The Thing Is...

...our trip was SO not conducive to blogging. That's not the way I thought it was going to be. I thought we'd go about our business every day, and each night I would dutifully report the goings-on. Instead, we went about our business every day, and each night I'd do some reading and fall dead asleep. The only communication I could muster was the occasional Facebook status update. How did this happen?! How, for example, knowing that this awesome, only-in-the-Philippines picture was sitting on my iPhone BEGGING to be uploaded, did I not upload it?


Life is a mystery, my lovely people. But I vow, here and now, to make up for my grievous lack of blogging! I will inundate you with tales of our adventure, I will blog until you beg me to stop, I will blog until my fingertips catch fire.

Just...not tonight. Because you know what? Jet lag is a bitch.

Shake Up Call

I was putting Lea to sleep when the earthquake started at 8:00 or so tonight. I was supra-relaxed at first, but when it seemed to be going on too long, I made the mistake of inhaling sharply, which is when she realized something was wrong. The shaking stopped soon after that, and while half of me went to work trying to calm down my shivering, slightly weepy child, the other half was coming to the realization that if it HAD continued I would not have known what the hell to do.

What kind of native Californian am I?

The kind that has some Googling to do, that's what kind...

Just Added To The List Of Things I Cannot Do:

Wash a car.

Despite some pockets of free time in the past few days, I have repeatedly failed to bring the car in for its post-snow beauty treatment. Instead, I have been sheepishly piloting my hulking mess of a vehicle around town and fretting about whether or not some smart-ass teenager was going to use a fingertip to write "Please Wash Me" in the thick film of dirt.

Today, after multiple botched attempts to enter a carwash—laugh if you must, but I swear to you that every port of entry read "EXIT" and I swear, too, that at least ten of the carwash guys were mocking my ineptitude, a fact which I simple could not abide—I decided to do it myself. The sun was out, after all, so I picked Lea up from preschool and told her we had a job to do. When she discovered we were washing the car, she was all a-twitter since it's a task she often does with the SU. At home, she immediately changed into a bathing suit which was at least one size too small and, from the sad looks of it, highly uncomfortable. But she refused to change, so off we went to the backyard.

I had pulled the car close to the garage, but Lea informed me that it would have to be backed up quite a bit so the hose could reach it. By the time I was done, she had retrieved a bucket, washing mitts, Armor All, some oddly shaped brushes, and two lint-free cloths from the garage. I felt like I had a knowledgeable partner, you know? Someone I could turn to when I wasn't sure about things like the ratio of soap to water, someone to instruct me in the proper use of the mystery brushes, and someone to look at me like I was insane when I tried to use the very tiny sprayhose on the deck that is only meant to be used for potted plants.

But Lea was not, in fact, a knowledgeable carwash partner. She was just an almost 5-year-old who wanted to play in the bubbles. And I was just a woman with a bucket of sudsy water and good intentions.

So Genius

Who's the genius who left the house this morning without an umbrella? I'm the genius!

Who's the genius who can't find Risa's Brownie vest and who must take the fall for her not wearing said vest during today's Super Secret Brownie Initiation Ceremony at which many Super Secret Brownie Songs are trilled and Super Secret Brownie Pledges are proclaimed? I'm the genius!

Who's the genius who took Lea to L & L Hawaiian Barbecue for lunch and only ordered her a "Mini Short Ribs" lunch when, in fact, she could have eaten several Humungous Short Rib lunches? I'm the genius!

Who's the genius who waited ten minutes in the ATM drive-through line and, when her turn arrived, came to realize that she had failed to prepare her deposit (opting instead to sing along to the radio) and could not handle the pressure of preparing it on the spot because there was another car behind her, and so had to circle around again? I'm the genius!

Who's the genius who had Lea's birthday party invitations printed at a completely inconvenient printing place and then failed to notice that there were no envelopes in the package, prompting a return to the completely inconvenient printing place, where the decidedly unhelpful printing employee informed me that there were no envelopes left, to which I enthusiastically responded with clenched teeth but of course there are envelopes somewhere in this cavernous and completely inconvenient printing place? I'm the genius!

