Diva Script

Good Gravy!

2011-11-09T13:15:00.000-08:00

It's been how long since I've posted?

I can't even remember all that's happened to me since August. I thought about spending time writing a wonderfully witty comeback post, but let's be real. It would be another six weeks before I got that post done. So I'm going kick off my return with the following list of updates:

1. Writing: Clearly, I haven't been writing as I should, but I did enter an essay contest for Real Simple. They announce the winner in January. Keep your fingers crossed!

2. Parenting: E is growing up to be quite the sassy young lady. After spending Halloween evening as an angel, complete with a Marabou halo and wings, she remarked: "I think I was the cutest little thing people saw tonight."

3. Marriage: Hubby and I are still going strong. And yes, we are still sharing one car. One day, though, it will get better.

4. Me: I actually had to write "relax" on my to do list last week. Sad, but true.

More soon!

Hazed

2011-08-16T21:38:00.001-07:00

I can't count how many times I saw Revenge of the Nerds as a kid. Now that I think about it, I really didn't have any business watching that, but every now and then, my parents let something sneak through. The alcohol-induced antics of the Tri-Lambs and the Alpha Betas gave me a skewed sense of collegiate reality.

By the time I was old enough to go to college, I knew that 99% of that film was far-fetched. Still, a teeny part of me was nervous when I applied to join my sorority. I needn't have worried. A combination of university and sorority policies prohibited a good deal of nonsense, including riding a tricycle while guzzling cans of beer.

Even though there were no arm-wrestling and burping contests (Thank goodness!), we still had our share of good times. And one of my sorority sisters was there to document most of them with her camera. D would say the same thing every time she looked at pictures from our new-member phase:

"We hazed ourselves."

D's comment came to mind this weekend when my friends and I took our daughters for a girls day out. A local salon offers a "Princess Party," a spa experience for girls ages 6 and up. Our kids ate pizza, danced to Kid's Bop CDs, and got manis and pedis, all while wearing little pink robes, tiaras and feather boas. Meanwhile, we sat in a waiting room with bottles of water.

Oh, wait, I take that back. The salon was out of bottled water. We just sat there. Venting.

About how we need more hours in the day. And how hard it is to be a mom. And how sometimes we want to just pull the covers over our heads and sleep the day away. We could hear our girls singing along to Justin Bieber and Willow Smith.

We hazed ourselves.

There we were, four stressed out mamas, lamenting while our daughters were being pampered. We should have given ourselves a little love while we were treating our girls.

Mama's Day Out is in the works for September. A massage is definitely in order.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

First Day of School

2011-08-11T19:32:00.001-07:00

I've known for weeks that school started today. GI Joe says that "knowing is half the battle," but I'm not sure how much good it did me this time.

The school sent a newsletter that I scanned, then promptly lost. "Meet the Teacher" night, I noted, was at a time when I couldn't attend. School supplies were the teacher's responsibility. My job was to send $20 and a donation of tissue and disinfecting wipes. Thanks to my coupon clipping, I have a stockpile of household supplies, so this was no problem.

E spent Sunday afternoon arranging outfits; I stuffed wipes, tissue, cash into her book bag. We were ready, or so I thought.

"Mom," my girl asked Tuesday night. "Who is my teacher?"

(Insert "Price Is Right" loser music here.)

I had no idea.

I spent all day Wednesday calling the school. No answer. I scanned the Web site for clues. Nothing.

I tried to make light of the situation. "It will be a surprise!" I declared. "You'll find out when you get there." My daughter was not convinced. While clearing out a stack of newspaper, I found the school newsletter.

"Class listings will be posted in the gym on Meet the Teacher Night."

"Meet the Teacher Night" was that very day, from 4 - 6. I looked at the clock. It was 6:05.

(Re-insert "Price Is Right" loser music.)

I woke up this am at 5:45, determined to find the elusive name. I called the school every 15 minutes to no avail. I got my kid dressed, handed her a Pop-Tart, and said we'd go to school early to find the identity of her teacher. I'd then have to take her to daycare, because the school didn't officially open for another hour.

We hurry to a the car, and I hit the garage door opener. No response. By the time Hubby got the door up, we had run out of time. I wouldn't be able go take her to school, then to daycare, and make it to work on time.

(You know what to do.)

I dropped the kid off at daycare, drove to school, and ran into the gym to read the school listings. I called daycare and asked the director to tell my kid to go to Mr. K's class.

I miraculously made it to work on time. And my kid had a great first day. What's not so great is all this homework. Her workload has tripled since kindergarten. Last year, we had a worksheet or two. Now there's reading, spelling, and math. Not to mention I had to fill out about 20 forms, all which seemed to ask for emergency contact information. Couldn't they just copy the one form and circulate it?

- Posted using BlogPress

Shoulders Down

2011-08-02T19:27:00.000-07:00

I've started doing yoga every morning before I get ready for work.

Yeah, I've been here before.

I love yoga. I know it's hard to believe because I do it so infrequently. But there's something very calming about moving through a sun salutation. I feel more at peace, more ready to face the nonsense better known as "a day's work."

On Wednesdays, I attend a lunch-hour class sponsored by my company. As we move through postures, Steve, our yogi, walks by and places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Shoulders down," he reminds the class.

Even though I believe my shoulders are exactly where they should be, Steve always is able to move them by an inch or two. So this week, I started paying attention, and I learned something:

I hunch my shoulders. A lot. Stress, I've discovered, is a major cause of my shrugged shoulders.

I also learned it's a painful habit to break. I didn't know putting something back where it belongs could hurt so much. My shoulders have been aching for days.

Forcing me to put my shoulders down has also encouraged me to deal with my stress, instead of letting it build. Sort of like my "Jesus, be a fence" mantra.

I made it back to yoga last week, ready to see how my poses improved with lowered shoulders. Our substitute yogi, Becky, mentioned she was a "hands-on" teacher. She corrected my leg positions, adjusted my back's alignment, and encouraged me to stretch a little further while in cobbler's pose. Not once, did she touch my shoulders.

I thought I was home free as our hour came to an end. I happily stretched onto my mat for corpse pose, a position where you lie flat on your back. Becky came by and made one last adjustment. She pressed my shoulders away from my ears. Damn.

I guess I'm a work in progress.

Jesus, Be A Fence

2011-06-30T20:06:00.000-07:00

I believe the last two months can best be described as insane.

I signed up to teach more night classes, but I didn't pay attention to the dates when I did so. The beginnings of some classes overlapped with ends of others, which meant there were a few weeks where I taught two to three classes on top of working a full time job.

During an eight-week stretch, I heard more "Can-you-cover-for-xyz-employee-my-grade's-not fair-because-I-was-sick-oh-we-know-you're-busy-but-would-you-take-this-project-my-last-instructor-was-nicer-than-you-can-you-squeeze-in-this-new-biz-thing-this-class-isn't-even-in-my-major-I'm-going-to-my-academic-advisors" than I ever wanted to hear in my lifetime.

Yep. Insanity is the perfect description.

A friend who often teaches dual classes said I would feel better after I saw my paycheck. She was right, but the the good feeling lasted for about two minutes.

Most of the time, I was overwhelmed and tired. Add to that the fact that we're once again a one-car family (a story for another day), and you've got a recipe for a nervous breakdown.

There was a phrase, however, that helped me whenever I was about to scream:

"Jesus, be a fence."

I don't think there's a gospel singer out there that hasn't done a rendition of this song. My favorite is by a group called the Meditation Singers. These ladies brought it.

The words were my battle cry. They populated my Facebook status and Twitter timeline whenever I felt frustration mounting. And on days when it was really rough, I took it farther:

"Jesus, could you throw in a moat?"

"How about an electric fence?"

"What about attack dogs?" (Not to be confused with guard dogs.) I'm certain Jesus wasn't on board with this request, but I felt better after saying it.

In the beginning, I said the words whenever I wanted a fence to keep people from angering me. But over time, I learned I needed a fence to keep my anger from them. The phrase went from battle cry to mantra, encouraging me to deal with my frustrations rather than waiting for the breaking point.

I realized this during my first night with a high-strung group of students. After arguing with me about the terms of the syllabus, a student stormed out of class to contact her "prayer warriors." Instead of telling the entire class to go to hell, I called for a break. When we returned, I asked them why they were so on edge. I listened, with fences down. I addressed their concerns calmly, and I didn't change a thing in the syllabus. At the end of our five-week session, the prayer warrior told me how much she enjoyed the class.

The Lord's standard-issue fence handled my nonsense without a spark of electricity or a snarling canine.

My "Jesus-be-a-fence" tweets are much less frequent now. Partly because I'm down to once class a month, but mostly because I'm learning day-by-day not to sweat the small stuff.

Extreme Couponing (or) How Do I Pay for the Cleaning Lady?

2011-05-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

It's been a busy few months, my friends.

Taking on different responsibilities at work required more time at the office and added travel. I think I spent the entire month of March on the road, but it all happened so fast that I'd have to check old boarding passes to be sure.

During that time, I made a very important decision: I need a cleaning person. Someone who can dust, vacuum, and mop -- In other words, someone who can keep my place looking decent so I don't have to. I figured once a month should do the trick.

Hubby didn't agree. Especially when my first hire was for two guys to clear out the garage.

"We don't need to spend the money," he reasoned. "I was going to do it."

We all know what this means. He was going to do it only after I raised hell, waited six months, and then raised hell again. But enough, I decided, was enough. The guys did a great job, and I drove my car into the garage without sideswiping a mound of junk for the first time in five years. My marriage, I believe, is better for it.

The garage guys were a one-time charge, so how was I to justify a monthly charge for a cleaning person? The boost to my sanity should be enough, but I wanted to be sure the expense was painless.

After hearing about people getting $481 of groceries for $3.19, I decided to give couponing a try. I knew that I wouldn't be able to rack up these types of savings on the first few tries, but I had no idea how much work this involves. People spend more time couponing than they do working full-time jobs.

It's been less than a month since I made my declaration to become an extreme couponer, and here's what I've learned so far:

1. I will NEVER get $481 worth of anything for $3.19. It takes way too much time. The most I've had is $89 on a $150 bill, and that was good enough for me.

2. I should leave my daughter at home. There's nothing like a six-year-old asking for candy and what-not while you are trying to calculate coupon savings. Now I see why the people on TV usually go alone.

3. Always smile at the cashier. Check-out already sucks; it only gets worse when you have 50 coupons and a clerk who thinks you're rude.

4. I will not stockpile. It seems like a good idea, but do I really need 65 bottles of mustard? Plus, I don't have the space.

The cleaning lady comes for the first time this Monday, and my coupon savings have covered her fees for the next couple of months. So, all in all, I guess it was worth it.

Stay tuned!

The Tea Party

2011-04-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

Every year when the weather gets warm, I make myself promises.

I will go outside more this year. I will plant more flowers. I will take advantage of what the city has to offer.

I fail miserably every time. I proclaim it's too hot-humid-rainy-cloudy-or-you-name-it to go outside. The few flowers in the front yard shrivel from neglect and slug damage. And the city? I don't see any more of it than I did the year before.

This year, I decided to do better. I've made no promises other than I will honor the inspiration to enjoy the season when it comes. So far, that's meant a trip to the zoo, where I purchased a one-year membership, and a Sunday tea party in the park.

My cousin, who was on the event's planning committee, said this was a chance for little girls to put on frilly dresses and drink apple juice from tea cups. It was indoors, so that was right up my alley, and it was for a good cause. The proceeds were for the park's upkeep. This year's theme was Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

When E and I arrived, we followed a path of cardboard circles painted to look like lollypops and peppermints to a room swimming in polka-dotted balloons and multicolored tablecloths. There was candy as far as the eye could see.

E ate two candy rings, two chocolate-covered marshmallows, and three Hershey's kisses in the blink of an eye. Just as she was feeling the effects of her sugar intake, the hostess announced a scavenger hunt.

We went to the registration table for an instruction sheet. The woman explained that we were to find 20 golden tickets, read the question on the back of each ticket, and mark the answers on our sheet.

"There are 10 tickets in this building and 10 tickets outside," she said.

"Did you say outside?" I asked as I squinted at the yellow piece of paper. I looked out the window at a passerby in a tank top and shorts. It was 86 degrees.

"Oh yes," she smiled. "They are in the garden out back and in the front yard, but there won't be any across the street."

It took us an hour to find 19 tickets. We wandered the yard in circles, taking a brief detour to the parking lot so I could change out of my four inch heels, which kept sinking into the ground. I couldn't do anything about the wind blowing up my dress. I hope no one was offended.

I was sweaty and tired when we returned to the tea room to hear the winners. We took second place, which earned E a princess PEZ dispenser.

It was a good day, even though my daughter ate way too much candy and cried because I wouldn't let her have a cupcake. I convinced the wait staff to find a roll of paper towels so I could wrap one up and take it home. She ate it today.

I'm not sure if this is the end of my outdoor adventures or just the beginning. The only thing I do know is that if I plant anymore flowers, I'm putting out some Sluggo first.

Whatever Happened to Customer Service? (or, Pastor Craig, Part 2)

2011-03-22T20:16:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering, I still haven't heard from Pastor Craig. Nevertheless, K's dinner is shaping up nicely. We're up to 12 people, which is a blow-out for someone once who cancelled her own surprise party.

When I checked in with a friend whom E-vite listed as "not-yet-replied," I learned that I mistyped her e-mail address.

It got me to thinking. What if I had the wrong address for Pastor Craig? I've embarrassed myself enough to invite him, so I would be peeved if a missed keystroke kept him from coming.

After confirming online I had the right Pastor Craig, I made another call.

I was greeted by Sally, the mechanical voice of all things automated.

I'm sorry, but the number you reached is no longer in service.

I tried 411 next.

This time, Sally seemed impatient.

What city?

Is this a business or residence?

Please state the name of the business.

I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Please restate the name of the business.

Please restate the name of the business. (By now, Sally was getting really pissed.)

Please hold while I transfer you to the next available operator.

The operator's voice was high-pitched and twangy.

"Do you have an address for this church?"

"Sure." I read her the address from online.

"Idonhavalistin."

"Say what?" My head was starting to hurt.

"I don't have a listing, ma'am." She sounded more annoyed with me than Sally was.

"Ok, thank you."

Instead of saying "thank you" in return, the operator transferred me back to Sally.

Thank you for using 411 connect.

Really? Are we so busy now that we can't say thank you anymore? We need an automated voice to do it for us?

And, I still didn't find Pastor Craig!

Pastor Craig

2011-03-14T19:53:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine is leaving our shared place of employment to follow her passion. It's a move that's both gutsy and admirable, and during the company's peak period of 50-plus hour work weeks, I'd say it's a pretty smart move as well.

K's not big on parties and hoopla, but I figured an event like this deserved a celebration. After a well-crafted pitch and three weeks of begging for a guest list, I got K to agree to a simple dinner with those who know her best.

The list was short, and it was missing contact information for most of the guests, but one name stood out. Pastor Craig.

Next to his e-mail address was a short notation. "Highly unlikely that he could make it."

I didn't see the point in inviting someone who had little-to-no shot at coming. So I thought I'd increase the odds of an affirmative R.S.V.P. by calling the Pastor and getting the date on his calendar right away. A quick trip to Google was all I needed.

"Good afternoon, Pastor Craig's office."

This should have been a red flag right here. K mentioned he was the pastor of small ministry. Too small for an office, and way too small for a secretary.

"Is Pastor Craig available?"

"No, may I take a message?"

"Sure." I gave my name and phone number.

"What is this regarding?" Something in her tone of voice wasn't quite right.

"I'm calling to extend an invitation to an event."

"Are you friend of Pastor's?"

"Um, no, not exactly." This was going downhill fast. I dodged a few more questions and hung up the phone.

A few days went by, and I didn't get a return call. When I went back to the Web site, the Pastor's bio and photo popped up. This man was about 20 years older than I expected.

I called the wrong Pastor Craig.

So, somewhere in Chicago, there likely is a man who has to explain why some woman called to invite him to a dinner. I just pray his church isn't one that is full of drama.

Who am I kidding? That woman's tone of voice told me all I need to know.

Pastor Craig, I'm really really sorry.

Crocheting Divas

2011-02-09T19:25:00.001-08:00

Happy New Year!

I know. I'm really, really late.

I won't bore you with a long list of whys and why nots. Let's just say that life got in the way again.

Tonight, though, I took a break from the craziness.

E and I tried crochet lessons weeks ago. I thought it would be nice if I could pass on the tradition from my great aunt, but the initial efforts didn't go so well. E's short on attention span, and I'm short on patience. That's not a good combination.

So I was surprised when E asked me about it tonight. After a few stops and starts, my little girl was able to make a foundation chain all by herself. Next stop: Potholders!

16 and 6

2010-12-29T13:40:00.000-08:00

It's been a wonderful holiday season so far. And, true to form, I got so busy that I forgot to blog about it! Here's one of the highlights:

My husband's 16-year-old son came to visit us for the first time. Even though I knew of D's existence, I never thought of myself as a stepmom. I wanted my husband to spend more time with his son, and I wanted our daughter to know her brother, but I hadn't factored myself into the equation. Plus, the drama behind it all had gone on for so long that I thought D would be an adult by the time we finally met.

So when the prospect of blending our family became a reality rather than a theory, I was a nervous wreck. "Just be yourself," Hubby said. "It'll be great!"

I tried to share Hubby's optimism, but I couldn't shake the underlying fear that I'd somehow turn out to be the Wicked Stepmother. Could I ask him to do dishes without appearing to be a power-crazed meanie?

Turns out, I needn't have worried. D is a great kid, and he has the same kind and optimistic demeanor as his dad. Plus, his little sister wrapped him around her baby finger. He was playing Barbies and promising to bake cookies within 10 minutes of his arrival. That girl's got skills, I must admit.

After prying my daughter off of D's leg and putting her to bed, I had a chance to talk with him alone. Hubby went to bed early, exhausted from working late hours. D was eating some baked chicken he found in the fridge. (Note: Teenage boys eat A LOT. Plan on doubling your grocery bill.)

"Do you have any rules I should know about?" he asked.

"Don't drink my club soda," I said. "I can't really think of anything else right now."

D nodded, and he then proceeded to tell me how he had been looking forward to this visit.

"It was really bothering me that I have a sister, and I don't know her," he said. "It's been bothering me for a while." He licked his fingers. "This is good chicken, by the way."

"Thanks," I said. "I'm glad you're here. You're welcome anytime."

And that was it. All the nervousness melted away.

A few days later, I gave Hubby a hug as he was watching the kids put together a puzzle.

"You've got two kids," I said. "How does it feel?"

"Feels good," he said. "You know, you've got two kids too."

I nodded. "Yeah, I guess I do."

Reading and Crocheting

2010-12-13T21:46:00.001-08:00

I've taken to listening to audiobooks on my way to and from work. I used to ride in silence; I thought it helped to clear my head. In reality, the silence put me more on edge. I spent the entire time white-knuckling the steering wheel and obsessing over the day's mishaps.

The audiobooks were a welcome distraction during my 30-minute commute. They almost worked too well. For a while, when I got to the thick of a plot and I just had to know what happened next, I ate lunch at my desk.

My latest obsessions, The Friday Night Knitting Club and Knit Two, had me engrossed for two weeks. The books were about a group of women who form an unlikely bond through the craft. It's also about love, forgiveness, and taking a chance.

What struck me most, though, was that these women KNITTED.

I know, weird, right? With all of the drama and plot twists, who cares about knitting?

