look busy.   While self-editing in my head.  because I didn't know if they collected them or made us read them out loud or something at the end.  Thankfully, they didn't.  But, I was the only person to score an absolute zero on nursery rhymes. Effectively, I failed a pop quiz that a 3 year old would have aced. How embarrassing is that?

And that's when I went home and opened that really cheap, crappy bottle of merlot that someone always leaves at your house after a party.  

Facebook vs. Twitter

Social networking sites are not all the same. I know this because now I'm on both facebook and twitter. Oh, they're all huge time sucks and the more time you spend on them, the more likely you are to be depressed.  So they have that in common.  But, facebook and twitter, in general, draw different crowds.  

F:  Facebook has far more Republican, god fearing conservatives.
T:  While Twitter veers more toward the extremely liberal, atheists who smoke a lot of pot.  And anything else lying around.

F: The place you go to see people you know in real life, even if you only met them at a party once.  Or just saw them from across the room.
T: The place you go to escape the people you know in real life.  Following someone you don't even know in your hometown might even be a bit too personal and intimate.

F:  People you are connected to are called "friends" even though they may be your archenemy.  From high school or grade school.
T:  Connections are called "followers" and it's feasible you could hate all of them and yourself. At the same time.

F:  A respectable person's friend count should be below 1,000, to keep a sense that you're not a narcissistic internet whore.
T: Respectable people with less than 1,000 followers are mocked and shunned on Twitter.  And everyone is a narcissistic internet whore.

F:  Winning facebook is done by giving the appearance that you have the perfect, happy life that makes everyone else on fb jealous.
T:  Twitter is won by being the most ruthless, unfiltered bastard who has the largest gap in people following to people they follow.  

F:  Pages are filled with photo shopped and instagram filtered baby, food porn and vacation photos.
T: Time Line photos are meme's.  Women's personal photos are cleavage filled bathroom selfies.  And shirtless,  Geraldo style, I just worked out,  pics for guys.  (Then of course there is the douchebag who direct messages dick pics.)

F:  Facebook users want to be known for their fabulousity.
T:  Twitter users want to be anonymously infamous.

F:  Profile pics are intricately staged photo session in the perfect lighting that doesn't show your wrinkles or muffin top.
T:  Avi's generally aren't even a picture of the person tweeting. Unless that person looks like Megan Fox. Strangely everyone does.

F:  Facebook allows you to reconnect with your high school crush.
T:  Twitter allows you to be married and flirt endlessly with Twitter crush from another state you've never met.  That you thought was Megan Fox.

F:  Novel-like, ranting monologues about politics, religion and breastfeeding are the norm.
T:  If you tweet anything other than jokes with sexual innuendo in 140 characters or less, no one will read it.

F:  Its users are completely addicted to the ridiculousness of it all.
T:  Its users are completely addicted to the ridiculousness of it all.

In the end, it doesn't matter which you choose. Pick your poison.  Or double fist. Cause there ain't no winners here.

Fear Factor

It's been both an exhilarating and anxious year for me.  It started moving back to Colorado from Morocco.  Two weeks afterward, the Waldo Canyon Fire threatened to burn down our home.  I started  belly dancing while trying to balance a sword on my head.  At about the same time, I started taking pole dance classes, which is extremely dangerous when you are an excessive palm sweater.  Then when I finished writing my book and queried agents, I faced a mountain of rejection letters.  We took all 4 kids on our 20th anniversary trip to Costa Rica where we canopied through the trees on zip lines and I got asked out on a yoga date by our guide.  Which was more than a little awkward.  

Did I mention I'm deathly afraid of heights?  I am.

I didn't really think the whole thing through before we went.  Cause I do love a challenge, especially an athletic one.  Until we suited up.  And I realized that what goes up, must eventually come down.  Descending means simply letting go and leaning back and hoping to god I don't free fall and spiral down to my death in the middle of the rock climbing gym. 

Easier said than done.

I took my introductory how-the-hell-do-I-work-the-auto-belay-class,  and totally tried to pretend I'm a normal person who doesn't have excessively sweaty palms exacerbated even more by excessively high heights.

But I do.  And I am.  Really stupid for putting myself in this high anxiety situation.

But this is my year of tackling fears.  Like that baby shower I still haven't RSVP'd to yet that I really want to go to, where I'd only know one person. The one popping out the baby.  Maybe today, I'll gather the courage to e-mail a "yes".  But, today we're talking about yesterday....

I gave it a couple practice runs.  Scaling the rocks, ascending just a few feet at first.  Then reluctantly leaning back, closing my eyes, trying to remember how the hell the Hail Mary goes, before I confirmed I was going to hell if I died anyway and then let go of the rocks. Then, I got the courage to go a little higher.  And a little higher.  Before I decided I needed to go to the top.  Not because I wanted to, because I had to.

What I may have neglected to mention is, climbing up the rocks is totally fun.  

Just do not look down for a photo, because everything looks a hell of a lot higher when you're actually up there.
Rookie mistake.

Eventually, I got all the way up here.  So maybe it wasn't the pinnacle.  I didn't summit or whatever.  But, for me I totally did.  And I didn't even scream like a girl on the way down.  So, stupid fear of heights, I win!  Because I said I did, that's why.  

The pent up anxiety and constricted blood vessels that caused also won me a migraine and a cab ride home.  But while I'm on this facing my fears marathon, I've got to go RSVP for that baby shower.  Social anxiety, I'm gonna wrestle your ass to the ground. Oh, crap.  The invitation only has a phone number. So now I have to call and talk to someone.  Oh god, here we go.  I hope her voicemail picks up.  I can do this...