Several more Monday instances of my genius could be cited here. In fact, I find myself astonished at the immense width and breadth of my genius. My genius is its own nation.

Minimalists Unite!

Because I am a spaz, I am ever on the lookout for situations often referred to in parenting books as "teachable moments." When Lea recently presented me with the gift of a drawing, the central character of which was flanked—as always—by two hearts ("This is you and me," she explains every time, "but as hearts..."), I set about manipulating her into adding more details to it.

I've noticed, you see, that educators are forever demanding "more details," and though I don't completely understand the logic surrounding the insistence that more details are always better, I instigated this conversation anyways. Because I am, as stated in sentence #1 and continually throughout this post, a spaz:

Spaz Mom using Spaz Voice: Oooh, tell me about this picture!
Normal Child: Well, this is a bear. This is his nose, and down here is his neck. It's for you.
Spaz Mom in Manipulation Mode: I like it. So...where does the bear live?
Normal Child: In a cave with lots of flowers on the side.
Spaz Mom Staying on Task: Oh! Where are the flowers?
Normal Child: Um, Mama, he's not in his cave right now.
Spaz Mom, Still Trying Her Spaz Best:: No? So where is he?
Normal Child: He's on a piece of paper.
Spaz Mom, Defeated: I'm gonna keep it right here on my desk.

With you (whoever you are) as my witness, I vow to never again subject my children to such foolishness. Until, that is, the next time I subject my children to such foolishness. Here, by the way, is the drawing accompanied by its creator:

Seat Taken or I'll Whine If I Want To

I have a favorite desk in the library. It's on the second floor, in front of the new nonfiction titles, facing the window. But when I arrived today, it was already taken by a man with formidable posture and a pencil tucked behind his ear. I sighed and selected the next desk over. I think this would have been okay, except that I sat with my back to the window, and just as I was about to switch to the other side (they are facing desks, designed for two to sit), another man plunked down all his stuff and smiled. I half-heartedly returned his gesture and resigned myself to my fate. I then proceeded to slog through the most non-productive one hundred twenty writing minutes ever. I was unmoored, skittish. I felt like someone was reading over my shoulder and making gagging noises. I hit the delete key constantly.

But I stayed put.

And I waited. I waited for it, whatever "it" was, to pass. I kept thinking in five minutes, in five more minutes. And then, of course, five minutes would pass and nothing would change. This happened over and over and over again. At some point I should have cut my losses because these two hours—two truly uninterrupted hours in which I have no other available obligation—ugh. Forget it. As if I'm dealing with some rare and insurmountable hardship. As if 'hardship' is even a word I can legitimately use in describing my life. As if any of this is remotely interesting. As if this is anything other than me. Complaining again. When there's nothing to complain about.

*rolls eyes, heads off to bed*

Roman Holiday

Rome. Oh, Rome. I've been indulging in repeats of the first season, and it's so completely gross and disturbing and amazing, I cannot tear my eyes away. That was before I saw it in high definition, mind you. Now blood and body parts come flying straight at me off of forty-six inches of flat-screen perfection. And what of Cleopatra? Cleopatra, with her buzzcut and crazy sing-song voice, is insane.

Is it wrong? Is it wrong that I cannot wait for Sunday when the second and final season begins? Then, dear ones, let me be wrong.


Oscar, are you there? Rome will erase every memory you have of what's-his-name (he of the hair extensions and excessively bronzed and oiled legs) yelling, "Is there no one else?"

If I were in Caesar's Rome, I would declare slowly and with undisguised yet quiet rage (perhaps while grabbing your gold-edged tunic):

This...I...say...to...you.

Alas, I am in the blogosphere and must put it this way:

I'm just sayin'.

2/365 As Seen From the Vantage Point of 3/365

There are only so many directions I can process. And while I appreciate—in a mildly frightened way—the manic intensity with which my new Pilates trainer person approaches my body mechanics, I have to admit to being overwhelmed. In one hour I was urged to think...