The knitting was reminding me of something I had forgotten all about. Crocheting. My great-aunt taught me when I was four years old. I sat under her craft table twisting scraps of yarn around a fat green hook until they turned into potholders and scarves. As I got older, I crocheted less and less. I would return to it time to time, usually when someone was having a baby.

The last baby I crocheted for was my own. That was 6 years ago.

I found a half skein of blue yarn in the basement. The green hook from my childhood is long gone. I lost it in an airplane seat while making a blanket for a friend's newborn. The peach replacement doesn't feel quite the same.

But the yarn glides between my fingers as it always does. My hands work as if they have a mind of their own. It doesn't take long before I have a square of blue.

I'm not sure what it's going to be yet, but it was great to reconnect with an old friend.

- Posted using BlogPress for iPhone

A Few Words on Wednesday

2010-11-30T22:08:00.001-08:00

I love Wordless Wednesday! I'm a writer, so you'd think I'd be against it, but the idea of a thoughtful post that's easy on the schedule is appealing.

I'm breaking the rules, I'm sure, with this intro, but my pic needs explanation. This is the basket of clean laundry I opted not to fold so that I could research publishing companies and literary agents.

I promise to have fewer words next time!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Dreaming Big

2010-11-29T20:15:00.000-08:00

Life got in the way again. I haven't blogged in a month!

Being a wife, mother, and career women is a delicate balance. When one thing is out of sync, it sends me into a whirlwind of confusion. The latest whirlwind was thanks to my job, which had me traveling for nearly a month. My frequent flyer accounts were appreciative, but everything else fell apart. Two weeks ago, I walked into the junkiest house I'd ever seen. Turns out, it was mine.

After a week's vacation spent cleaning, sleeping, and spending time with family, I feel like I'm back on track.

But this latest off-course trek has got me thinking. Why do I give so much energy to things I don't want to do?

Don't get me wrong. I want a job. And most days, I like the job I have. There are, however, other things that are important to me, and I should make time for them too. Writing falls squarely into this category.

About two months ago, I wrote a children's story as a gift to celebrate a friend's one-year-old son. He had a heart transplant when he was 9 months old, and he's spent his entire life in a hospital or rehab facility. The story was as much a gift to me as it was to her. I've never written anything, not even my blogs, with such ease.

It's a story I love, and I believe it belongs in bookstores.

Normally, this is when I would talk myself out the idea, but I'm not going to do that this time. I'm just going to go for it. After all, I won't know if I don't try.

Steps 1 & 2: Edit the book and learn how to write a query letter.

I'll keep you posted, and I promise not to stop dreaming big.

Gout or a Sprained Toe?

2010-10-26T10:44:00.001-07:00

It feels like I've spent more time on airplanes than on the ground lately. Two weeks ago, I flew to a new city four days out of the week, and each destination took two airplane rides.

And it's not over. I have three trips scheduled within the next two weeks.

Needless to say, I'm tired.

So it wasn't a surprise to me when my shoulder started to ache. Then my jaw locked. And later my foot hurt whenever I put on heels. I went to flats full-time. (Side note: I NEVER travel in heels, and neither should you. Trampling through airports in four-inch stilletos is a recipe for pain.)

Same-day visits to the chiropractor and podiatrist confirmed a sprained neck and toe.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I'm not kidding. I got two scripts for Naproxen and a Cortisone steroid plus a recommendation for a travel pillow.

While on my latest business trip, I met a Navy vet who was diagnosed with gout. He was my age!

He described excruciating pain that left him unable to stand. Fortunately, with diet and medication, he got back to life.

It made me realize a sprained toe isn't all that bad!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Good Day

2010-10-11T22:21:00.001-07:00

I should be asleep, but instead, I'm up watching bad TV and wacky commercials. Exactly how many seasons did Walker, Texas Ranger stay on the air? It's on four different channels at this time of night.

And who in the heck needs a shoe that washes your foot while you're in the shower? Or a microwave pasta cooker? Or a combo hair brush and curling iron?

Anyway, I digress. Last week was brutal, and I think I'm suffering from work PTSD.

My daughter and I had a good night. After homework and spinach pizza, we made ourselves dizzy by recreating the routines from Dancing With The Stars. We're not perfect, but we are entertaining.

Just before bedtime, E pulled out a piece of paper from her bookbag. "Mommy, this is for you."

The paper was long and thin, like a ruler, and it was neatly colored pink and brown.

"It's brown like your skin on the back and your favorite color,
pink, on the front." (Side note: Pink is her favorite color, not mine, but it was the thought that counts.)

"Open it," she made a sweeping gesture with her arms as she said this.

The words inside were simple: "I LOVE YOU MOMMY"

It made my day.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Self Esteem

2010-10-07T18:25:00.001-07:00

When my daughter and I walked into Kmart yesterday, I prayed she wouldn't notice the enormous Barbie display by the front door. But of course she did.

"Can we look at the Barbies? Pleeeeeeeeeease?" E jumped up and down with excitement.

I reminded myself to be patient as we walked to the display. I'm not sure what Kmart is gearing up for, but they don't have this much Barbie stuff at Christmas time.

E peered inside every box and proceeded to give me a list of what she wanted for her birthday. A mermaid. A horse. A new corvette.

I squinted at the display. Something was off about it, but I couldn't put my finger on it. When it finally came to me, I commented before I could catch myself.

"Where are the brown dolls?"

In a full aisle of merchandise, all I saw was blond Barbie.

"Isn't she brown?" E pointed to a mermaid on the top row.

I followed E's finger to the doll. She had dark hair, but her complexion was pale.

"No," I sighed. "She's not. Let's go."

"Mom, I need more white dolls." E declared this as we walked to our car.

"You do?" I asked. E has a diverse group of dolls at home. "Why?"

"The white ones are prettier."

"WHAT? Who told you that?" I didn't catch my anger in time. E was frowning.

"I don't know." She shrugged. "They just are."

"Don't you think brown people are pretty? What about me? You don't think I'm pretty?"

"Yeah, but you're light."

I was confused. "Do you think you're pretty?"

"No." E started to cry.

My heart broke.

There are more things wrong here than I have time to write about. My daughter and I are the exact same complexion, and she is absolutely beautiful. She has big brown eyes with lashes that women pay good money to replicate, a killer smile, and a personality that makes it all the better.

Who in the hell told my baby she wasn't pretty? And who told her that brown wasn't beautiful?

I started thinking about what she watches on TV. Dora the Explorer. Ni Hao Kai-Lan. Hannah Montana. Suite Life of Zach and Cody.

The characters of color are cartoons.

I pledged in that instant to do a better job of showing my daughter real-life beauty in all shapes, sizes, and colors. I'm renewing my subscription to Essence. I'm on the lookout for TV programs that showcase more diversity. Brandy on Dancing with the Stars was all I had that night, but it was a start.

Five minutes of...well, it was more like an hour

2010-09-29T21:56:00.001-07:00

It's been a long day.

I woke up at 5:15 to catch a flight to Atlanta. That was a challenge in itself. I then had to be coherent and pleasant as I directed a local video crew to capture footage of my client's franchise.

After 4 hours of "Can we try that just one more time?" I went back to the airport to catch a flight home.

To say I was beat is an understatement. I wanted to pick up my daughter, put her to bed, and then quickly follow suit.

One snafu: She was with my mother, and they were 30 minutes away at Bible study.

"Don't drive all this way," Mom said. "We're almost done. We'll be gone before you get here."

I shouldn't have believed her. One thing I should know by now is that church service of any type never ends when you think it will.

It didn't make sense to go home, so I picked up my car from remote parking and headed to the rendezvous spot, which was about 10 minutes from my house.

I got home two hours later. First, they didn't leave until 45 minutes after we talked. Then, my mom's ride had to take another person home first. (Yes, it would have been nice for me to know that from the get-go). And then, Mom figured it was easier for me to take her home after we met up so that her ride could go home faster.

By the time I got home, I was ready to scream. I was tired, I was crabby, and I smelled like an airplane.

Instead of taking my usual shower, I ran a bath instead. I planned to stay in for just a few minutes, but an hour passed before I knew it. And so did all of the day's stress.

Calming down made it a lot easier to pack bags and lunches for tomorrow, which I did while making tea. Did you know it takes 5 minutes to brew a proper cup of Rooibos tea?

One hour and five minutes were definitely worth the investment in my sanity.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Bittersweet

2010-09-23T22:55:00.001-07:00

It's late, and I know I should be in bed. But I'm enjoying the quiet that comes when hubby's at work and daughter's in bed. It's so quiet that I can hear every creak and groan of our old house.

I'm beat. I've been teaching classes as a second job for the past nine months. One evening a week for four hours, I left my full-time job and head to class. It's draining. Because my students are adults, I expected them to be self-sufficient. It was quite the opposite; many of them were starting second careers or had never been to college at all. It ended up taking more time that I thought.

I've had some adventures. There was the guy who paced the whole class, the group who routinely showed up late, and the woman who couldn't understand why she didn't get credit for an in-class project we did the day she was absent. She argued me down for those points. She didn't get them.

Tonight was my last class for the rest of the year. My full-time schedule is about to go into overdrive, and there is no way I can keep up both jobs.

I should be jumping for joy.

Instead, I'm surprised by my reaction. I will actually miss teaching. There was something about connecting with people and sharing knowledge that was fulfilling. I learned as much as they did.

But for now, I think I'll just appreciate the break.

It's My SITS Day!

2010-09-21T01:00:00.000-07:00

Go Diva, it's your SITS Day!

And yes, I'm doing the cabbage patch as I sing this...

Welcome to my blog! It's my SITS Day, and I couldn't be more excited! For those who don't know, SITS is a support network for women who love to blog. If you haven't checked it out, make sure you do.

Here's me in a nutshell: I'm the wife of an absolute sweetie, mom to a sassy girl, and a career woman. Some days, though, I just feel like a mess. I started this blog to keep track of it all. Plus, I love to write, so this is a good way for me to keep in touch with me, if you know what I mean.

Here are a few of my favorite posts, but feel free to poke around. Enjoy!

The Best Hour of My Day

Mixed-Up Momma

Siblings

Back to Blogging Day 4 - Who Inspires Me?

2010-09-16T21:47:00.000-07:00

It's seconds before the close of Day 4 of the SITS Back to Blogging Challenge. I taught class tonight, so I'm just getting home and settled.

Thanks to Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances.

Today, the challenge asked us to write about a woman who inspires us. I can barely keep my eyes open, so I'm going to relink a post I wrote about my mom I wrote while planning my wedding. My mom has been through a lot lately. She's battled a stoke and come back from a condition that most people wouldn't have been able to beat.

My Mother, Myself - The Sequel

Since Mike proposed, I have been in Brideville. Picking colors. Looking at flowers. Hunting for the perfect shoe. (Check 'em out above - Hot, I know!) And my mom has been at my side for the whole ride. Planning a wedding, I see, brings the mother-daughter dynamic right into the forefront. Because when are personalities more at odds than when standing amidst a sea of white tulle?

I wanted a simple dress. The big puffy styles with the six-foot trains are best left to women who are marrying royalty. Mike is a king, but only to Elyse and me. At the dress shop, Momma kept unearthing lacy contraptions with big skirts. I tried them on to please her.

“Oh, this is it!” she cried when she saw me in a lacy sheath with sequins detailing and a substantial train.

“It’s not me.”

“Are you sure?” She peered over her glasses. “Look at it again.”

I was sure. It took another 20 dresses before she begrudgingly admitted that the first dress I tried was more my speed. It was an ivory column with minimal detailing.

The salesperson came in with an armful of veils and tiaras. “I won’t be needing any of those.”

“Just try a few on.” The salesperson put on a veil and a tiara. “It’s not me.”

“You’re no fun!” Momma snatched off the veil and put on a different one. I frowned and slumped my shoulders. “I don’t like this one either.”

After Momma fussed for a month about my no-veil-no-tiara credo, my aunt helped her to see my point of view. “Remember how awful she used to look in Easter hats as a kid?”

Then there was the guest list. “75!” I announced. By the time my mother made her additions, the list count was up to 102. “I don’t see how you thought that you could have a wedding with just 75 people,” she said.

“Because that’s what I wanted.” My shoulders slumped again.

“Well, now you have 102. You will just have to deal with it.” I dealt with it by cutting 20 people from the guest list. My apologies go out to my co-workers. I’ll bring in pictures, I promise.

A few weeks later, Elyse and I were getting ready for church. It was chilly out, and I had a pink jacket for her to wear. She wasn’t interested.

“Come on Pumpkin, it was a gift.” Her braids hit her cheeks as she shook her head from side to side. “It’s Ralph Lauren!” I said this with a flourish, as if it would make a difference to a three-year-old. It didn’t.

I was finally able to bribe her with a bowl of grapes. Elyse took off the jacket as soon as we got into the car.

“You’re no fun!” I told her as I backed down the driveway.

So another mother-daughter relationship unfolds just as the one before it, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I could not imagine planning my wedding without Momma. She would follow me from here to Mozambique to find the perfect shade of purple paper for my wedding invitation. And all the while, she keeps me grounded, from going over the edge and pulling my hair out over party favors. It’s not a job for the faint of heart.

And sometimes, we do agree. She does love the purple shoe.

Back to Blogging Day 3 - Desperation Taco

2010-09-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

It's Day 3 of the SITS Back to Blogging Challenge.

This is a post I wrote back in June when it was dinner time and our cupboards were nearly bare. The title, I thought, was pretty catchy.

Desperation Taco

Maybe I should be ashamed, but I'm not. I'm learning, little by little, to accept my strengths and work on my weaknesses when I can. As a mom, I know I should do better, but sometimes things just don't work that way. And I have a feeling that the story I'm about to share happens more often than people care to admit.

I HATE grocery shopping. I rarely have time, I hate lugging all that stuff to the car, and I have a five year old who wants me to buy everything in the store. So it's not uncommon for our cupboards to be bare, especially during the few days leading up to my bi-monthly trek to wherever has the best sale.

Last night, Hubby was kind enough to defrost a package of ground turkey with no plans on what to do with it. There was a half package of taco shells on the kitchen counter. The decision was made.

I looked for a pack of taco seasoning as I fried the meat. No go. I made due with cumin, salt, pepper, onion and garlic powder. I then checked the fridge for salsa and sour cream. All I found was a lime with a day of usable life left. I squeezed it into a can of fire-roasted diced tomatoes.

We had some lettuce, thank goodness. But when I opened our cheese drawer (Yes, we have a drawer for cheese. We love it that much.), I found we were out.

Game over. I could live without sour cream just this once, but no shredded cheese?!?!? I was about to call for an emergency run to Save-A-Lot when I saw a pack of Cheddar & Swiss string cheese.

Game on. I pulled it apart and stuffed it into to taco shells.

And what about a side dish? Then other day, I mistakenly opened a can of kidney beans when I was looking for chickpeas. Those made a respectable helping of refried beans.

This was by far not my best culinary showing, but I'm pretty sure it was the most incentive.

I went to the grocery store this morning. Cheese and sour cream were at the top of the list.

Back to Blogging - Day 2

2010-09-14T20:30:00.000-07:00

The Ladies of SITS are encouraging their members to get back to the basics of blogging by asking us to remember what got us interested in the first place. Below is a post I wish more people had seen. Too often, moms stress themselves out trying to be perfect, when we should just be proud of the job we're doing.

As an added incentive, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances, are sponsoring a washer and dryer (affectionately called Thelma and Louise) giveaway. Enjoy!

WEDNESDAY, JULY 05, 2006

It's 2 a.m., and I've lost my principles

When I was pregnant, the slew of unsolicited advice that came my way was relentless. People had cure-alls for pregnancy ailments, gassy babies, fussy sleepers, and picky eaters.

"If you have a happy pregnancy, then you will have a happy baby." (That advice, by the way, is crap. If you have a happy pregnancy, then count your lucky stars and get ready for the fireworks. A happy baby is not guaranteed.)

"If your baby is full before she goes to bed, then she will sleep all night." (For me, this too was a load of hooey. E ate to her belly puffed up like a balloon, and she still woke up every two hours.

These are just examples, and I can't remember half of what I was told. Besides, I had my own ideas. There were some things that I was certain that I would do no matter what.

I would change E on the changing table. I didn't like the idea of dirty diapers all over the house.

I would not let my child get addicted to a pacifier. I was once with a friend, who, at midnight, was driving around the city looking for an open drugstore because her son couldn't sleep without his binky. And of course, this was a one-of-a-kind pacifier that was found only at select locations. I did not need that sort of hassle.

I would be Mrs. Clean, wiping mouths and noses faster than they could get dirty. And my kid's clothes would be sparkling. Hair would be neat, etc.

I would never, never, ever, let her sleep in my bed. My two-year-old cousin spent the night with me a couple of years ago, and she kicked me in the back all night.

Based on this list, some would say that I had never seen a child before. Some would say that I was setting the bar too high. And others would say that I was just plain old nuts. I think I was a little of all three.

What I didn't account for when I came up with these ideals is the sleep deprivation factor. At 2 a.m. when you are tired and confused, you will let just about anything slide.

I have changed diapers right in the middle of the bed, and woke up the next morning to see it on the floor. And of course, the baby was still in my arms, wearing a milk-stained T-shirt.

E isn't addicted to a pacifier; she sucks her thumb instead. That,as far as I am concerned, is worse. Her pediatrician says that she will stop on her own, but I'm not convinced. Everyone I know who sucked their thumb did so right up to their driver's license exam.

Oh, and the hair? Well that's a story in itself. I braid it once a week in the hopes that it will stay nice for seven days. E's babysitter generally has pity on me mid-week and recombs it. I still can't figure out how her braids last so much longer.

I realized how far that I had fallen from grace a couple of days ago when I gave E a little bowl of Cheerios. She spilled half of them on the floor, and I watched her pick them up one by one and pop them in her mouth. And when she offered me one, I ate it.

Most days, though, I think I do pretty well. E is a healthy, happy 18-month-old who carries a purse. I've got to be doing something right.

Back to Blogging - My First Post

2010-09-13T19:01:00.001-07:00

The Ladies of SITS are encouraging their members to get back to the basics of blogging by asking us to remember what got us interested in the first place. Below is my first legitimate post. There was a short introductory paragraph I posted the same day, but I don't think that counts! If I had to write it again, I think I'd make it shorter, but I still love it!

As an added incentive, Standards of Excellence, Westar Kitchen and Bath, and Florida Builder Appliances, are sponsoring a washer and dryer (affectionately called Thelma and Louise) giveaway. Enjoy!

My Mother, Myself

Originally Published April 7, 2005

When I came home from work today, I put on a pair of hot-pink satin pajama pants and an old Delta T-shirt. Anyone who has heard of my sorority knows that I look a mess - Delta's colors are crimson and cream. I tied an orange scarf on my head and slipped into a pair of worn Daniel Green house shoes; they're a low mule with a thick band across the top. I made a funny face for my four-month-old, E, and she laughed. When I saw myself in the full-length mirror, I had to laugh along with my daughter. I had turned into my mother.

Momma wears equally embarrassing ensembles around her house. Cheetah-print robes and stripped socks. Flowered housecoats over old plaid skirts. Faded green sweatshirts and purple pants, all while wearing her infamous Daniel Greens. When I was a kid, I swore that I would not wear such get-ups. But years later, here I was.

When this transformation occurred, I cannot say. It seems as though just yesterday I was a hip and happening single girl, ready to take on the world. But that must have been a long time ago, because I doubt that anyone uses the term “hip and happening” anymore. A friend of mine once said that she believes we resist our mothers' influence until we are about 27, and then we just give in. Why is that? What do we learn at that point that allows us to accept our fate?

As a little girl, I did everything I could to be like my mother. I even remember that I tore up my toy sewing machine in an attempt to make a fur coat like hers. We wore complimentary, but not matching, outfits on Easters and Mothers Days.

Complimentary, but not matching. Of course that all changed with I hit those defiant teenage years. I juggled being stubborn, high-strung, and moody with trying to define myself through fashion. My clothing choices waffled between the homely and the weird. One day I would be searching the racks at a junior's department, and the next day I would be riffling through Momma's closet. The results were interesting, to say the least. Every now and then, people would say that I had my mother's eyes. I tried not to notice.

I tried everything from track suits to business suits while in college, and I settled on a simple wardrobe once I hit my mid-20s. Tailored pants and shirts in solid colors (no prints), and I started to build a unique collection of shoes and purses. Meanwhile, my mother took jungle prints to a whole new level, matching cheetah-print accessories and separates with basic brown and black separates. In spite of my best efforts, people were starting to say that I looked more like Momma than ever. I claimed not to see it.

When I found out that I was going to have a baby last year, I started thinking a lot about motherhood in general, and I realized that some of Momma's characteristics had long-ago slipped into my personality. We have the same inflections in our voices, the same way of cutting our eyes around, and we both fold our hands across our chests in satisfaction when we know that we have the upper hand in an argument. And my determination and outspokenness are growing by the day. People say that we have the same walk, a confident gait that makes people notice you when you enter the room. I can kind of see that one.

Did I accept who I am out of a sense of defeat? No way. I think that practicality starts to set in when you get a bit older. You can't know someone your whole life and expect that person not to rub off on you. To think so is downright silly. And besides, a part of me is still like that little girl of yesteryear: I think that my mom is pretty cool.

There are still a few differences between us. My mother enjoys an occasional trip to the casino. I prefer an occasional trip to the spa. I love to try new wines. My mother loves to find new ways to mix a stiff strawberry daiquiri. And we still don't agree on the uses of cheetah-print in a wardrobe.

As soon as I finish posting this blog, I'm going online to look for some Daniel Greens. My pair is almost worn out. I think I'll get a pair for my mother, too. Complimentary, but not matching, of course.

It's All Coming Back to Me

2010-09-03T19:59:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about The Thing. For days, The Thing rested on the tip of my tongue, just far enough away from my brain that I couldn't recognize it.

The Thing kept me up at night, had me losing focus. After about a week and a half, I threw in the towel. There was much too much going on in my world for me to be worried about things I couldn't remember.

And then, just like that, The Thing revealed its identity.

I was at a book club meeting with some friends, discussing the August selection. The main character had the picture-perfect life -- handsome husband, smart children, gorgeous home. But after 15 years, she was farther away from achieving her goals than she had ever been. And to make matters worse, she wasn't even sure what her goals were.

A first-time attendee, who's newly engaged and in her mid 20's (Oh, to be young again!) asked "How do you keep from losing yourself in a marriage?"

I could have kissed that girl. She shined a big ole spotlight on my Thing.

Between working a full-time, teaching part-time, and being a wife and mom all the time, I felt as if I were slipping away. These past few months have been so busy that I've forgotten to take care of myself.

Girls' weekend in Chicago was a great start, and so was going to book club last week. This is a three-day weekend, and I'm determined to have some solo quality time. First thing on the list -- White Ayurvedic Chai (my favorite) and some must-see TV. I think I have a whole season of Burn Notice in my DVR.

Shake Ya Money Maker

2010-08-23T19:11:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I met up with some friends in Chicago. It was an all-out girls weekend: good shopping, good food, and pole dancing.

Yes, I said pole dancing. Apparently, this has been gaining popularity ever since Carmen Electra released a series of strip tease workout DVDs. A friend of mine suggested we try it, and most of us figured it would hurt to try it just once.

After brunch at a nearby cafe, we descended on Flirty Girl, a gym that features lap dancing, pole dancing, and kick boxing. I originally thought that kick-boxing was a misfit until I realized all three have one thing in common: You work hard as hell.

Our instructor was Diana, a well-endowed cutie with caramel skin and long blond weave. She first took us through warm up designed to loosen us up, and they worked. By the time I got finished shaking my rear end and rolling all over the floor, I was too sweaty and too tired to be nervous about grinding all over a pole.

In two hours, Diana taught us a full routine, complete with two spins, a headstand, and a backflip. I wish I could say that I was ready for showtime (and by showtime, I mean showing my husband, not going to the local strip joint), but I felt more like Carrie from the King of Queens.

My spins were ill timed, I did more of a roll than a back flip, and I left the headstand to the professionals. What I did gain were sore arms, a set of bruises along my thighs, a lot of laughs, and a newfound respect for ladies who make their living working the pole. I may not agree with their career choice, but boy, do they work hard. They need a raise and a union representative.

The Thing

2010-08-18T19:45:00.000-07:00

I'm forgetting something. But what?

I wish I knew, and I feel like it's something really, really important.

I've been on a quest to remember The Thing all week. I think about it when I first wake up, on the ride to work, and during meetings when I should be paying attention.

I stay up at night trying to remember, and I end up going to bed much later than I should.

I constantly check e-mails, in the hopes that something will jog my memory. I look for it 0n Facebook, Twitter, and even Words with Friends.

Okay. So I know I won't find it playing Words with Friends, but I can't help it. I'm addicted.

Looking for The Thing has seriously impeded my ability to focus. This blog has taken me longer to write than usual because I keep getting distracted. It seems like I'm supposed to be doing something else.

In my search, however, I've remembered a whole bunch of other things. I contacted an old friend and scheduled lunch for next week. I brought in some Tupperware I've been meaning to give to a coworker, and I finally made good on my promise to design some letterhead.

But The Thing is still out there.

Well, when I find out what it is, I'll let you know. For now, Words with Friends is calling. I have several heated battles going.

Happy Birthday Mommy!

2010-08-11T19:14:00.000-07:00

My mom's birthday, for as long as I can remember, has never come and gone without any fanfare. My brother and I thought that this year should be no different, especially because we are so thankful that she is still with us. So about a month ago, we decided it would be nice to have some of her friends over for a small celebration.

It was supposed to be easy. Food, folks, and fun. But when it comes to my mom, things never play out as you expect.

First, we had to deal with the guest list. Trying to keep this soiree to 20 people or less was like trying to keep a mob of teenagers from the Jonas brothers. Every time I called one person, they had a suggestion on who else I should invite. By some miracle, mostly due to the prior commitments of invitees, we had 18 guests. Plus, we didn't tell our dad about the party until two days out, knowing full well he would have invited half the city if he had know about it sooner.

The second major hurdle was keeping Mom in the dark. I'm not a fan of the surprise party, so I was perfectly happy telling her about it upfront, but B wanted her to be surprised. "Somebody's going spill the beans, " I argued. "You know our people can't keep secrets."

Not one person breathed a word! I swear, if I had said this was a surprise, somebody would have called her and told her all about it. Go figure.

We ended up telling her anyway. Mom's a glamour girl, and I couldn't think of an excuse to get her in a jazzy outfit without raising suspicion. Dad suggested telling her we were going to O'Charley's. That just wasn't going to cut it.

We had the party this past Saturday, and Mom loved it. She was decked out with chandelier earrings, two necklaces, two rings, a bracelet, an ankle bracelet, and glittery shoes (I didn't say anything. It was her birthday after all.)

Despite a mixup with our party wings order, we had plenty of food and drink to go around. Mom walked from room to room all night, mingling with her guests. My aunt even took her to the casino afterwards.

I was bone tired the next day, but it was all worth it.

Kindergarten Screening

2010-08-04T19:31:00.001-07:00

I went into the office late this morning so I could take my daughter to meet her new teacher.

We started the morning with a bevy of questions as to why we were abandoning the standard routine. "I thought I didn't go to my new school until next week? We're having water day at my old school. I wanted to go!"

I assured her that our visit would be brief, and that she would be back at daycare in time for water day. Once the crisis was avoided, we made it to school with a few minutes to spare.

Mrs. L. explained to me that I had to wait outside while she and my daughter went through the skills assessment. Like any good mom, I sat in the hall and tried to eavesdrop. I heard them discuss block building and shapes, and although the janitor was buffing the floors down the hall, I could tell E was doing well.

"I want you to finish a sentence for me." Mrs. L said.

"Okay." E's voice had a serious tone.

"A boy is a brother, and a girl is a ... "

"Sister!" E giggled.

"A door is made of wood, and a window is made of ..."

"Glass!"

"Birds fly, and fish...."

"Jump!!!!"

Jump? A few seconds later, I heard their voices move closer to the door. I pretended to check text messages.

"E did really well on the screening." Mrs. L beamed.

"Is that so?" I asked. E held out a zebra sticker and wiggled her hips.

"Oh yes, she'll have no problem picking up the curriculum."

The next student was there for her appointment, so I shook the teacher's hand and headed for the exit.

"Sweetie," I said as we walked to the car. "What did you tell the Mrs. L about fish?"

"You know, they jump in and out the water like this," she said as her arm made a up-and-down wavy motion.

"What about swimming?"

"The like jumping. It's more fun."

I have to appreciate the creativity.

Baby Nostalgia

2010-08-02T19:20:00.000-07:00

Where did the summer go? For that matter, where have the past five years gone? It seems like only yesterday I was a new mother navigating my way though sleep depravation. Now I have a bright, energetic five-year-old daughter starting kindergarten next week.

My little girl is no longer a baby. She's a kid. (She's pointed that out to me on several occasions.) I promised myself I won't cry when I drop her off for the first time, but I know better.

Sometimes I miss the baby days. I spent the afternoon with friends yesterday, and one of them had her six-month-old son in tow. He was a cutie, and he giggled when I made funny faces.

Then I discovered he was smiling because he pooped all over his car seat. My warm fuzzy feeling was replaced by the smell of baby poo.

I realized I've got it pretty good. My kid can take herself potty, I get a full night's sleep, and every day, I get the best hugs ever.

Random Thoughts

2010-07-28T19:01:00.000-07:00

I wasn't a mixed-up Momma this week, but I was certainly a really busy one. I'm not sure where the week went. There were some things happening this past week that I've wanted to blog about, but clearly I did a bad job of making time for it. So here's a list of really random thoughts.

Green Eggs and Ham. E is learning to read, and she wanted to join the library's summer reading club. For every 12 books she reads, she earns a prize. We got a late start (surprise, surprise), so now we are scrambling to finish the second tier with only a few days left. She picked out Green Eggs and Ham at the library earlier this week. I hadn't read that book since I was a kid, and I don't remember it being 62 pages. What the heck was Dr. Seuss thinking? It took nearly an hour for her to get through that. You know I marked credit for two books.

Daycare Negotiations. Yesterday morning, I watched a mother stand on the parking lot and beg her two-year-old son to go into the school. "What's wrong? Why are you angry with me? You have to talk to Mommy. Get your feelings out."

Really?

My mom would have snatched me out of the car and dragged me into the school kicking and screaming. And I know I've left my kid there crying when she's in one of her moods. Everyone has their own style, I guess.

Greasy Fried Chicken. Hubby forgot that I was working late. When I got home, I thought I smelled fried chicken. About 20 minutes later, I heard the telltale click my oven makes when it's been on for a while. He left dinner warming for me. Fried chicken from the worst fried chicken chain on the planet. I was about to put the food away, but I wanted to show my hubby that his kind gesture wasn't for naught. I ate a small piece out of gratitude, and I was rewarded with indigestion for the next 18 hours. Note to self: Go with the first instinct.

Try Harder. To all my sistas who are well endowed, please know that you cannot leave the house without a bra. That option just is not for you. And you certainly shouldn't sit in the front of my class with your shirt open. It will not score you any extra credit points. As my friend's mother used to say, "You have to try harder."

That's all I've got for now. Catch you later!

Mixed-up Momma

2010-07-17T12:48:00.001-07:00

Some days I just get it all wrong. I acknowledge it happens to the best of us, but it's hard to make a comeback when you have a string of fails Monday through Friday. Here's my week:

1. Business-trip botch-up. I was in Chicago to set up a conference this past weekend. At 1 p.m. on Sunday, a staff member asked me for the attendee name tags. I checked the UPS tracking number, and it turned out they were still in STL because the mail room missed the UPS pick up. After a scramble to have them reprinted at Kinko's, I remembered the IT guy was bringing them in the truck with our computer equipment.

2. Mad dash for class. I started teaching a new class this past Thursday. I left my day job, battled the Cardinals game-day traffic, and made it to the satellite campus in Earth City with minutes to spare. Just as I was congratulating myself for a drive well done, the campus director told me my class was downtown. That's quite convenient, as my nine-to-five was within walking distance.

3. Arkansas round-up. I was glad to see this week go, so I toasted its farewell with a honey wheat beer during a department happy hour. I also took a quick trip to the mall to check out the sale at my favorite store. My mother-in-law called me as I was on my way home.

"What time will E be ready tomorrow?" she asked.

"Ready for what?"

"Arkansas. We leave in the morning."

"Say what? I thought that was next weekend!!!"

I checked the clock. 9:30. I had a stack of mismatched clean clothes and a list of things to purchase for her trip. I called my husband and gave him laundry detail. By some miracle, I busted some cornrows in E's hair and packed 6 outfits by 10:45. Hubby made a midnight run to Wally World to get the rest.

So now, I'm decompressing. It's Saturday (at least I think it is), my daughter is on her way to Arkansas, and I'm getting a much needed hair cut. Next week will be better, I promise!!!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The War on Squirrels

2010-07-08T17:57:00.001-07:00

Dear Squirrels:

You too have benefited from my good graces. You've gotten fat off the acorns that fall nearly year-round in our front yard. Our back yard looks like Wild Kingdom, making it the perfect playground. And, I haven't seen a tulip boom since 2005 because you've eaten all the bulbs.

Now, like your friends the Slugs, you've gone too far. My two pots of geraniums fell victim to your greed. While digging for a place to bury food, you ripped them from the pots and threw them on the porch.

I didn't want to plant flowers, but my five-year-old daughter has a blossoming interest. She asked her grandfather to buy flowers, and this is what he sent to her. Some of you have families, so you shouldn't be surprised by my reaction.

I hope you like mothballs and cayenne pepper, because I know where your winter stashes are.

Sincerely,

Diva

A Note to Garden Slugs

2010-07-04T18:22:00.001-07:00

Dear Slugs: I like to think I've been good to you. My poorly kept lawn is full of weeds, wild onions and toadstools for you to feast upon. Our giant tree drops acorns nonstop, which lead to the growth of about 10 saplings a week, even more during the rainy season. Don't act like you don't eat them; I've seen those little holes you leave behind in their broad green leaves.

We use natural fertilizer and weedkillers, which, as you know, really don't do all that much. I've heard of some who use a spray to keep away you and your friends for weeks, but no, I respect the circle of life.

How do you repay me for my kindness? By eating the one thing I paid good money to put out there: the three patches of hot-pink vincas around the tree. Last time, you let them be. They grew so well that our neighbor who routinely shames us with his personal botanical garden applauded us for our improved landscaping.

Oh, they put up a good fight. They tried to grow. I waited weeks for the buds to bloom, and one day, they disappeared. All that's left are a few sickly stalks. Until my husband saw you swarming on them the other day, we blamed the squirrels.

Now that I know you are at fault, this means war. It's an environmentally friendly war, but it's war nonetheless. I will nurse those damn vincas back to health, by hook or by crook. I don't know if you are the praying kind, but if so, you better get to it, because I'm gunning for you.

Sincerely,
Diva

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Five Minutes of Motivation

2010-06-30T22:46:00.001-07:00

I'm suffering from a serious lack of motivation. Maybe it's summer fever. Maybe I need more sleep. Maybe it's both. All I know is I have to force myself to focus these days. I catch myself thinking about what I should be working on rather than actually working on it. I can't think of a situation in which this is a good thing.

Yesterday, a woman in my department shared highlights from a design conference she attended. The event was all
about fostering creativity. Based on my current lackadaisical state, a boost in creativity sounded right on time.

There was one point in particular that gave me hope I could turn thing around:

Schedule breaks in the workday. It's healthy to take a few minutes to walk outside, or talk with a co-worker. The time away from your project can freshen your perspective. I gave this a go today by taking a quick walk outside. I ended up at Macy's, and I bought a new lipstick. (Fresh Watermelon - How perfect!) I'm not sure if this is what she meant, but I certainly felt renewed.

I also took a few minutes to take some pictures. I majored in photography in college, but I don't remember the last time I've done anything more than snap a few pics of my daughter. I only used the camera on my phone, but keeping an eye out for interesting shots somehow made me feel more in tune with things. Here are some of my favorites so far:

I hope to tell you about the newly focused me soon!

-Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Desperation Taco

2010-06-25T10:33:00.001-07:00

Like Grandmother, Like Granddaughter

2010-06-23T18:37:00.000-07:00

There are things that skip generations, I suppose. As much as I think I'm becoming more like my mom everyday, it is my daughter who is truly her mirror image.

Take Sunday for example. We were headed to our church's 100th anniversary banquet. Elyse was wearing a black dress with a hot pink sash. After I zipped it up, she did a quick twirl and sped out of the room. She came back loaded down with multicolored Mardi Gras beads and a fuzzy pink purse with silver ribbon wrapped around the strap.

"Sweetie," I said. "I think you have on a little too much jewelry."

"Ohhhh..." She frowned and stretched out her arm, revealing six plastic bangles and two Princess Tiana rings. "I want to look like a foxy mama!"

I choked back laughter and explained that sometimes less is more. We agreed on two hot pink strands of beads and a a purse with fewer ribbons. Just then the phone rang; it was my mom's friend Aunt P.

"There's something I need to tell you."

I was instantly concerned. "Is everything o.k.?"

"Your mother has been going through her costume jewelry all week. I'm afraid she's going to come out of the house looking like... well, I don't know what, but I need you to get over there and make sure her outfit is together."

Since the stroke, Mom has been a teeny bit challenged with coordination. I try to make it to her house before any important occasion. "I'm almost ready, then I'm heading over. I told her I'd be there by 3."

"Please. I'm counting on you. I have a feeling she's going to be covered in rhinestones."

Mom had on mismatched sparkly earrings when I got to the house. "Which ones look better?"

"The big ones," I reply.

She smiles and nods her approval. "See, I knew it. Help me with my dress." Her dress was black with a large rhinestone brooch at the cleavage. I zipped it up, and she did a twirl I had seen about 30 minutes before.

"What about a necklace?" She asked. I looked at her hands; she had on two diamond rings and a tennis bracelet.

I repeated my less is more speech. Mom sighed. "You are really stifling my creativity."

I laughed. "That's the second time I've heard that today."

Everyone at the banquet told Mom how great she looked. I heard her tell a few people she would have looked better if I'd let her wear a necklace.

Saying No

2010-06-09T21:28:00.001-07:00

For some reason, I stayed up late last night to watch 27 Dresses. It was a typical romantic comedy. Cute quirky girl meets cute guy in a meet-cute situation. Then some not-so-cute things occur that lead to self-realization and a cute ending.

It was supposed to be downtime for me, but I found myself being self reflective. The main character was virtually incapable of saying no, and it reminded me that I'm sometimes guilty of the very same thing.

So today, I looked for a situation in which I could say no. My father called today to see if he could pick my daughter up and take her to dinner. "Yes!" I cried. Turning down a couple of hours of free babysitting is foolhardy, not an expression of empowerment.

When dinner was over, Dad asked if I was picking her up from his house. I was in the middle of grading papers. "Didn't you say you would bring her home?"

"Yeah, but if you're out..."

"Nope, I'm at home."