...of each part of my body as having wheels
...of myself as wearing a corset
...of a rod running straight through my glutes (um, ouch)
...of sending my breath to my ribs
...of scooping
...of a sail filled with wind
...of a ball laying on my stomach and myself rolling over it
...of the inner sections of my knees as magnets

It was kinda cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs inducing. But perhaps this was more a function of the fact that Lea was up all night with a fever, complete with nightmares in which I was very sick and the spousal unit was a skeleton. She was so warm I threw the blankets off the two of us. She attached herself to me monkey-style, and it felt like some sort of bizarre hot-child spa treatment. This might have been great for my back, but I got very little sleep because of her random little screams and because her continually frightened state resulted in her strangling me every ten minutes. Fun! And so it was that I moved through most of yesterday with puffs of fog floating all lazy-like around my brain.

***

In other Nesting Ground news...I'm more curious and excited about my writing than I have been in a long time. Short-ish pieces that I've written and filed away seem suddenly to belong together, like a family. Part of me is wondering why I didn't see it before, but the other part is thinking gift horse. mouth. don't look. As in any family, there are a slew of characters. Normally, this would stymie my efforts because I'd get all tangled up trying to decide on a pov before moving forward. This time, though, I'm writing in any voice that pleases me at the moment. It's possible that the narrative only makes sense to me at this point, but I think it's actually working so far. We'll see. Or we won't see. Either way, I've decided failed experiments count.

If I had a theme song, I'd insert it here. And it would be all sweeping and all climb-every-mountain-ish and you would laugh at me, and I'd deserve it.

Meanwhile, I'm reading Lorrie Moore and Gina Berriault again because, well, you can't really do that too often.

1/365

At 12:30 this morning I poured myself a big glass of water and started writing. I only went at it for about 30 minutes before dragging myself to the real nesting ground, but I think it was enough to make sure things got off to, you know, a positive start. I supposed I should have munched on organic kale, given myself a manicure, deep-conditioned my hair, and cleaned the grout between the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush, too, but a person can only take so much change.

In all seriousness, I have set modest writing and reading goals for myself, plus the regular get-healthy nonsense, most of which will fall by the wayside in a few months time. In an amusing attempt to stick to my drink-more-water goal, I forced myself to finish another big glass of water today before I would allow myself a Diet Pepsi on ice. I exaggerate not when I tell you that it took me three hours—three hours!—to drink the water. By then I had a wicked headache brought on, no doubt, by my lack of caffeine. Such a sad sack, am I.

As for Day 2, it holds much promise: haircut (dare me to cut it all off and I just might; I'm in such a mood) and color, Pilates, the aforementioned writing/reading, and the inevitable prep work for Risa and Vida's 7th birthday party. I made these silly invites:


As you can imagine, I repeat the words "totally crafty" like 400 times on the inside. Despite the fact that my heart was semi-set on a bowling party (what I imagined as kitschy and retro fun was, in reality, dingy and kinda dirty), the whole shindig will go down in the groovy party room at Yarn, Paper, Scissors (thank you Marcy!), where the invitees (including four lucky young gents) will embroider their own fleece scarves, enjoy a double-big slice of ice cream cake, and saunter off with a bunch of goodies ever-so-carefully selected by moi (can I be a moi? Or is it only Eileen who can be a moi?). Let us take a moment here to recall last year's extraordinarly pink goody bags.

That's it for today, my New Year darlings. Making some changes to the blog; bear with the weird color changes and whatnot...

Attention Double-Deficit Disorder

I was just now performing a series of repetitive cooking-prep tasks. I approached these tasks in a high-minded manner: I would turn off iTunes and focus on every slice, every dice, every brush of oil, every last thing. In this way, I would finish up quickly and with a mind as clear and perfectly-functioning as that of a...a...a person who lives their life with a clear and perfectly-functioning mind.

I'm sure you know where this ends.