"Okay, we'll be leaving soon."

Was it a small victory? Sure, but every journey begins with a single step. By the time Lil' Ma came home, I was done with grading. It was a good feeling.

I will have to give this no thing a shot more often.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Letting Go

2010-06-04T10:13:00.001-07:00

I've written about this before. There are times when I feel as if my world is a breath away from disintegration. Like Atlas, I'm balancing it all on my shoulders.

I wonder if that's really true. What would happen if I said no once in a while? Or even better, if I asked for help?

I'm about to find out. I'm going to honor my instincts and my sanity. If something doesn't feel right or if I don't have time, I'm going to say so. Here's the tricky part - I'm not going to feel guillty. I'm letting all that go.

Stay tuned!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Is Parenting Stressful?

2010-05-31T19:11:00.000-07:00

That's a question that a friend posed to me this afternoon. Her reasons for asking are her story to tell, so I'll just tell you about my answer. I'd love to hear your perspective.

I wish I could have given her a yes or no answer, but like most things in life, it's complicated. There are days when I am ready to pull out my hair because my daughter, my husband, my mother, and my job need me all at once. And then there are the days when being in just one of those roles is enough to send me in an all-out tizzy. Life has stressful moments whether you have children or not.

Most days, I'm good. I do the best I can and have faith that the rest will work itself out. I try to have some fun along the way. When I see my little girl smile or crack herself up telling a knock-knock joke only she can understand, I know it's all worth it.

Being a parent is hard work. It's a blessing, and honor, and a huge responsibility. It's also the most amazing journey you could ever take.

I forgot about my blog!

2010-05-19T21:57:00.001-07:00

Hey, it happens to the best of us; we forget something. Instead of beating myself up about it, I'm going to let it go. It could be worse. I could have forgotten it was my turn to pick up my daughter from school or that it was my husband's birthday, both of which I've done before. So all in all, I'm not doing so bad.

What have I been up to lately? Mom is somewhat back on her feet, so things are very different and very much the same all at once. I now make sure she leaves the house in matching clothes, and she still calls me every morning at work to make sure I made it in safely. On Sunday, we were supposed to go to one store, and we ended up at four or five. Some things never change.

My little girl is growing up fast, and soon we'll be at that point where there is no need for a bedtime story or a kiss goodnight. I'm going to relish the time I have left in this innocent phase. Today we had a fashion show and read Frozen Noses.

I've also developed a deeper appreciation for tea and a slight addiction to Word with Friends. But more on that some other time.

Sorry I've been away so long. I'll try not to be so forgetful!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Ineligible Contest Entry

2010-05-10T21:43:00.000-07:00

The ladies at SITS recently advertised the P&G Thank You Mom contest. Lucky winners will receive $1,000 for a special day with Mom and a video camera to record the whole thing.

As soon as I read the details, I was raring to enter. Then I saw the fine print in the contest rules. "Employees of Procter & Gamble, its affiliates, subsidiaries, advertising, promotion and internet agencies and their immediate family members and/or those living in the same household of each are not eligible."

Dang. My company, a communications firm, has P&G as a client. I'm out.

Still, I was compelled to write the entry. Do you think I could have won?

My mother disappeared a little over a month ago. She wasn't kidnapped in the middle of the night, nor did she go to the store for a gallon of milk never to return. The culprit, lying in wait for who knows how long, made itself known on April Fools' Day and trapped Mom inside her own mind. The doctor called it a hemmorhagic stroke. Unchecked high blood pressure caused bleeding on the brain and a blood clot that rendered her helpless.

I was helpless, too, in a different sort of way. I didn't know how much Mom was in my life until she wasn't there. Before the stroke, we talked countless times each day. She watched my daughter every Tuesday. We went on at least one wild-goose chase per week -- a white dress for a church function, a red trash can for the redecorated kitchen, or party favors for my daughter's birthday. The hole her absence left was broad and deep.

Little by little, Mom made her return. In four week's time, she's gone from talking about dancing cats to scheduling her medicines on a chart. It is an amazing, blessed recovery, and I know she still has a long road ahead of her.

What has kept me from coming completely unglued is the circle of women my mother befriended over the years. The unwavering support they've shown my family has been simply amazing. Mom had a swarm of visitors every day she was in the hospital, and two of her friends helped us clean the house for her homecoming. Only a true friend would scrub your toilet.

How would I use the prize to reconnect with my mom? I want to celebrate her life, her recovery, and the friends who have been there every step of the way. We love food, we love flowers, and we love a good time. A garden brunch on a beautiful spring day sounds like the perfect fit.

My Womaness

2010-05-04T20:03:00.000-07:00

I'm on a secret vacation. Well, it's only a secret to some. I'm at a point where I feel as if everything is falling apart -- I'm tired, my house is junky, I'm out of clean clothes, I haven't blogged in who knows when, and I feel like a bad mom. So, I took a week off to get myself in order. I told my brother because I knew he wouldn't spill the beans. My husband figured it out today when I didn't go into work for the second day in a row.

As I was lying in bed this morning (sleeping late is fun!), I ran across a blog post from Theta Mom that asked the question: "Are We Women or Mothers First?"

The post made me reflective, which wasn't really how I planned on being during my secret vacation. But the question was compelling: Am I a woman first, or a mom?

I won't say the answer I came up with is the right one, but it is the right one for me. I'm a woman. I couldn't be a mom if I weren't. I'm nurturing, sensitive, and intuitive. And as an added bonus, I can rock a four-inch heel. It's how I apply my "womaness" that makes me who I am.

These days, the roles are diverse. It's why I needed a vacation.

Dutiful Daughter. My mother's recovery is just beginning, and I have become my parent's parent. It's an awkward and scary position. I'm telling her what to do, she's telling me what to do, and neither of us are budging.

Frazzled Mom. My crazy schedule of late has me feeling disconnected from my daughter. Today, I was determined to make a change. I picked her up from daycare, and we spent the evening in the yard planting flowers. Well, I planted flowers, and she danced around the yard with a watering can. I read her a story before bedtime. It was a good day.

Wifey. Until last weekend, I couldn't remember the last time hubby and I went on a date. We celebrated our one-year anniversary with dinner and a movie on Saturday. It was the perfect evening for a high-heel sandal, but I chose to wear flats. We ended up walking around Clayton, so it was a good call. I didn't realize how much I missed him.

Career Woman. I don't even know where to start on this one. I'm on vacation, so I'll just pretend this doesn't exist.

Writer/Creative Soul. Surprisingly, blogging has helped me keep things in perspective. It reminds me to not get lost in the madness.

It's a juggling act to be sure, and the priorities shift from day to day. Even with all the craziness going on right now, I appreciate everything my "womanness" allows me to be.

The Shoe Diva

2010-04-27T14:57:00.001-07:00

April's been one hell of a month, and I'm happy to see it go. So much chaos surrounded Mom's hospitalization, and I tried to keep the madness out of my own household, but it was unavoidable.

Late dinners and missed bedtimes by Mommy, combined with the absence of Granny, threw my daughter's life out of whack. And like any kid whose life is knocked into a tailspin, my girl acted out.

E's done so much fake crying, eye rolling, and arm folding, you'd think she was auditioning for a role on the CW. "We don't give out awards for drama here," I said. "When you grow up, you can take up acting and get nominated by the Academy."

My reaction was not as she hoped, so E turned up the volume. After an incident involving lip gloss, I realized I was dealing with a diva. The best way to handle, I reasoned, was in true diva fashion.

"No sandals until you start listening to Mommy and Daddy," I announced.

Her eyes widened. "What about my new flip flops? Or my nail polish from Granny?"

"I took them back. You won't need any Barbie pink toenail polish either. No one will see your feet because you'll be wearing socks and tennis shoes."

"But Mommy..." she put on Sad Face #12.

"Don't start. I may be able to get your flip flops back, but you need get yourself together now. Or you will be the only one at school in snowboots this summer."

Even at 5 years old, E does not believe in wearing shoes out of season. She started to cry, for real. "I'll try to do better, Mommy," she said between sniffles.

So far, so good. She earned back one pair of sandals this week. I'm holding out the favorites -- a pair of white flip flops with a silver flower -- until I return from my business trip.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Five Minute Update

2010-04-24T09:49:00.001-07:00

Things have been so crazy that I've lost focus on my five-minute challenges. Every time I try to get back to it, something gets in the way. For example, my brother and I spent the week clearing the clutter from my parents' house so Momma can come home. (She'll be home Wednedsay. Hooray!) If we had done that in five-minute segments, it would have been like emptying a bathtub with teaspoon.

There have been a couple moments this past month that were Five Minutes of Greatness. I wanted to share them at the time, but I just couldn't seem to get to it. So here goes:

Five Minutes of Funk. My cousin shocked us all by eloping back in January. We didn't know he was dating, much less married, until the invitations for his reception came out in March. The soirée was at a little bar downtown, but it was a full-blown reception, complete with a cake and DJ. Someone dragged me onto the dance floor for the family Soul Train line. I wasn't really in the mood, but it turned out a good boogie was just what I needed to lift my spirits.

Five Minutes of Peace, Part 2.
"Running, crawling, slipping, and falling....always trying to get Uncle Scrooge's money!"

I doubt anyone but me remembers this song from the Disney Mousercise record (Yes, vinyl, not CD). You danced along to songs featuring your favorite characters. "Uncle Scrooge's Money" has been on my mind a lot lately, but it's not because I want to rob a millionnaire.

I've been running, crawling, slipping, and falling since 4:55 a.m. on April 1. There hasn't been enough time in the days to breathe.

For one perfect moment this week, I remembered. My daughter was asleep, and the phone wasn't ringing. I turned off the TV, and as Whitney Houston once said, I exhaled. Now, I was holding a bowl of guacamole instead of a man, but it worked.

More to come. Thanks for stopping by.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Alternate Universe (The Battle at Clutter Mountain)

2010-04-20T21:29:00.001-07:00

Thanks to Mayhem and Moxie for a comment that inspired this post....

If you've been following my blog for the past few weeks, then you know Mom's hospitalization has turned my world topsy-turvy. Life as I knew it has been replaced with this day-in, day-out routine that is simply exhausting.

If I were to say I'm handling it like a champ, that would be untrue and quite ridiculous. The best I can say is that I'm keeping it moving. I thank God every day for his mercy, and I seek out joy in small, but wondrous things. I've never been so in awe of a hot bubble bath or a scoop of butter pecan ice cream. After today, I needed them both.

A few days ago, my brother and I were told that when Mom comes home, she will be on a walker for a few months. My parents current set-up isn't walker friendly.

By "current set-up," I mean clutter. The clutter gene is deep in our DNA. My grandfather and great-aunt lived together for 10 years after their spouses passed away, and they were pack rats to the umpteenth power. My mother swore she would not be like them, but the DNA is winning. Mail covered the kitchen table, recycling overran the kitchen, and a blender from 1976 sat next to one that was nearly brand new.

"I've been fighting this battle for some time," my brother told me. "I just can't seem to win."

I felt as I had entered The Twilight Zone. How could four people who lived together for so long be so different? I picked up a box and headed for the recycling bin outside. "Let's get started."

It took two hours and four people (my aunts helped) to beat down the clutter in the kitchen and office. My aunt P was so "broke down" (her term), she suggested our next cleaning session include cocktails. I think she's onto something. But for now, ice cream will do.

When is the moment in time when a little bit of junk turns into an unruly mountain of chaos? I need figure it out so I don't make the same mistake. Clutter cannot win!!!

Movin' on up

2010-04-15T19:07:00.000-07:00

"Hey Mouse!"

My mother peered over her glasses and smiled at me when I walked into her room. Her smile was bright, and her eyes were clear with recognition. It was wonderful to see.

"Hey Momma."

"I'm moving up to rehab on the sixth floor. I'm just waiting on my sandwich." As if on cue, a nurse came in with a small turkey sandwich. Momma deftly opened a packet of mayo with both hands (Hooray!) and then spread it on the outside of her sandwich. After realizing her mistake, she ate the sandwich with a fork.

"Yep, I'm moving on up to 468," she said as she brought the fork to her mouth.

"638, Max." Her friend J was there with us.

"Oh, yeah," Momma brought her forefinger to her chin. It's what she always does when she's trying to figure something out. "That's right. 638."

Other than keeping up with minor details, like room numbers, days of the week, and where to put the mayo, she a is doing extremely well for a person who had brain surgery 14 days ago.

Momma starts "rehab boot camp" tomorrow. It's intense physical and occupational therapy to literally get her back on her feet. She will be in the gym at least four hours a day.

"I get to use the treadmill!" She declared. If I had asked her two and and a half weeks ago to go to the gym or exercise in any way, she would have asked me if I had snapped. But, I think she has learned her lesson. Momma's stroke was brought on by uncontrolled hypertension, so if she wants to keep another stroke at bay, she will have to make some dramatic changes in her lifestyle. And so will we.

The most challenging change for her, I think, will be staying from behind the wheel. She always said that she couldn't imagine not being able to drive, and now she's been put on restriction for a minimum of six months. I smiled and told her I'd take good care of her car while she recoups. (While I'm not happy about the circumstances, I'll take the temporary reprieve from the one-car blues.) She rolled her eyes jokingly. I know using her car means that I double as her chauffeur.

I don't mind at all. It just means we'll have more time together.

Siblings

2010-04-10T06:57:00.001-07:00

My brother and I are 12 years apart, which, in a way, made us both only children. While I was looking forward to new adventures in college, he was making new friends in kindergarten.

I taught him how to organize his Ninja Turtle wallet, much to the chagrin of my parents, who used to sneak and borrow gas money when they didn't have cash. As a four-year-old, B "counted" his money nearly every day. They couldn't get over on him once he kept his bills in order.

I sent him letters from college, and he wrote back with an uneven hand on that extra-wide-ruled kid paper: "Hi. I miss you."

We were as close as we could be, considering that I was in college and grad school while he was growing up. Which really meant we weren't all that close.

Things changed last year when we went to our family reunion in Memphis. After the annual banquet, we hit Beale street for some drinks. My brother was drinking from a whalebone!! The 12 year difference faded fast as I had a few cocktails of my own.

We've been talking a lot more since then, and I've learned that my brother has grown into a fine young man. I know it sounds corny, but I couldn't think of a more witty way to put it.

Now we stand as two adults facing a family challenge. Questioning physicians, handling household affairs, and shepherding Daddy back from bouts of extreme worry about Momma. This last one is a blog post or two in itself.

I don't think I could get through this without him. This trying ordeal has made me think about my daughter, who is an only child. What support network will she have when it comes time to "parent" my husband and me?

I guess we still have time. My parents waited 12 years, and, as I've learned, that's not so big a difference after all.

-- Post From My iPhone

Strong Line

2010-04-07T15:39:00.001-07:00

I'm sitting in a tiny room in ICU for the seventh day in a row. This daily hour with my mom is part of my new schedule.

Wake up at 6:30. Go to work. Leave early. Go to hospital. Go home. Go to bed. The 6:30 alarm goes off again all too soon.

I'm tired. Mentally more than physically. My mother is not the same, and it will be a slow process for her to come back to herself. The brain is unpredictable and amazing, so it cannot be put on a schedule. We will have to wait.

It's scary to watch. My mother has always been witty and sharp. Right now, I'm listening to her tell me about Lady Astercat, a figment of her imagination. I want to burst out into tears, but instead, I ask what color bow she wears. Momma tells me pink and that she drew her. "She's a well drawn cat," she says. "It's a really pretty picture. Lady Astercat is a prominent, significant figure." I'm thankful for the solid, declarative sentence and that she still has a big vocabulary. One day it will all make sense again.

Until then, I will continue to wait and be prayerful. I must also be mindful to take care of myself.

Which has not been without its challenges. I forgot to eat on Monday, then I had 5 taco supremes at midnight. Not good. I know I have to do better.

"She comes from a strong line," Momma says.

"Who?" I ask.

"Elyse," she says. "It's a real strong line."

Yes, it's a real strong line. We will get there in time.

-- Post From My iPhone

Hope and Prayer

2010-04-02T21:56:00.001-07:00

I'm tired. Worn out, but ever so thankful. My mother's surgery went well, and now we are on the road to her recovery.

This journey she will affect us all. Momma will be in the hospital a while longer, and we'll need to work our everyday lives around her care. My father has to learn how and when my mother paid bills, and my brother is on a mission to rid the family refrigerator of evil. I have to add another plate to my juggling act -- balancing a full-time job, teaching, and my own family with trips to the hospital.

I am so thankful for the second chance my mother has that I'm not even worried about it. Instead, I find joys in the little things. As Momma was coming out of slumber, she dug in her ear with her pinkie, then checked under her nail for debris. I know she's done it a million times, and it's not all that graceful of a move, but it's a telltale sign that she's coming back to herself.

Daddy asked me to look in her "pocketbook" for her checks so he could send in some bills, and I needed her car keys. I opened a cosmetic bag and found keys and a bunch of change. I also found an old fortune from a fortune cookie. I keep fortunes in my coin purse too. I didn't know she did that. I couldn't help but smile.

I will keep you posted on our journey. I'm not sure if my five minutes challenges will even be feasible in my new environment, but something tells me they will be more important than ever.

That, however, is a task for another day. Right now, rest.

-- Post From My iPhone

The waiting game

2010-04-01T13:16:00.001-07:00

Hospital waiting rooms never smell right to me. The mix of families, food, and the general hospital air leave an odor that is, in a word, unpleasant.

I'm sitting in a rather comfortable chair, and I'm the only one here. Friends and family have stopped by, but now there is a lull in the visits. Dad and my brother will be back soon.

The TV is blasting Maury Povich. A former couple is slinging obscenities back and forth. Maury declares "When it comes to three-week-old Will, Tracy, you are the father!" Tracey instantly changes his tune. I'm too worn out to look for the remote or get up to change channel.

Mom will be going into surgery soon to remove a brain hemmorrage, and I am still standing on my faith. But the waiting is hard. The mind wanders, and fear fights for a prime spot in the forefront.

Yet, I remain steadfast. I will keep the faith.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

My prayer for Momma

2010-04-01T07:02:00.001-07:00

God watches over Momma. Her faith in the midst of any challenge thus far has been unwaivering, and although I haven't made it home quite yet to see her, I know that hasn't changed. I must continue to follow her example, and place my trust exactly where hers is, and that's on my Lord and Savior.

My Father, I thank you for my mother, her presence in my life, the things I've learned from her, the things I believe I still have yet to learn. Please continue to keep your arms around her, as only you can.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Scared

2010-04-01T06:28:00.000-07:00

(Written on a 7:05 am flight to St. Louis)

I got a call a 4:55 this morning. "Mouse, it's Daddy. Momma's in the hospital."

Whose momma? Not mine, the non-stop force of nature who is always in control. Not my momma, who could see right through my childhood tricks and whip me back into shape with a single glance. Not my momma, she's invincible.

But it is my momma. She, like the rest of us, is human, and the body sometimes calls foul before the mind does. In her case, it's a little of both. Her blood pressure is sky-high, and there is bleeding on the brain.

To say I'm scared is an understatement. My mind is wandering to situations and scenarios that I am unprepared to face.

I cut my business trip short, and I'm on my way home.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Five minutes of peace

2010-03-31T21:00:00.001-07:00

I've been grumpy lately, and I can't shake it. I don't think I've been an absolute monster, but there's this fine mist of uneasiness that's been clouding my days. If you've ever seen a Claritin commercial, you know what I mean. The woman's world is in color, but her allergies keep her from experiencing things in their full glory. My minor grumpiness is has lowered my optimism and shortened my patience.

Today, the mist increased to a moderate shower. I was working onsite at an event, and we were in the throes of rehearsal. My attention was needed in three places at once. I had to talk on the phone, address issues online, and stay in touch with the production team via an internal com system.

The sound team blasted music over the speakers, people were talking, and a woman came to ask me about name tags...it was just too much. I held my composure (I think), but all I wanted to do was scream.

Once the rehearsals were done and the work day was behind me, I went to dinner with a friend. Even though we were in a crowded restaurant, things seemed slower, less loud. I had one beer and a GREAT burger. After a short walk around the neighborhood, I was ready to call it a night. (This is known as Mother's Syndrome.)

I walked into my hotel room and sat down. I didn't turn on the TV; I just sat still. I closed my eyes and started to breathe. I took full breaths that filled my belly, just like they teach you in Yoga class. Five minutes, or maybe 10, passed before I knew it, and I felt good. No mist, no grumpies. Just me.

I know I won't shake my mood with just five minutes of silence, but it's a good start.

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Five-minute update

2010-03-29T13:21:00.001-07:00

I'm in the dentist's office waiting on my hubby (one-car living means sharing things like dental visits), so I thought I'd use this time to give a quick update on my five-minute challenges.

The paper trail. My house is overrun with paper. Drawings, months-old homework and junk mail multiply like weeds. I have a stack in my kitchen, and there is a laundry basket full in my guest room. (The room is also known as Bev's room, although my friend has yet to stay there). Last week, I dedicated a few minutes each day to taming the mighty beast. I handled the top of the TV stand and a side table in no time, but the dreaded monsters in my kitchen and ironing room (I mean, Bev's room) are more than my five minutes can handle. But I haven't given up.

Exercise. I know this one is crazy. There is no workout that will turn you into Jillian Michaels in five minutes a day. But, I'm giving it a shot. In the mornings, Mike drops me off at the garage stairwell. Climbing 12 flights of stairs with a computer, purse, lunch, coat, AND in 4-inch heels may not be the best way to work out, but it sure is a doosie. Yesterday, I did five minutes of Pilates. My stomach is sore today. That's got to count for something.

Still in progress. A few days ago, I wrote about my need for alone time in the car. I haven't tackled that yet. It's still on the list, along with the five-minute manicure.

So, my journey continues, and I'm always on the lookout for new ideas. If you have any thoughts, or if there's something you want me to try, let me know!

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Love in a catalog

2010-03-26T19:50:00.000-07:00

I don't want to say that my husband and I never see eye-to-eye, but on some days, it certainly feels that way. I like to be on time. I like things neat. I like to finish what I've started. Well, most of the time, at least. When things aren't "just so," I tend to freak out. Big time. Mike, on the other hand, is more of a "go-with-the-flow" type of guy. He can mop the floor on Monday and empty the water bucket on Wednesday, and he's always astounded by how much that bugs me. "I'm getting to it," he says whenever I ask him about a item on his Honey-Do List. "Yeah, but when?" I say before I stomp off in a huff.

Today, I was home late from work. I had to hitch a ride with a colleague because he got off work late. (Check out yesterday's post on the joys of car sharing.) He was heating up dinner when I walked in. "The mail's on the counter," he said. I dropped a handful of junk into the recycling bag and picked up a catalog. I immediately abandoned the rest of the mail; I absolutely adore catalogs. I rarely buy anything, but I enjoy pondering the use for things like penguin-shaped bookends. This catalog, though, was from Sur La Table, a store that sells high-end cookware and kitchen gadgets. I'm not sure how we got on this list. Fingerhut is more our speed.

I took the catalog to the family room and flipped through a few pages. They had a set of grill plates you could use for vegetables. Hmm. I thought. Those could be useful. I imagined us firing up our rusty gas grill for asparagus and Brussels sprouts. I put the book aside and started to unbraid my daughter's hair.

"Honey - Did you see this?" I turned to see him looking through the catalog.

"I didn't go through the whole thing."

"Well, they have a set of grids you put on the grill so that your vegetables don't fall through the grates."

"Yeah -I saw those."

"We should get them," he said. I continued to work on Elyse's hair while he turned pages. "Ooh! A deluxe potato cutter!"

I had to smile, because I thought the same thing about the potato cutter when I saw it. I started thinking about the other things that we agree on, from which brand of peanut butter to buy to how we raise our daughter. Suddenly, we didn't seem all that different. We just seemed right.

The one-car blues

2010-03-25T23:20:00.001-07:00

I woke up this morning a little resentful. I wasn't sure of the source of my mood, but I figured the rain had something to do with it.

By the time I got ready, dressed my daughter, and jumped into the car with my husband (we are sharing as a way to save expenses), my foul mood was full-blown.

Elyse sang about strawberries on her way to daycare, which made me smile. But, Mike and I rode to downtown in silence. Pretty sure that didn't improve my spirits.

As I snatched my bag out of the backseat, I realized that I missed riding in my car alone. It's nice to spend extra time with my family, but I used the 30-minute trek to and from work to decompress. It gave me a chance to shed any hangups from home before I got into the office and vice-versa. It sounds cliché, but I think it made me a better person.

I thought about different ways to explain this to my husband. All the scenarios I concocted seemed like one-way tickets to more days of awkward silence.

So I've decided that this is another opportunity for a productive five minutes. Five minutes of peace. Doesn't that sound great? I haven't figured out how to make that work yet, but I will definitely keep you posted!

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Five-minute lunch

2010-03-24T17:17:00.000-07:00

When it comes to taking lunch to work, I'm pretty inconsistent. I could be on a hot streak for weeks, but after one wrong move, I'm walking to the Chinese buffet three days in a row. When I do take a lunch, half the time I don't want to eat it, but I suck it up and think about what I could do with the $8 I'm saving.

My problem is laziness. I think it takes Herculean effort to pull together something appealing and nutritious. So many times, I reach for the Lean Cuisine. Many people really enjoy the low-cal frozen meals; I happen not to be one of them. After all, the term "Lean" is part of the product name. I'm usually starving within two hours of eating one. Then I end up raiding a colleague's office for candy. It's a bad scene.

This week, I tried something different. I checked my fridge to see what leftovers I could work with before they went bad. This weekend, I made a pot of soup for my husband to eat when he comes home from work. (He gets in at 2 or 3 am). It took less than a minute to put some aside in a bowl for Monday. Sunday's leftover brown rice paired with a package of tomato-basil tuna made for a great lunch today. Plus, the rice was already in a small microwave container. Tossing that and a pack of string cheese in a bag took seconds.

Tomorrow, I'm taking more soup. It was really good! And for a snack, I packed a yogurt and strawberries. Total prep time - 2:38. I'm sure it would have taken less time if I had yogurt in single-serving cups.

I hope this new streak holds, because I eat way too much when I go to the buffet.

Ode to the Sista Circle

2010-03-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

I once had a male friend tell me that every man needs a sista circle - a group of women he can turn to for advice, encouragement, or a friendly ear. I was reminded this weekend that women need the same.

Between work, travel for work, teaching, and time with my family, I lost touch with my friends. It's an imbalance I fight often. The days and weeks fly by, and I mean to show up to a happy hour or simply pick up the phone. But, as I've said before, life sometimes gets in the way of living.

The stars aligned this past Friday, and I was able to connect with several of my friends. I met one for lunch, and I hung out with the rest later that evening. I had two (or was it three?) pomegranate martinis and a lot of laughs. A weight, that I didn't even know was there, was lifted, and I felt more like myself than I have in a few months.

If you caught the title of this post, then you won't be surprised that the next paragraphs are love notes to my girls.

My Chicago Sista - Distance and work schedules keep us from staying in better touch. But no matter how much time passes, we will always be the best of friends.

My STL Sista - I think you are the one person who keeps me from slipping into the depths of obscurity. While I hope a drop-dead gorgeous man one day replaces me as your date to company-sponsored functions, I relish them as an escape from the everyday.

My Bartending Sista - Whenever I come over, I can count on you for good food and great drinks. Those martinis were the TRUTH!

My Warrior Sista - I am in awe of your unwavering faith and your ability to turn endings into new beginnings. I look forward to watching you evolve in the next chapter of your life.

My Graceful Sista - Your poise in the face of an overwhelming challenge is simply amazing. And your new haircut is fierce!

My Nurturing Sista - You were right, I so need to hang out more often! I hope you are taking some breaks from caring for everyone else and caring for yourself.

My Business Sista - Girl you are doing it! I'm glad you could get out and relax too.

Thank you my Sistas! We'll have to get together again soon.

The hunt for clean underwear

2010-03-19T07:41:00.001-07:00

Have you ever heard the phrase "I should have followed my first mind?" The statement usually follows an incident where something goes wrong. Someone then swears that a little voice told them to make a different choice and that they ignored it.

On Wedneday night, a little voice told me to do laundry as I pulled the last set of clean underwear from Elyse's drawer at bathtime. "Oh no," I thought. "It can wait until tomorrow. There is a basket of clean clothes in the TV room." I found out the next morning after Elyse had a small accident that the aforementioned basket of clothes was actually a basket of sheets. As I stood in the bathroom drying a pair of panties with a hairdryer, I cursed myself for not following my first mind.

So, of course, yesterday's five minutes was dedicated to laundry. But after I spent three minutes sorting Elyse's clothes, I realized that she didn't have a lot of underwear.

Hold up. I bought a 10-pack of Dora AND a four-pack of Princess Tiana. How is it that I only found seven pair?

I searched my entire house for a pile of abandoned laundry. I looked under every bed. I dug through the hamper in the basement like a miner in the California Gold Rush. There was a hint of white at the bottom. "Aha!" I yelled.

It was one of Mike's workout towels. Damn. Fool's gold.

I gave up and washed what I had. When I couldn't find Elyse's Dora overnight bag for a trip to Grandma's, I made a call.

"Momma, do you have some of Elyse's clothes? I'm packing a bag for her to go to Mike's mom's."

"Oh yeah, I've been meaning to tell you."

"Do you have any of her underwear?"

"I think so, but not that much. Maybe three or four pairs. I'll wash her stuff and get it to you."

There are two things I know about my mom. One, "three or four pairs" means five or six pairs. Two, Momma is notoriously bad about laundry. Elyse will have outgrown these clothes by three sizes by the time she gets to washing them.

Looks like I'll be making a trip to Grandma's this weekend too.

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The best hour of my day

2010-03-17T23:00:00.001-07:00

There's a stack of unread magazines and junk mail spread across my kitchen counter like weeds in a rain-drenched field. Today, I was determined to use five minutes to make a dent in the unwieldy mass.

But something on top of the pile caught my attention. It was a white strip of paper stapled in a circle to make a hat. It had a little red cross on the front. I put it on my head and walked into the family room.

"Elyse - what's this?"

She giggled. "A nurses hat. We made it at school."

"When?"

She shrugged. "I don't remember." I felt like a terrible mom instantly, because I'm sure it's been here for at least a week.

"What do nurses do?"

Elyse told me all about them. Nurses could be girls or boys. They help with surgery, especially ones where babies are born. They are nice, and they take care of you when you are sick.

We had grilled cheese sanwiches and Brussels sprouts for dinner. Strange, I know, but we like it. After a few rounds of Wii tennis, it was bath and story time.

This hour with my little one is what my five-minute challenges are all about. I want to clear out the clutter, literally and figuratively, so I can do the things that are most important to me. For one whole hour today, I was in a moment that really mattered. And I wasn't worried about cleaning or bills or anything else, because I knew I would get to it eventually - five minutes at a time.

Oh, and Elyse thought that I looked funny in her nurses hat, so she took a picture. Enjoy.

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The Education of Elyse

2010-03-16T20:58:00.001-07:00

One of the problems with my five-minute challenge is finding the time around the ever-growing needs of my daughter.

When Elyse was an infant, I could sneak in naps or chores around her feedings. She was easily distracted by shiny objects, which I used often to distract her so I could get things done. But she's too smart for that now. At five years old, she is full of energy and questions, and as an only child, she expects my full attention. I have reacquainted myself with Barbie, Candyland, Chutes and Ladders, and Strawberry Shortcake. Now, she is learning to read, and daycare sends homework twice a week. The latest focus: reading.

These Sassy bathtub letters have been a lifesaver. I can spell words on the tub and shower wall for her to read while she takes a bath. We get education and cleanliness out of the same five minutes! If you have younger kids, these are good to teach colors and numbers too.

http://www.bedbathandbeyond.com/product.asp?order_num=-1&SKU=15125110

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The Weekend

2010-03-15T08:18:00.001-07:00

I didn't blog over the weekend, but I don't want you to think I've given up already! I had plenty to get done this weekend, and sorry to say, none of it could be done in five minutes.

Haircare Saturday. My daughter has a long, thick mane of hair that I attempt to tame by keeping in braids. Those who know me understand this is a particularly difficult challenge because I can't do my own hair to save my life. Taking down the old braids, shampooing, blowdrying, and styling into new braids is, at minimum, 2 hours. It used to take 3, so I am improving. Thank God I only do that once a week.

After finishing Elyse's hair, I was off to have my own wig smoked. It was crowded at the salon, and nearly every one of Lisa's customers needed a relaxer, and one brought in a bag of weave. Needless to say, Saturday was shot.

Praising the Lord on Sunday. After getting all confused with Daylight Savings Time, we made it to church just in time to hear the preacher give the message. Then it was a trip to the airport to turn in my busted suitcase, which is another story altogether. It should have taken less than five minute to look up my info and offer an apology, but the computers were down. The clerk was nice to me, but I could tell her attitude was up about the system not working. She was growling at the computer and muttering about how her coworkers in the back room never did any work. Total time - 35 minutes.

A trip to Target, where Elyse and I also had lunch, two baskets of laundry, and the ironing of this week's school and work clothes rounded out the day.

So, the weekend turned out to be a five-minute bust. Oh - I did learn that I can unload and reload the dishwasher in 5 min., 15 sec. I'll take that small victory.

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Five-Minute Friday

2010-03-12T19:00:00.001-08:00

Starting the day. I realized that I've successfully crammed parts of my morning routine into a five-minute time span. There was a time when I could walk out of the house with a bare face and look respectable. Thos days are pretty much gone. Makeup is a requirement. I avoided it for years because I used to watch my mom take 30 minutes to apply her face, and I just don't have that much time.

I can do it in less than five. I figured out what products are necessary for me to feel like a human being, and I stick with those. All-in-one foundation, undereye concealer, blush, and gloss. With haircombing, that takes 2.5 minutes. Today, I felt jazzy and added liner and mascara. Total time, 3:13. Check it out - I may not be ready for the Oscars, but I think I look pretty good.

Night-time cleanup. My five-year-old daughter is a creative soul, and the products of her imagination pepper our family room with paper folded into unknown contraptions, Barbie shoes, and colored pencils. I make her put things away at bedtime, but the room still looks messy. While she was using the potty, I put away TV trays, tossed broken crayons and old papers, and threw a few dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Total time - 4:47. That means I may get time to do my nails before bed. If I can figure out a five-minute manicure, I'll let you know.

Oh, this blog did take more than five minutes; I wrote part of it this morning while my husband drove me to work. I'm going to work on being more timely with the writing.

A Clean Microwave

2010-03-11T23:18:00.001-08:00

My microwave looked like one you might see at your job. You know, the one everybody uses but no one cleans. The insides were covered with grease and food particles. I keep a set of plate covers on top of the microwave, but apparently none of us use them.

I heated a bowl of water and baking soda in the microwave for four minutes. While the chamber was still hot from the steam, I sprayed in my favorite cleaner (Awesome!). It looks respectable again.

I forgot to time this, so I'm not sure how I did on time, but a minute or two extra was worth it.

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Changing my world, five minutes at a time

2010-03-11T22:21:00.000-08:00

Life is becoming more complicated by the minute. More often than not, life gets in the way of living life, if that makes sense at all. I have a full-time job, a part-time job, a family, and a long-ago abandoned list of hobbies. Sometimes I feel as if I'm running in circles. There are mornings that I'm lucky to leave the house with my hair combed.

I've got a list of things that I want to do, but I can't get to them for one reason or another. Cleaning my oven, reorganizing my closet, finishing my daughter's baby book. So I've decided to tackle these things, one project at a time, five minutes at a time.

Five minutes? I know, it might sound crazy, but sometimes five minutes is all I've got. Plus, I'm a little like a crocodile (or is it an alligator?). I have short bursts of focused energy, and if I put them to good use, I think I could get a lot done.

To keep me honest, I'm going to try to revive my blog and document my progress. I hope you'll follow along.

Oh - I almost forgot - I gave myself a few rules.

1. Five minutes only. For the first few weeks, I'm going to time myself when I start a task, just to see how much I get done in the alloted time. I don't want to write about how I cleaned my refrigerator in no time when it was really an hour and a half.

2. Multiple fives are allowed. I might try to do a couple of things a day, but I'll limit each task to five minutes.

3. Five-minute blog. The writing should take five minutes too. The purpose of this is for me to get organized and feel like I have some time back - I can't spend the whole night writing a blog. To help with that, I did invest $2.99 in BlogPress for my iPhone. I won't be able to spend more than five minutes typing on that little keyboard.

So, wish me luck, and I'll stay in touch.

Onward and Upward

2009-01-26T21:36:00.001-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving! Merry Christmas! Happy New Year! Happy MLK Day! Happy Inauguration Day! It's been a while, and if you know me, even a little bit, you shouldn't be surprised. So let's not spend too much time harping on how long it's been since I last posted...

New year. New year's resolutions. I used to be pretty skeptical about the whole thing, because like many, I would start off the year with the best of intentions and fall off before the end of the month. I realized a couple of years ago that I could set myself up for success by outlining a couple of reasonable goals. If the year could start over, I could start a few things over too. Like the year I decided to get up everyday at 6 a.m. I consider this a moderate success. Two years later, I still wake up at 6 a.m. Unfortunately, I doze off within seconds and often oversleep. At least it's progress.

But 2009 snuck up on me. I lost track of time amidst the holiday madness. It was January 5 before I knew it, and I had made not a single resolution. Fortunately for me, a group of colleagues at the office vowed to get in shape. They committed to climbing the stairs (8 flights) twice a day. I had done this with them a while ago, and we all fell off the bandwagon. As I was sans resolutions, I figured this one was as good as any. This was sure to decrease my RealAge (Yes, I'm still on that kick), and my wedding date is rapidly approaching. As an added bonus, I have a support group that will help make sure I do the work.

So, it's been three weeks now, and how am I doing? Here's a recap.

Week 1 - Ouch! The first day up the stairs, I was heaving and praying for a paramedic by the 15th floor (we start on 12). By week's end, I was so sore that I could barely walk. When I tried to go into the basement to do some laundry, my legs gave out and I ran into a chair at the bottom of the stairs.

Week 2 - Ouch! My legs didn't hurt as bad when I did everyday walking, but they felt heavy as lead when I tried to lift them up the stairs. For some reason, we decided that we would use this time to train for the 42-flight stair marathon in 2010, so we increased the number of stairs to 10 flights. This was pure insanity. One lady was breathing so hard that I thought we really were going to need to call 911.

Week 3 - This #%#@ still hurts! The rest of the team was out of town for an event, and I had to climb the stairs by myself. Misery loves company, so it wasn't easy going it alone. Plus, it was really cold last week, and the stairwells aren't heated. Not to mention, the climb is still hard. My legs wobbled for another 30 minutes after each set.

Week 4 -#$%^&*()_!!!!!!!!!! This nonsense hurts as much today as it did 3 1/2 weeks ago. Today, I noticed that I could breath a little easier, but I was so tired that I couldn't bend down to change shoes. Fashion note: White sneakers don't look good with dark grey cropped pants and black tights.