Within 10 minutes, I had turned on the Dreamgirls soundtrack and was moving frequently from cutting board to laptop so I could read blogs and answer e-mail. So of course, something that should have taken forty-five minutes ended up taking ninety. And my mind? All aflutter with extraneous information, idle gossip, and Christmas gift ideas. Let this be a lesson.

I am now going to extract all the seeds from two pomegranates.

I should be finished sometime tomorrow morning.

The Saboteur

Please understand that this is not a brag list. It is not a martyr list or a pat-myself-on-the-back list. It is, instead, a list that demonstrates how time and time again I fail to take myself seriously. How I constantly sabotage any time I might have available to write. And, most damning of all, how I justify it by thinking oh, but I'm being a good parent. Which is such bullshit. I could eliminate half the things on this list and still be a good parent. Anyways, here's the Unwieldy List. It's all the stuff I'm doing so far this school year:

- Co-President of the school foundation
- Marketing Chair for the big live/silent auction thingy
- Chair for Latino Outreach
- Coordinator for first grade tutoring program
- Chair for Author Day
- Webmaestro of the foundation site
- (most likely) Room parent for Risa's class
- (most likely) Room parent for Vida's class

So this list is why I went to last night's soccer meeting determined not to volunteer for anything. Not one single thing. And on the drive to our coach's house, I told the girls that if they were in the vicinity when volunteers were being requested, they were not to start jumping up and down and saying, "You do it, Mom! You do it!"

The coach has four children, and she is coaching two teams. She is also smart. The first time she asked for a Team Parent volunteer to procure the team banner, collect money for various reasons, plan the end-of-season party and perform other assorted duties, she did it casually while ticking off a list of general information. Five or ten minutes later when she asked again, she left a good twenty seconds of silence, waiting for someone to step forward. I was so proud of myself for sitting quietly. I didn't begrudge any of the other parents for doing the same; I am not the only person with an Unwieldy List.

We went over some other business before she asked for the third time. After she did so, she scanned our faces one by one while we all stared at the center of the living room rug. This lasted a manageable—though admittedly difficult—thirty seconds or so. No takers.

By the time she asked again, I was shaking with discomfort. I could not bear the interminable silence or the guilt. And so you have probably guessed by now who left the coach's house clutching the fucking Team Parent Handbook.

***

The team jerseys, by the way, are red with black flames. You can imagine what went through my head:

"Hell Hath No Fury!"

"The Red Menace!"

"The Devil's Advocates!"

"Blood, Sweat & Tears!"

The team eventually opted for "Fire Angels."

Which is okay.

I guess.

Not Sure What To Do Here

As I type, Risa and Vida are deep in discussion with their friend R., (also 6 years old) who is hanging from a tree on his side of the fence. I think he must just have come from Bible camp or something because he is sharing the story of Adam & Eve. R & V are countering with the theory of evolution, even going so far as to run inside the house to find one of those pictures that shows a primate morphing into a man.

I hope I don't receive a call tonight from his parents or anything.

I have read some Bible stories with the girls, and when they asked their inevitable Did that really happen? Is this true? questions, all I could tell them was that some people believe that, yes, these stories are true, and other people believe they are not. When they asked what I believed, I stumbled. Badly. I addressed only creation and evolution, and told them I believed the latter. Then I removed myself with the classic we'll-talk-later-I-need-to-make-dinner excuse. And I have been dancing around the whole thing ever since.

Ugh.

All of this has been on my mind lately as I try to figure out whether or not I will be sending R & V to catechism during the coming school year. Simply put, I'm having a much more difficult time than anticipated trying to reconcile my issues with the Catholic Church with my desire to expose the girls to spiritual teaching. I don't feel comfortable sending them anywhere at this point, and lately have been wishing there were some sort of place that just teaches them about all the different religions and—most importantly—that none is completely right, none completely wrong. Maybe this is something I could do myself? The idea of learning together appeals to me. But does that "count?" And what do I mean by "count"? Totally confused.

Insights welcome.