I'll try to keep you posted, especially if we do that marathon in 2010. Can you imagine what my RealAge would be by then?

My Mother, Myself, The Sequel

2008-09-12T13:15:00.000-07:00

Meet Me at the Altar

2008-07-20T18:26:00.000-07:00

"You and Mike have been together forever; you got a baby. Are ya'll getting married?"

I've been dodging this question, and ones similar to it, for about three years now. Forever, in this case, began at a cook-out in 2002. My mother and Mike's aunt are friends. He and I teamed up to play spades against a couple who kept dealing from the bottom of the deck. I had never been dealt a hand that bad before or since. We lost the game, but Mike won my phone number.

Our daughter will be four at the end of the year. With her birth, came a meshing of lives of which neither of us was quite prepared for. You learn a lot about your partner at 2 a.m. when the baby's crying nonstop. Mike's gentle, unselfish nature became even more apparent. He would offer to sit up with Elyse so that I could get some rest. The next morning, I usually would find him on the sofa with the baby sleeping on his chest.

But living together has not been all hearts and butterflies. Our quirks began to show almost immediately, and we have had to navigate them as we created our family. I work days. He works nights. I'm a neat freak. He's a slob. I eat quasi-healthy food. He could live off Top Ramen noodles, homemade cookies, and anything covered in a cream sauce.

The quirks are still there, but we've found a way to respect those characteristics that make us who we are. The single-story house that we moved into right before Elyse was born now feels like a home we've made together, as long as I steer clear of the basement. The neat-freak/slob debate is still a hot-button issue there.

To be honest, I was starting to ask the "when" question myself. I figured that 2008 would be the year or bust. After all, it has been six years. A girl can only hold out for so long.

I came home on Monday feeling far far less than glamorous. I missed my hair appointment the weekend before, and I needed a relaxer. Bad. When I shampooed my hair. I didn't remember that I was out of conditioner until my hair was soaking wet. I used some Blue Magic that I have for Elyse, and the reaction between that and my chemically-treated hair brought about an invasion of acne that I haven't seen since high school.

Mike emerged from the basement, saying that he was on his way to work. I wondered just how junky the basement was this week. I went to our room to change. I could hear our daughter, ever-in-motion, running down the hall.

"Mommy! Daddy said marry me."

"Daddy said what?" I looked down, and the first thing I noticed was how beautiful Elyse's smile was. The second thing I noticed was that she was holding out a ring box.

"Seriously?" Mike entered the room smiling.

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously." He got down one one knee. "Will you marry me?"

We spent the next 15 minutes lying on the bed. Elyse was bouncing up and down while singing nursery rhymes. "I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to keep building our family." The puffy hair, the pizza face, and the junky basement all faded away in this moment. And I felt like a princess.

Tennis

2008-07-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about my "real age" since I took that quiz on the web a few months back. I'm not bothered by my numerical age, but the quiz did get me to thinking more about my lifestyle. I eat right, get a good amount of sleep, and take care of my appearance. But I'm seriously lacking in the social/hobby department.

I go to work, come home, spend some time with Elyse, and then go to bed. It feels like the life of someone twice my age. So I've been trying to do a better job of keeping in touch with friends and rekindling some old interests.

Some colleagues in the office have been taking tennis lessons, and they extended an invitation for me to join them during a weekly practice session. I was excited, but nervous. I haven't played tennis seriously since high school. Plus, my equipment was a little shoddy. I found my racket underneath a stack of junk in the basement, and the handle's grip was cracked with age. My tote was full of dried-out grip tape and deflated tennis balls.

And to top it all off, I didn't have anything to wear. I've always wanted one of those cute little tennis skirts, but they were not cut for the big-booty girls back then. and my mother refused to get me one.

I know, I know. When you chase a ball across a slab of concrete under the blazing sun, you should not expect to look great while doing it. But you should dress for the occasion, and I was hard pressed to find a pair of shorts. After a little digging, I found some gray ones and a fading DST t-shirt. I looked at the shirt and considered for a moment how much older it was than my daughter. But I quickly pushed that aside. Thoughts like that were sure to drive up my real age.

It was scorching hot yesterday, and after a few minutes on the court, I was covered in sweat and ready to sit down. I had forgotten how miserable that feeling is. I had also forgotten, though, how much fun the game is. I saw a few flashes of greatness during the hour that I played. Slim moments of excellence when my body remembered the perfect shot. Like that backhand swing that makes the ball sail just above the net. Or the volley that your opponent can't get to fast enough. Those moments were few and far between.

I came home tired, but fulfilled. I left my racket in the TV room as a reminder to pick up some grip tape this weekend. I wasn't even sore. But I shouldn't have counted my chickens so soon. I woke up this morning with a tight back, and now every muscle in my body hurts. It's 9:30 p.m., and I've been in bed for nearly an hour, covered in heat wraps and muscle cream. I'm not sure what makes this situation sounds worse - the aches and pains, the early bedtime, or the stockpile of ThermaCare wraps and Ben-Gay.

Nevertheless, I am still in good spirits. I did something that I enjoy, I spent time with friends, and I got in some exercise to boot. I just need a few weeks (or months) to get in better shape. I should pick up some more sports creme when I get that grip tape. And a water bottle. Oh, and I'll take a look at tennis skirts. Venus and Serena have made a serious impact on the game. I should have no problem finding one that works now.

Chris Update

2008-07-07T19:37:00.000-07:00

It's been nearly a month since Chris left for the cancer treatment center. She was to be gone a week for diagnosis, but she decided to stay and receive treatment there. Two rounds of chemotherapy. I sent e-mails, a birthday card, and a hot pink pashmina --a series of one-way messages to let her know that she was in my thoughts.

After nearly three and a half weeks, Chris sent out an update. "Well, praise be to God because the PET scan showed that the cancer has NOT spread to any other part of the body at all. They were also able to re-assign the stage from a IV to III."

Praise Him indeed. This message was well worth the wait.

Elyse and Papa

2008-06-28T18:50:00.000-07:00

A few months ago, my father volunteered to pick Elyse up from daycare on Fridays and keep her overnight. On Saturday morning, they have breakfast at IHOP before he brings her home. I've always wondered what they do on Friday nights, and now I know. Here's a video of Elyse and my dad dancing at our family reunion this past weekend. Sorry about the unsteady hand on the video. I was too busy laughing.

Chris

2008-06-11T17:56:00.000-07:00

I was able to visit with Chris before she left for Oklahoma.

I saw her husband, James, as he dropped the kids off Tuesday. He told me that Chris was managing her pain pretty well that morning and that it would be a good time to call. I called her from the car on my way to work.

Her voice was weak when she answered the phone. It startled me.

"Hey, it's D."

"I'm so glad that you called," her voice gained strength almost immediately.

We spent my half hour drive talking about potty training, work, and the book club. I came close to crying only when she asked me whether or not Mike was going to propose. "James had to learn the hard way," she said gently. "Life is too short. Tell Mike to get with it."

I couldn't focus for the rest of the day. My mood was bittersweet. My dad picked Elyse up from daycare, and it gave me a chance to stop by her house. I kept trying to prepare myself for the worse. I told myself that she's lost a lot of weight, that she's in pain. I promised myself that I wouldn't cry.

It wasn't necessary. Chris has lost a lot of weight, but she still looked like herself. She was full of good humor. Her sister and a few other friends were there. We talked and laughed as usual. I had never noticed the color of her eyes before. Hazel.

By Friday, an update e-mail was circulating. Chris made it to Oklahoma, and she is impressed with her treatment center. I'm glad that I was able to spend some time with her to see that this battle hasn't broken her spirit.

I ain't cool with it

2008-06-09T20:10:00.000-07:00

Ever since I pledged my sorority in college (OOO-OOP), four has been my favorite number. It was my line number, my position in the group of eleven women who worked together to make the journey into DST. My identity was linked to my number during that time, and I saw the beauty in that digit. It was a perfect square, a pair of pairs. And it looked nice on the back of my red roller-derby jacket.

But four isn't beautiful when it comes to cancer. My friend, my sorority sister, was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer. There is nothing perfect about it.

I saw her about a month ago when she dropped her daughter at daycare. Our drop off and pickup schedules are usually about 45 minutes apart, but I was taking Elyse in a little early that Wednesday. Chris was limping.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "You look like you are walking funny."

"Well, I have a mass in my abdomen. We're going to see the surgeon on Friday. I haven't been to work in a couple of weeks."

I was thinking fibroids. A painful, but highly treatable, condition that a lot of women have.

"Okay, go home and get some rest. Let me know if you need something. I'll call you next week."

By Monday, the sister network had sent out an e-mail that was as vague as it was ominous. Chris had gone in for exploratory surgery, and the doctors found two masses. She was at home resting. I called a few times, but I didn't catch her.

E-mail #2, sent out the next week, was even more ominous. It was difficult to tell what exactly her condition was, but the words "oncologist" and "chemotherapy" said it all.

That Sunday I went to our book club meeting, but I got there late. My friend Kay caught me up on what happened later that evening. I was vegging out on my favorite spot on the couch when she called. "I got Kim’s house a few minutes early, and we got to talk about Chris. It is cancer, and she is starting chemo soon. Her mother had cancer, and Kim says that she is cool with it being cancer."

I sat up fast. "Cool with it? What does that mean? How is someone cool with cancer?"

"I don't know. Maybe she just meant that she is trying to work through it."

"Whatever. Nobody is cool with cancer."

Hmmph. Cool my ass. You are cool with grape Kool-Aid instead of cherry. You are cool with going to the grocery store tomorrow instead of today. You are not cool with cancer.

I called Chris a few more times, but I still kept missing her.

E-mail #3 is released. Chris has lost more than 20 pounds and she was admitted to the hospital because one of the tumors is squeezing an artery and making it difficult to breathe. She is going to a treatment center in Oklahoma for a second opinion and potential treatment.

Cool my ass.

Another sister in our book club was celebrating her birthday this past weekend. Her husband threw her a surprise party, and we hoped to see Chris there. She wasn't feeling well enough to come out.

Kay and I were still speculating and worried. The e-mails had been vague, and we weren't sure if Chris was receiving treatment. Kay was able to talk with one of Chris' closest friends and get some more information. She sat down next to me as I was eating.

"Okay, I talked to Tonya, and I was able to find out about Chris. She has stage four colon cancer." I dropped my fork.

"What?"

"So, all of the e-mails that we've gotten about her, about pain and hospitalization, that has been the cancer. She hasn't even started treatment yet. The doctors here say that one of the tumors is inoperable, and she is going to Oklahoma for the second opinion, and hopefully treatment."

I kept frowning, and Kay went on. "Colon cancer is typically something people get in their 40s and 50s. Doctor's don't recommend that you get a colonoscopy until you are in your 40s. Chris will be 34 next week."

We ate our meal in silence. We eventually found our way through some small talk and back into the party.

Cool with it? Bull.

I cried on the way home. Chris is married with two kids. I started thinking about some of our times together.

When we were trying to learn how to rollerblade five years ago, was the cancer there then? What about when we were in the bowling league? Or when she was carrying her daughter? At my daughter's birthday party two Decembers ago, she told me that she was starting a new job and considering having another baby. How far along was the cancer then? How did she carry Colin through this? How long did it take to get from Stage 0 to Stage 4?

But it does no good to speculate. This is Chris' fight, her dragon to slay. I'm standing on the sidelines, watching her battle this beast. I wish I that I could jump the dragon from behind, give her an edge so that she could beat its ass. But I can't. All I can do is pray.

So that's what I do. I pray for Chris' strength. I pray that God touches those who treat her, so that they can help to make her well. I pray for her faithfulness. I pray for her husband and children, and I thank God for her presence in my life.

I love you, Chris, and I pray for your safe and healthy return home.

Friends and Shoes

2008-06-04T20:53:00.000-07:00

My friend J Moore once wrote a blog about the things that the modern man needs to navigate in our times:

http://soulternative.blogspot.com/2006_05_01_archive.html

On of the things that he mentioned was a true friend -- the one who would bail you out of jail with no questions asked. For me, those same friends are the ones who help me recharge; I can let my hair down (figuratively, you know I rock the short style), and I can turn back the clock on my "real age" with a good dose of laughter. (See previous post on my "real age").

I've been blessed to have a few good friends like that in my day, and I got to spend time with two of them this past weekend. Erika and Kee were my best friends and college, and the three of us were as different as they come. Erika hid her brillance and sensitivity with a tough demeanor, and Kee was the social butterfly who never left the dance floor. I was quiet one, the one who had opinions, but not always the voice to express them.

We've not been together in about five years. Career and motherhood have helped me find my voice. Life and love have softened Erika's demeanor. And marriage and motherhood have tamed the social butterfly. But one thing had not changed -- Kee still needed some new clothes. In college, the girl had a closet full of sweats and evening wear. And five years ago, she was wearing maternity clothes months after her son was born.

So a trip to the mall was imperative. Kee surprised us by bringing a great pair of jeans, but she needed to build up her wardrobe. Erika and I dragged Kee from store to store, looking more for things for ourselves than for her.

By the time we got to Macy's, I was starting to run out of steam. But then I found a pair of peach faux snake (but real leather) four-and-a-half-inch slingbacks on the sale rack. When I stood in the middle of the shoe department with my foot pointed toward the mirror, I was instantly revived.

Kee looked at me and said, "You are such a shoe ho. I love you for it, D, but you are such a ho."

I agreed. "But," I said, "Every ho has her standards."

Then I explained my Shoe Rules:

You've got to love them. It's your foot, and it's your money. You work too hard to blow it on shoes that you like only a little bit.

If they hurts, leave them at the store. Again, it's your money. A pair of shoes that you wear for a hour and give to your girl the next day is money down the drain. Some shoes will give over time, but usually not enough to ease the pain. And in case you were wondering, patent leather doesn't stretch. Most times, it's not even leather.

Buy leather. Please see the note above about stretching. And if you are a member of PETA, sorry, but it is what it is.

If they cost too much, don't even try them on. Guilt over a hasty expense cheapens the thrill of a new shoe, plus it's more important to keep the lights on.

As I was going through my rules, two brothes walked past us. "Yo, that's hot. That shoe looks good on you."

"Rule number five," I said. "If a man walks by and tells you that you look great in the shoes, buy them immediately."

Kee laughed. "Do you think they have that in my size?"

Needless to say, we both bought the shoes.

My Real Age

2008-05-21T15:58:00.000-07:00

I've been 30 for a while now. As a matter of fact, I'm 33.5. I'm not bothered by my age (today or most days), but every now and then, I will blurt out that I'm old. Especially when I'm talking with my brothers, who are still in undergrad. When they ask me something about college or life in general, my answer is typically out-of-date. I respond to their puzzled looks with "Well, I'm old." Brian tries to make me feel better with a pat on the shoulder and a rebuttal to my comment, but James just nods his head.

I recently took an online test at realage.com. You answer a barrage of questions, and the site calculates your "perceived" age vs. your calendar age. My lifestyle, surprisingly, is in line with my actual age.

Even so, it is nice to have affirmation from time to time that, regardless of my age, I am still fly. And yes, I know that by saying "fly," that I am once again giving away my age. No matter. Here's the story.

My long-time sales rep from Verizon Wireless, Logan, was promoted to corporate, but I still turn to him for advice when it's time to upgrade. He advised that the BlackBerry Pearl would be life-changing, and he was right. (Did I mention that it's pink?) In order to access all of the features, I had to get a memory card.

I went to my local Verizon to pick up the card. I couldn't find Carmen, the sales rep Logan referred, so I went to the accessories section. A sales rep aproached. He was tall, dark, and smiling.

"How can I help you?" Smiley adjusted his tie.

"I just need a memory card." I held it up my pink BlackBerry.

"Oh, you got the new Pearl. How do you like it?" His smile widened.

After I explained how much I love the Pink Pearl, Smiley showed me variety of memory cards. I chose the 4GB. We went to the counter to check out, and Carmen and another guy emerged from the back. This guy was short, dark, and smiling more than the first guy.

"Are you married?" Out of the corner of my eye, Carmen was shaking her head. Unfortunately, I got the hint too late.

"No."

Shorty's grin was from ear to ear. "Any prospects?"

"Yes, I have a prospect. I'm in a relationship."

"Shoot! That's all I needed to hear!" He grabbed a business card and a pen off of the counter and proceeded to scribble down his phone number. By this time, Smiley was finished ringing up my sale. Shorty ran to the end of the counter and handed me the card.

"Sweetie, I can't take this." I handed the card back.

Shorty's smile faded. "Why not?"

"I told you that I have a man."

"Oh. I thought you said that you don't have a man. Well, you can't fault me for trying." Shorty went back into the breakroom.

I said my goodbyes to Carmen and headed for the door. Smiley was right on my heels.

"I want to give you my card. I know you have a man, but you don't have a sales rep." He was still smiling.

"Logan's my sales rep."

"But he's in corporate."

"She's his business customer!" Carmen yelled. I turned and gave her a look of gratitude and high-tailed it out of the store.

I didn't think anything else about my experience until I got an e-mail from Logan yesterday. "Hey you didn't tell me you had admirers at the Verizon Store. Carmen said you had to turn like 3 of them down. And when u said I have a sales rep they were all like man. And there were some who admired from a far. You are a superstar lady."

When I told him that I wished I could remember what I was wearing because it seemed to be such a hit, Logan responded. "It's just ur daily swag. Own it."

So I think because of my "daily swag" and the three suitors from Verizon, I can dial my "Real Age" back to 30.

The Devil Has a Blackberry...And It's Pink

2008-05-15T21:48:00.000-07:00

I asked my friend B. Holcomb to make sure that I blog on a much more regular basis. I know it's been a year, so I understand if you are skeptical about my return to the blogging game. It's 11:56 on a Thursday night, and I just got finished watching my DVR episodes of Top Model. Anyway, I digress. I said that all to say that this post will be quick.

I work in pretty tech-savvy environment, but my lifestyle is still in the previous century. I didn't get DVR until a few months ago (It changed my life!), I have the mininum cell phone plan ($35/month) with no text messaging plan. And I just found out that my digital camera can record short videos WITH sound.

Last week, I decided to upgrade my cell phone. The Blackberry Pearl is just lovely. It's small, so it fits into my cutesy bags (If you don't remember, I do have an addiction to those). I can make calls, check my personal e-mail account, surf the web, and use a navigational program if I'm lost. And to top it all off, it's pink. And I bought a nice pink silicone case to match.

So I am now a Crackberry junkie after six days. I check it in the mornings, before I go to bed. Walking to lunch. Riding in the elevator. I think I've been more in touch with some of my friends in these past few days that I have in months. I even watched the Star Wars trailer on You Tube. (Looks good by the way)

But, I still don't have a text messaging plan.

Where the Hell You Been?

2007-09-24T21:02:00.000-07:00

When I fell off of the blogging map, the reminders to post came weekly. Then bi-weekly. And now nearly a year passed, and I haven't written a thing.

I don't know who those dedicated souls are who can keep up with a blog, but clearly I am not one of them. Life keeps getting in the way. I have a daughter who is almost three now. Our daily adventures have kept me hopping; some of it would be good fodder for a blog, but I haven't had the energy to make it happen.

And I'm not sure if I do now. It's 11 p.m., and I think I'm going to pass out. But here is an update on most things so that I can make an attempt to get back into the swing of things.

The Baby: Someone should tell you before you have a baby that being two-and-a-half is synonomous with being sassy. I swear Elyse thinks she's twenty-two.

Mike: Mike hasn't had any major bouts with home repair lately, other than a battle with a squirrel this past spring over our tulip bulbs. I only saw about five tulips this season, so I think the squirrel won.

Work: What is there to say? Politics, overworking, underpayment.

My hair: It's still short, and my stylist Lisa keeps it in line. And, I just saw The Deacon this past weekend. He still hasn't gotten that phone call he was hoping for back in July 2006.

So that's about it. Hope to be back soon.

Idlewild and the Blurb-meister

2006-08-29T10:25:00.000-07:00

I can't remember the last time that I've seen a movie, but I catch quite a few teasers on TV as I'm chasing Elyse around the family room. Based on what I've seen of late, I have missed about 10 movies that are "the (comedy, drama, thriller) of the summer" and countless other that have claimed to be the best of the year, regardless of their genre.

Those little teasers in the TV trailers have always made me suspicious. How do we really know what the critic has to say if they don't show us the whole sentence? Every time I see a blurb, I imagine that the sentence went a little something like this: "That movie was not the best comedy of the summer."

My interest was peaked this past week when I saw a teaser for Idlewild. As usual, the critics were buzzing. Idlewild is "a magical experience," "the movie of the year," and about three other things that I can't remember. What caught my attention was not so much the quotes as it was their attribution. Shawn Edwards of Fox-TV, was the owner of all five accolates featured in the trailer.

They couldn't find more than one person to give their film a thumbs up? Did only one person see the movie? And who is Shawn Edwards? What happened to the well-known critics?

So I did a little research on Mr. Edwards, and it turns out that he is known by cynics as a blurb-meister. He'll say good things about even the worst of films. Crossroads (with Brittney Spears), Underclassmen (with Nick Cannon), and Are We There Yet? (with Ice Cube) are among his favorites. Shamefully, I've seen all three of those movies, and they are not the greatest of anything.

Check out these sites on Shawn Edwards and his fellow blurb-meisters:

http://www.hollywoodbitchslap.com/forum/viewtopic.php?p=37494#37494

http://www.variety.com/article/VR1117935524?categoryid=4&cs=1

I'm not sure if Idlewild is a good movie, so let me know if you see it. I'm not hanging my hat on the critic's say-so.

Who Wants to Be A Superfool?

2006-08-12T21:55:00.000-07:00

I usually don't write about pop culture and reality TV for two reasons. One, there is enough stuff happening in my own life to fill a blogspace. And two, I'm embarrassed to admit to some of the things I watch. But I could not let this one pass.

I was watching the Today Show a couple of weeks ago, and I saw three people in poorly-designed costumes chatting it up with the temporary hosts. "Who Wants to Be a Superhero?" chronicles the competition among a band of people who believe that they are superheros.

Their fake superpowers and their ability to change into costume behind a soda machine is judged by Stan Lee. Yes, Stan Lee. The brilliant mind behind Spiderman, The Fantastic Four, The Hulk, and Daredevil is taking these people seriously.

If these were cartoonists competing for a chance to work with Stan Lee on the next great comic series, I could halfway respect this. But these people are trying to live the life of a Peter Parker in this reality. And I can't help but wonder who thought that this was a good idea.

I caught an episode of the series, and I don't know what saddened me more. The fall of Stan Lee is pretty depressing, as is the sight of grown men and women (ages 20 - 40+) running through the park in bright polyester ensembles. But as an amateur comic and cartoon buff, I was stunned by the pitiful superpowers.

Monkey Woman. She is dressed like Jane of the Jungle, but her superskill is the use of high-tech weapons disguised as bananas.

Major Victory. His alter-ego is a former stripper. He has super-hearing and can levitate.

Fat Mama. Her outfit has a doughnut utility belt, and she has her own theme song. "Fat Mama, Fat Mama, I'm here to save the day. Fat mama, Fat Mama, I'll take your food away."

The winner will be immortalized in a made-for-television cartoon movie. If any of the aforementioned people win, Stan Lee will have to pull out every trick he has to keep this from being the tombstone of his career.

Cartoons and big-budget movies are supposed to make the plight of the superhero cool, exciting, and, with a bit of suspended disbelief, plausible for a couple of hours. Mr. Lee, please don't take that away from us. I hope this is the first and last season of this foolishness.

Ode to Electricity

2006-07-29T15:26:00.000-07:00

How does that old saying go? You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone?

Well, that has never been more true for me than it was this past week. If you've seen the news, then you may know about the storms that hit the St. Louis area. I was one of the unlucky people who lost power on Wednesday and didn't get it back for eight days.

On that first night, I was unconcerned. Storms knock the power out for a few hours every now and then. On Thursday, the entrance to my subdivision was lit up like a Christmas tree. The smile on my face quickly faded when I turned onto my street. The left side of the street had electricity, and the right side did not. I was pissed.

A new storm front hit on Friday, and my hopes of seeing light before the end of the next week were gone.

I lived through the weekend like a hobo. The baby and I slept in the basement and stayed out all day in air-conditioned locations (Did I forget to mention that it was 95 - 100 degrees everyday?) I rode around all day with my mother, who stopped at every gas station and convenience store in a 20-mile radius looking for a bag of ice. The few gas stations with electricity had mile-long lines and empty coolers where ice had been.

I was to start a week of vacation on Monday, and there was no way that I was sitting in a dark, hot house for seven days. I packed up the baby and headed to Kansas City. My friend Bev and her dog, Taylor, were gracious hosts to a pair of blackout refugees. We sucked up their air-conditioning for five days.

By Thursday night, my power had returned. Elyse and I came home Friday. The porch light was on, and it was 2:00 in the afternoon. It looked beautiful.

I have since used almost every appliance in the house. I spent the past few hours sitting on the sofa in light and coolness. They were the best hours of my vacation.

Oh, my dear electricity, please don't leave me again. I don't know what I'd do without you.

Babylocks

2006-07-18T20:12:00.000-07:00

When I was a girl, my mother used to comb my hair. All I remember is that it hurt. Oh, and my mom's friend Glenda used to comb my hair for picture day. By the time I was old enough to sit still without screaming, Momma started taking me to the hairdresser every two weeks. I still go.

So I'm not sure why I thought that I would be a haircombing whiz after Elyse was born. It was fine when she was a newborn, but all I had to do was brush it down then. Now that she's a year and a half, there are ribbons, barrettes, and a child who won't sit still.

My efforts are decent, but curious little fingers undo all of my work by the middle of the day. Elyse's babysitter, Mrs. Mac, usually takes pity on me and fixes it. And I love her for it. In 15 minutes Mrs. Mac braid my baby's hair into a style that last seven days. If I had three hours, I couldn't come close to making it look that nice.

I'll admit that I was jealous at first; I think Supermom was trying to come out. I eventually got over it by applauding my genius in finding a childcare provider who is a hairstylist to boot.

Mrs. Mac is on vacation this month, and she deserves it. Any woman who takes care of five kids five days a week needs some time to herself. Elyse has been going to the backup daycare that my company provides.

So, I tried to step up my game. I didn't want strangers thinking that I was a bad mother. I bought two new packs of barettes and started taking extra time braiding on haircare night (Saturday.)

I thought that I was doing great, until I picked up Elyse yesterday. She was lying in a teacher's lap, and the lady was finishing up a set of cornrows that would give Mrs. Mac a run for her money.

"I hope you don't mind." She said as she picked up one of those old-school black combs (the one that has the wide teeth at one end and the little teeth on the other)

"Oh no, thank you." But I did mind. What was wrong with what I had done? And why did Elyse stay still for a perfect stranger? She's only known this woman for six days; she's known me for a year and a half.

Then I remembered the book that I bought for Elyse as a desparate attempt to ease the haircombing process. It's called "I love My Hair." The tenderheaded girl in the story starts to cry, and her mother tells her about the beauty of black hair:

"Your hair is beautiful, Keyana, and I can style it any way you choose...I could weave it into a puffy little bun...or I could part straight rows along your scalp..."

I had changed the words, because I knew that I was inept.

"Your hair is beautiful, Elyse, and the with the right hairstylist, you can wear it anyway you choose...She can weave it into a puffy little bun...or she can part straight rows along your scalp...

I suppose I shouldn't be mad because she was paying attention.

Take the Hint, Brotha

2006-07-16T21:37:00.000-07:00

When it comes to dating, I feel a little sorry for the men out there. Because in a meet-and-greet environment, it is usually up to the man to make the first move. And for every woman who is amenable to an advance, I imagine that there is at least one who has said no, if not more.

So I respect the man who can get back on the horse time and time again. However, my patience wears thin when tenacity turns to foolishness. After a certain point, you need to get back on the horse and ride away.

Take for instance, The Deacon, a man who has been trying to catch a break from my hairstylist. My mother described him as “having a young face and an old body,” because he is in his late 30s and is shaped like Grimace. I have seen The Deacon try to talk to Lisa at least three times, and I only go to the salon every two or three weeks.

Here’s a recap.

Strike One. The Deacon approached Lisa and tried to get her number. He told her that he is a good man. As a matter of fact, he said, he is a deacon at a prominent church in the area. Too bad that he didn’t know that my father is a deacon, and Lisa asked my mother to check into his story. It didn’t pan out, and he got no digits.

Strike Two. The Deacon appeared one Saturday afternoon, pretending to need a haircut. He brought a doe-eyed preteen with flowing locks with him, claiming that she was his goddaughter. He’s loves the kids, he declared, putting his arm around the girl’s shoulder for emphasis. Lisa was not impressed. I don’t even think that she looked up what she was doing.

Strike Three. The Deacon showed up this past Saturday with a Bom-Pop, one of Lisa’s favorite summertime treats. He took a seat in the waiting area until a barber was ready to see him. He eventually made his way back to the shampoo area, where Lisa was washing my hair.

“So, uhm, do you still have that phone number I gave you?” He tugged on a too-tight nylon grey short set that was highly unflattering on his weeble-wobble frame.

I closed my eyes and tried to be invisible. I felt Lisa’s hands digging into my scalp. “I think so.”

“Are you going to use them?”

“I don’t know. I really can’t think about that right now.”

“What’s there to think about?”

Lisa’s rinsed my hair with too-hot water. “I’m busy with my customers, and I’ve got my real estate work.”

“Where do you live? Please don’t say it's with a man.”

“No, I live with my sister.”

“Oh, thank goodness. So, are you going to call?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

“You’ve been saying maybe for months!” At this point, I opened my eyes and coughed to hold back the laughter.

“Ma’am, don’t I look like a nice guy to you?”

I coughed again. “I’m sure you’re a nice person.”

“Thank you! See,” he pointed to me. “Your customer thinks I’m nice. Don’t you think she should call me?”

“Maybe she’s not interested.”

He stuttered. “Well, see, uhm, I’ve asked her if she is interested, and…”

I held up my hand, shook my head, and whispered my message again. “She’s not interested.”

The Deacon fumbled for a few moments before asking Lisa for a hug. He blocked her path so that she couldn’t get out of between the two shampoo bowls. I don’t know what the hell she was thinking when she gave it to him. He damn near skipped out of the salon.

I don’t agree with Lisa’s soft-hearted tactics. There is a way to let a guy down easy and let him know to take a hike. It’s a tough skill to master for some, but the “maybe-let-me-think-on-it” approach will only drag out the inevitable.

On the other hand, this man needs to take the hint. He has been coming up empty for months. No phone number. No calls. No dinner invitations. She hardly looks his way when he comes into the shop.

So, Deac, if, by some miracle, you are reading this, please let it go. She is not, and will not, be interested. And even if you decide to keep trying, please do it in the presence of some other customer. I am paying good money for her time, and I would like that time to be undivided.

Don’t be surprised if you see a future entry about how I asked The Deacon for a few dollars to put on my hairstyle. I have a feeling that I haven’t seen the last of him.

It's 2 a.m., and I've lost my principles

2006-07-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

When I was pregnant, the slew of unsolicited advice that came my way was relentless. People had cure-alls for pregnancy ailments, gassy babies, fussy sleepers, and picky eaters.

"If you have a happy pregnancy, then you will have a happy baby." (That advice, by the way, is crap. If you have a happy pregnancy, then count your lucky stars and get ready for the fireworks. A happy baby is not guaranteed.)

"If your baby is full before she goes to bed, then she will sleep all night." (For me, this too was a load of hooey. Elyse ate to her belly puffed up like a balloon, and she still woke up every two hours.

These are just examples, and I can't remember half of what I was told. Besides, I had my own ideas. There were some things that I was certain that I would do no matter what.

I would change Elyse on the changing table. I didn't like the idea of dirty diapers all over the house.

I would not let my child get addicted to a pacifier. I was once with a friend, who, at midnight, was driving around the city looking for an open drugstore because her son couldn't sleep without his binky. And of course, this was a one-of-a-kind pacifier that was found only at select locations. I did not need that sort of hassle.

I would be Mrs. Clean, wiping mouths and noses faster than they could get dirty. And my kid's clothes would be sparkling. Hair would be neat, etc.

I would never, never, ever, let her sleep in my bed. My two-year-old cousin spent the night with me a couple of years ago, and she kicked me in the back all night.

Based on this list, some would say that I had never seen a child before. Some would say that I was setting the bar too high. And others would say that I was just plain old nuts. I think I was a little of all three.

What I didn't account for when I came up with these ideals is the sleep deprivation factor. At 2 a.m. when you are tired and confused, you will let just about anything slide.

I have changed diapers right in the middle of the bed, and woke up the next morning to see it on the floor. And of course, the baby was still in my arms, wearing a milk-stained T-shirt.

Elyse isn't addicted to a pacifier; she sucks her thumb instead. That,as far as I am concerned, is worse. Her pediatrician says that she will stop on her own, but I'm not convinced. Everyone I know who sucked their thumb did so right up to their driver's license exam.

Oh, and the hair? Well that's a story in itself. I braid it once a week in the hopes that it will stay nice for seven days. Elyse's babysitter generally has pity on me mid-week and recombs it. I still can't figure out how her braids last so much longer.

I realized how far that I had fallen from grace a couple of days ago when I gave Elyse a little bowl of Cheerios. She spilled half of them on the floor, and I watched her pick them up one by one and pop them in her mouth. And when she offered me one, I ate it.

Most days, though, I think I do pretty well. Elyse is a healthy, happy 18-month-old who carries a purse. I've got to be doing something right.

Smoke

2006-06-26T20:34:00.000-07:00

I took a five-day hiatus from my career last week to sit on the couch and be a full-fledged potato. I sent my daugther to daycare; Mike was at work. My job was kind enough not to call. I didn't check a single e-mail. As a matter of fact, I tried not to touch my computer at all.

There are a couple of things that kept me from becomming a technological illiterate during my vacation. The first was my church's anniversary ad booklet, which is a blog entry all to itself. It's funny how church folks are harder to deal with than the average joe.

The second, something that would make you proud I'm sure, was a promise to work on my writing. I kept my laptop close by in case inspiration hit. And I didn't do too badly; I keyed out a few good ideas.

And the inspiration kept coming. When I reached for my laptop to start on a new entry, I didn't see an ink pen hiding on the TV tray behind it. When I opened the lid, then pen got caught in the hinges. There was a spark, and the screen went black.

I smelled burnt plastic, and I saw a small cloud of smoke billowing from the bottom of the screen. My laptop went up in smoke, and so did my inspiration.

I spent two days trying to remember what was on that machine. The list was a lot longer than I realized. Photos of Elyse. My taxes for the last four years. Half-finished blogs. The good news is, the computer folks at work were able to salvage most of my docs. The bad news is, I need a new computer.

A Child's Eyes

2006-06-17T22:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard parents say that one of the most wonderful things about having a child is that you get to see the world through their eyes. And as the overly proud mother of an 18-month-old girl, I would have to agree. I am amazed every day by the little things that make Elyse smile.

Take bubbles, for instance. Whenever we go outside to blow bubbles, Elyse laughs so hard that she nearly loses her breath. She is equally entertained by spelling. Yes, spelling. “E-L-Y-S-E. Elyse!” sends her into a fit of giggles every time.

One thing that everyone forgets to mention, though, is that you get to see yourself through your child’s eyes as well. Kids are mimics. Elyse doesn’t miss a thing. When she first learned to walk, she would go into my mother’s kitchen and try to turn on the oven. It took me two days to realize that she was preheating the oven as she had seen me do at night when we came home.

Elyse can flip the light switches, use the phone, and operate the TV remote. She carries a purse, and can use the car remote to unlock the door.

In the past few weeks, I’ve noticed that her habits are starting to reflect mine. And I can’t say that I always like what I see. Here are a few examples.

The Multitasker: If you ever read my entry “As the Mobile Turns,” you know that I’m a serious multitasker, often to my own detriment. I’ve seen Elyse balance a baby doll on one hip while holding a purse and/or a cell phone as she is digging in her toy box. How many times have I made a mad dash to the car while carrying Elyse, a diaper bag, a purse, and God knows what else? And then I have to balance it all while unlocking the car door. It’s a miracle I haven’t broken my neck or hers.

The Driver. Elyse went to a birthday party at Showbiz, I mean Chuck E. Cheese, last weekend. While piloting the kiddie car with a plastic Chuck E. as a passenger, my little roadster fished around in the back seat, pushed buttons on the console, and took her hands off of the steering wheel to pick up lint off the car’s floor. “Keep your eyes on the road, little one, “ I laughed. “You’re supposed to be driving.” Shoot, who was I to talk? I don’t think that I’ve ever picked up objects off of the car floors, but the other two actions were all me.

The Prima Donna. If I wake up without knowing what I’m going to wear to work, I am setting myself up for a painfully messy morning routine. I don’t think that my brain is capable of making any decisions unless I’ve been up for at least two hours, and my indecision slows me down. I’ll start with a shirt and pants. Then change the pants for a skirt, then change the shirt for a sweater, and then the skirt goes to either the original pants or another skirt. And the jewelry changes too. After I’ve put something together, I’ll stand in the mirror, huff because I hate what I’m wearing, and return to the closet for something else.

Elyse only had to see this once. Now after I get her dressed, she stands in my bedroom in front of the floor-length mirror. I’ve watched as she opens my jewelry drawer, grabs a necklace, puts it on, and then replaces it to try another.

I work on these habits now, I tell myself. Shoot, I don’t like these things about myself, so why should I let my kid do them? Because it’s cute. Everything my baby does is adorable because I am under her spell. I will be kicking myself in about 13 years when I have to drag a picky teen to the mall for new school clothes. But, that is the least of my worries now. If all I have to contend with is a picky shopper, then I’m doing pretty good. After all, I didn’t turn out all that bad.

Insight

2006-05-22T22:18:00.000-07:00

If you’ve ever had a long-standing relationship with a hairstylist, then you know that you are part of a close-knit group. A hairstylist is the matriarch of touch-ups, relaxers, and a myriad of camouflage styles to help you through that awkward grow-out phase. You chat with fellow customers while sitting in the waiting area or under the hair dryers, and conversations that start with the color of your highlights usually lead to your personal life.

I am practically related to my hairdresser. Lisa is the cousin of one of my mother’s dearest friends, Glenda. Christmas dinners, New Year’s parties, and birthday celebrations have bonded us as family. So basically, they know all of my business.

Glenda sat down next to me at the hairdryers few Saturdays ago. “How’s Elyse?” she asked. We began to talk about the various happenings in our lives. Caleb, her grandson, finally stopped using a bottle. My 18-month-old had learned to do the Hokey-Pokey and to count to two.

“When will your brother be home from school?” she asked.
“Brian and James Jr. will both be home in a couple of weeks,” I said.
Glenda frowned. “Who’s James Jr.?” she asked.

“My brother,” I said. “He’s Big James’ son.”

“James?!! Your daddy?”

“Yep,” I nodded.

“When did you start talking to him?”

“ A couple of years ago,” I replied. “He found a way to get in touch with me.”

I’m not sure how my mother met my birth father, because I’ve honestly never been interested enough to ask. I was born a few months after my mother graduated from college. They were together until I was about seven or eight. After a conversation about how their breakup was not my fault, James fell off of the face of the Earth. He showed up unceremoniously, 17 years later, with a wife and son.

Our reunion has been far from picture-perfect. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “Your mother —”

“Whatever,” I cut him off before he could finish the sentence.

We really haven’t had too much to say to each other since. James Jr, and I talk quite a bit, and he tries to spoil his niece every chance he gets.

“I remember when your mom and I worked together,” Glenda said. “James worked in the same building, and Maxine would walk past him as if he wasn’t there. He would try to call to say that he wanted to see you, and she would hang up on him. I didn’t understand how she could ignore him so easily.”

I could. My mother discovered something that I learned when I reached nearly that same age. I was dating Charles, an engineer with an alluring voice and a disarming smile. Charles was charming and attentive for the three months, and then he started to focus on new conquests. As we were having dinner one night, he asked “Do you think that I am blocking your blessing?”

“Say what?” I looked up from my plate.

“I think you want something more than what I’m willing to give. Maybe by seeing me, you are missing the opportunity for what you really want.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone can block my blessings but me. If I know that I’m doing something that is contrary to what I want, then that’s my fault, not yours.”

In the two weeks following that moment, I saw a selfish and manipulative side to Charles that I had been too enchanted to see. We were through.

I ran into him later that year at a club. He stopped me to ask if we could be friends. “I know that I was really selfish, and I’ve changed. Don’t give up on me.”

“Congratulations,” I replied. “Although, that changes nothing for me. My life is moving in a good direction without you, and it isn’t necessary for me to change that. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ever?” he asked.

“Never,” I said.

My actions could be mistaken for bitterness, but they are really based on insight. Distancing myself from Charles gave me the space I needed to gain a little perspective. In a way, he was right. He was blocking my blessing, but I allowed him to be there. Charles was not for me in any way — not as a friend, and certainly not as a boyfriend.

When my mother split from James, I believe that she discovered the same thing. James was not what she wanted for herself or for her daughter, so that was that. When you figure out that a person has no place in your life, you really don’t have anything to say.

Some may argue that her situation was different because she had a child, but that is another blog for another day.

It’s been four years since I spoke to Charles, and I haven’t regretted it a bit. He showed up at a party that a friend of mine was having during the holidays.

“Ughh, I don’t know who invited him,” she said.

“No worries,” I told her. “It’s fine.”

He tired to move my way a couple of times, but he gave up after I excused myself from a conversation when he stood next to me. No need to block any more blessings.

Thanks!

2006-04-20T21:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the best advice is given to you by perfect or near-perfect strangers. My friends have sent e-mails from time to time reminding me to update this blog. But what got me in gear was a friend of a friend, who has checked my blog faithfully for nearly a year. Too bad she has had to look at the same entries for the past two months.

So thank you, Lady Reid, my sister in lactation humiliation, for reminding me to get back to it. I really needed the swift kick in the butt.

Rewind

2006-04-20T21:42:00.000-07:00

My blasts from the past always show up at the most inopportune times. My hair is usually undone, or I’ve just thrown on any old thing to take a quick trip to grocery store. I don’t know how often I’ve run into an old high school or college acquaintance after a 60-minute workout. My sore muscle hobble and paint-splattered sweatpants are the perfect look for a reunion.

These days, I need to be even more careful. I have to look out not only for my appearance, but Elyse’s as well. Nothing raises an eyebrow faster than a snotty-nosed kid with fuzzy braids and graham-cracker-crumbed T-shirt. And you lose even more points if you accompany a disheveled child while being dressed to the nines.

Luck was on my side a coupe of weeks ago, however, when a familiar face walked into my doctor’s office. I looked down at my outfit to check that it matched and threw on a little lip gloss while I tried to put a name to the face. It was Andre, the best friend of my ex-boyfriend, Glenn.

Glenn and I were high school sweethearts. We tried to sustain our relationship through college and grad school, but neither of us knew how to deal with change. Instead of growing closer, we only ended up hurting each other. We broke up after my first year of grad school. The next summer, Glenn went to Switzerland with a girl from one of his classes. Or maybe it was Sweden. After a month away, he called to see when we could see each other again. I told him that we couldn’t. That was seven years ago.

When Andre walked into the lobby that day, he stopped at the sign in sheet, took a seat, and dialed his cell phone. I though about how I would approach him, because I wanted to seem only mildly curious.

The truth is, I was itching with curiosity. I’ve always wondered what happened to Glenn. I wanted to pull out the score sheet and compare our lives blow for blow. I wanted to be triumphant, and most of all, I wanted a story to share with my girlfriends.

The receptionist called me to fill out some paperwork. Andre stood and walked toward me. He handed me a slip of paper with Glenn’s name on it. I faked surprise.

“Oh, wow! How are you?”

We chatted for a moment. He told me that Glenn’s in Phoenix; he’s been there for a few years. Andre said that he recognized me right away, and he called Glenn to see if he wanted to keep in touch.

The nurse called my name to escort me to an exam room. I could barely sit still during the appointment. Did Glenn ever pursue his dream of fashion modeling? How did his fling with electrical engineering turn out? Did he continue a long-distance romance with the white girl he took to Sweden? Or was it Switzerland?

After a week and a half of phone tag and a brief interruption of telephone service (his, not mine), Glenn and I finally had a chance to talk.

His life was good. He moved to Phoenix for school, and he ended up working full-time for an insurance agency. Yes, he is still single (“You know me,” he said), but he is in a new relationship that seems to be moving in a positive direction.

I told him about my last seven years. About Mike. About Elyse. About my family. “Yes, my brother is in college now, you wouldn’t recognize him.” I told him that I cut my hair. “It was just more me,” I said. He agreed. I was surprised, because this is the guy who would check every trim after a visit to the hairstylist.

We said our goodbyes after two hours. We promised to keep in touch.

And surprisingly, I meant it. After I got the information I wanted, it no longer seemed important. It simply was nice to catch up with an old friend.

Elyse woke up from her nap, and we went into the backyard to blow bubbles. Details of the past two hours were overshadowed by her giggles as the bubbles floated in the air. It appears that I let go of the past a long time ago.

Divalocks

2006-02-21T22:11:00.000-08:00

There are two movies that come to mind when I think of long hair. The first one is The Color Purple. Young Celie was just wed to the evil Mister and had to pick out his daughter’s nappy head because it hadn’t been combed since his first wife died. Mister told Celie not to cut the girls tangled mop, then slapped his bride for refusing to quiet the screaming child.

The second is Waiting to Exhale. Bernie (Angela Bassett) had just found out that her husband was leaving her for a white woman. After a week-long stint in bed, she walked into her friend’s salon and demanded the shortest haircut imaginable. “Are you crazy?” the friend yelled.

“If you don’t do it, I’ll cut it my damn self!” Bernadette grabbed the scissors and chopped off a plug of two-foot long hair.

Those movies scenes don’t appear to have anything in common, but for me, they clarified the relationship between hair and self-esteem. I can’t think of too many women who feel good about themselves while sporting a jacked up hairstyle. And I am no exception. When my hair isn’t to my liking, I don’t feel quite like myself. I’m a little grumpier in the mornings. Outfits don’t seem to look right.

The two women in those movies had an even deeper connection to hair. They allowed their characters to be defined by someone else, specifically men. The Exhale scene was hard for me to watch the first time because I was dating someone who believed that short hair was a practically a sin. That clown would check my hair every time I came from the salon to see if my stylist had trimmed it any.

When I decided to cut my hair seven years ago, my hairstylist’s reaction was similar to the one in the movie. “Are you sure?” she asked. After I answered the question several more times, she opened the drawer at her station and pulled out the scissors.

“Wait! You can’t cut your hair,” a customer cried. “Lisa, wait. Let me talk to her for a minute.” I can’t remember the customer’s face. I was too busy trying not to lose my nerve.

“No waiting,” I said. “Cut.”

"You’ll be sorry,” he said.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “Cut.”

The customer stared in disbelief as Lisa cut my hair down to two inches. By the time she pulled out the clippers to taper the hair at the nape of my neck, he decided that he couldn’t take anymore. He declared me a fool and left the salon.

When Lisa turned the styling chair around to show me my reflection that day, there were no regrets. I was introduced to the real me.

I’ve toyed with growing my hair out from time to time, but the result was always the same. I would cut it before it grew to my ears. This past year, however, my hair made it to my chin. Lisa styled it into smooth bob. It reminded me of Dorothy Hamill.

There were things about longer hair that I had forgotten. For one, it sheds. A lot. I had to clean the sink out every morning after combing my hair. And the bathroom floor was a mess. I later remembered that my college roommate and I had to sweep our dorm room every week because our hair shed so much.

Another thing that I had forgotten was how ridiculous long hair looks when it needs professional attention. Last week, my hair appointment was two weeks overdue. I felt like a wolf. No matter how much I brushed my hair or tried to tie it down with a scarf, it would look puffy. I felt as if I had stuck my hand on that static electricity ball at the Magic House.

The final straw was last Wednesday. A coworker came into my office to discuss a project. “Are you growing your hair out?” he asked. I nodded weakly. “It looks nice.”

I know that he was being kind, but I didn’t want compliments on something that I didn’t even like. As soon as he walked out of my office, I picked up the phone and made a hair appointment.

I walked into the salon Saturday morning. Lisa was a few minutes late. “How short do you want it?” she asked as she pulled out her supplies. “I want to lose at least half of this,” I said.

A few hours later, Lisa turned her chair around to show me my reflection. Two-thirds of my hair was on the floor, “Welcome back,” I said.

The past few days have been a lot easier. I haven’t had to clean the sink or sweep the bathroom floor. And I am still getting compliments.

“You cut your hair!” a co-worker said. “It’s awesome.”

“Thanks” I said.

“I know you were growing your hair out, but it really didn’t seem like you,” she said. “I like this a lot better.”

“Me, too,” I said.

Prince Charming

2006-02-18T21:29:00.000-08:00

Cinderella. Snow White. Rapunzel. The Princess with the pea. These women managed to beat the odds and bagged the perfect husband in the process.

Or as far as I know, they did. When I was a kid, I read and reread their popular sagas of romance and rescue. But the stories didn’t give too much detail past the rescue stage. The rest of their lives was summed up in a single phrase: “and they all lived happily ever after.”

As a modern day princess with her own prince charming, I am working on my happily ever after. Mike and I met four years ago at a family barbecue; his aunt is a friend of my mom’s. He is a sweet, patient man who was willing to woo a woman whose past searches for a prince left her jaded. We’ve been living together for the past year and a half, and we have been blessed with a daughter.

Did the princesses truly have a happily ever after? Dealing with the everyday challenges of a relationship is much harder than it seems in that simple phrase crafted by the brothers Grimm. Mike and I have had several instances that I call growing experiences; these are the times when we have to find a way to merge our expectations with actualities. Here are just a few examples of what I mean.

What’s that on the floor?
I am a neat freak, and Mike is not. It annoys me to no end. There was a period of time when I found dirty socks all over the place. I fussed. I stomped. The socks disappeared and were replaced with dirty dishes and empty take-out cups. My prince is patient with my annoyance as he relocates and redefines his clutter in various parts of our home.

How would have Rapunzel handled this? Would the disorder be lost in her long locks, or would the witch who imprisoned the princess make a comeback as a clutter specialist? She would use her magic wand to clean house.

Are we alone?
I work days, and Mike works nights. Toss an active toddler into those hectic schedules, and couple time is nearly extinct. We are still struggling for a solution. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve fallen asleep while he was talking or mumbled my apologies as he tried to slip over to my side of the bed.

What did Snow White do about this? Did her prince keep a mental clipboard that kept track of her “I’m too tireds” or “I have a headaches?” (By the way, I have never used that as an excuse.) Or did taking care of seven dwarfs provide valuable insights into time management? Perhaps focusing on one relationship is a breeze after keeping house for seven men.

Where’s my hero?
A male friend of mine once said that every man sends a “representative” out on dates during the first few months of dating. It take at least four to six months, he says, for the real person to show up.

If that is the case, did the fairy tale ladies really know who they were marrying? Those chicks fell head over heels at first sight. The longest premarital relationship was Cinderella’s, I think. At least she took a few turns with him on the dance floor before he put out an A.P.B for her feet. Saving the day after the first or second meeting sets a pretty high bar; I wonder if the men could continue to meet expectations.

Mike’s representative made a strong showing with flowers and love notes for about a year. A string of gift-giving mishaps have created a dry spell. Backordered items, lost greeting cards, and calendar mix-ups are just a few examples of the romantic boo-boos I have seen lately.

About a month ago, the main pipe in the house clogged, and smelly water poured into the basement. Mike rented a giant contraption from the local hardware store and spent the day flushing the line. After eight hours of banging and cussing, he emerged from the basement stinky, tired, and victorious. I kissed my prince as he headed to the shower. I offered him a backrub, but he was too tired to accept it. Romance may be hit or miss, but I definitely had a hero.

As Mike snored heavily that night, I thought again about the princesses and their fairy tales. I’ll never know if they really had a happily ever after, but I do know they had an amazing journey trying to get there. And the journey is half the fun.

Just for the Record

2006-02-18T21:26:00.000-08:00

If you have been checking the dates, it may appear that I have been slacking on my blogging. I wrote an entry a couple of weeks ago about an incident at work, but I removed it after some of my colleagues found out that I have a blog. A blog is a great creative outlet and all, but it is no substitute for a paycheck.

Good Morning, Diva

2006-01-19T14:41:00.000-08:00

I am so not a morning person. In some cereal commercial, a woman turns her water hose on the paperboy and closes the elevator doors on a co-worker because she is not sociable until mid-afternoon. I understand her position completely.

I’m not sure when my inability to get out of bed developed. My mother has always said that it was difficult to wake me. I believe her exact words were, “Damn, you and your brother are like some crazy people in the morning.” And she is no Ms. Sunshine herself, especially if she hasn’t had a cup of coffee. So perhaps my condition is genetic.

My affairs with sunrise have been short-lived. I took a 7:30 a.m. aerobics class in college until I overslept one day and realized how much nicer it was to stay in bed. And for a few weeks in 1999, I woke up every morning at 5:30 to work out at the gym. One day, I forgot my change of clothes and had to go to work in sweats. I decided that my mental health and my fashion sense were much better served by me catching the extra Zs.

Despite my forays and failures into early rising, I have remained curious. There is a happiness to morning people that I do not understand. By the time they get to work, they are all smiles. They converse in the elevator while sipping mocha lattes. They walk into the office and immediately get to work. I need a big glass of water and 15 minutes of silence before I am able to speak to anyone.

My curiosity and the desire to be a bit more effective during the day fueled my New Year’s resolution to wake up early. The first week was a complete bust. I faithfully set the alarm for 6 a.m. every night, but I slept through the buzzer each time.

A friend suggested that I take it slow. She told me to try 6:45 for a couple of while and then move my awakening time back 15 minutes each week until I hit my goal.

My success rate has been a mixed bag, so I’ve decided to take this opportunity to examine my progress. This also helps me to fulfill another one of my other resolutions. I believe that it’s been just about two weeks since my last blog entry.

Monday, 6:45 a.m.
I barely have the will to rise. After arguing with myself about how much longer I should stay in bed, I realize that I’ve wasted 15 minutes. I force myself out of bed and turn on the TV. Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood is on PBS. I’m not sure what year this episode was filmed, but I’m certain that I was Elyse’s age when it was.

I get dressed, and then I fix a peanut-butter sandwich for breakfast. I go to get my daughter, who has been giggling in her crib for the past half hour. It takes forever, it seems, to comb her hair, but finally by 8:00, we are ready to go.

Tuesday, 7:15 a.m.
I hit a second-day set-back. As I jump out of bed, I hear Mister Rogers singing about grandparents. A few minutes later, the puppets in his make-believe town start to plan an opera.

I somehow find the time to make another peanut butter sandwich. Elyse and I leave the house at 8:15, just as Cookie Monster is agonizing over eating the letter-of-the-day cookie. When I get to work at 8:45, I find that I don’t snarl at the receptionist when she says hello.

Wednesday, 6:35 a.m.
I wake up 10 minutes before the alarm goes off, so I pull out the yoga mat and do a few stretches. The grogginess starts to clear, and I am in a pleasant mood when I tune into Mister Rogers at 7:30. By this point, he is a welcome addition to my morning routine. He focus is still grandparents, and on this day, he is sharing photos of his family. Grandfather and Grandmother Rogers look a little stuffy. His mother’s parents, Bee-bop and Nana, seem much more interesting.

As I step onto the elevator at work, I return the good-morning greetings that I receive from the other passengers instead of groaning as I usually would. By 9:00, I am surprised that I have completed several of the smaller items on my to-do list.

Thursday, 6:30 a.m.
I’m on a roll now. I’m dressed and smiling by 7:15. The puppets in Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood are looking for a composer to help with their grandparents opera.

An hour later, I’m sitting at a stoplight on my way to work. A teenager in a red Chevy Cavalier slams into my rear-end. She didn’t me hard enough to do any damage to my car, but the impact was hard enough to give me a headache.

My good mood was long gone by the time I got to work at 8:30. It took two Advils and an offsite assignment to get me back into the swing of things.

Friday, 6:45 a.m.
I am supposed to go to breakfast with some colleagues, and this late start may ruin that. It’s interesting to note that five days ago I would not have thought of 6:45 as a late start.

I left the house at 7:15, so I didn’t get to see Mister Rogers and the puppets perform the grandparents opera. Traffic seals my fate. I arrive downtown at 8:15, just as everyone is leaving the diner. Determined to have a good day, I order my breakfast to go.

I doubt that I will become a uber-chipper morning person, but now I better appreciate what a few extra minutes in the morning can do. I don’t feel as harried by the time I get to work, and I can also take advantage of the quiet time in the office before the phones start ringing at 9:00. It’s also nice to have a bit to eat, even if it is only a peanut-butter sandwich.

So, we see how long the affair lasts this time. I’m definitely trying to beat my two-week record.

Happy New Year!

2006-01-05T11:51:00.000-08:00

The year 2005 is a done deal, and it’s time to focus on the year ahead. As I have done in years past, I picked up a pen to half-heartedly scribble down my goals for 2006.

I’ve always thought of New Year’s resolutions as a seasonal tradition, like kissing someone under the mistletoe around Christmas or eating black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. And like those other customs, my resolutions have faded with the end of the holiday season.

My list of unfulfilled goals is probably twenty times as long as the number of years that I’ve been on this planet. There have been financial goals that would have made me a millionaire by now, fitness goals that would have given me a physique to rival any professional body builder’s, and career goals that would have made me a high-profile corporate dynamo. What were my resolutions for 2005? Beats me. And I can’t find the old envelope that I used in 2004 to write them down. Or perhaps that was the year that I resolved not to resolve anything.
I considered going that route again. If I am going to be so half-ass about the whole thing, then why bother?

But then my pastor posed a question during his Sunday morning sermon that made me rethink my position. “Will 2006 be another year or a new year?”

If this is just another year, then no resolutions are necessary. I can go on as if the calendar still says 2005. I’ll make no effort to change my life in any way, all the while complaining about things that I don’t like.

Or I can accept the onset of 2006 for what it is – a symbol for a new start. I’ve got another 365 days to shake things up a bit.

After looking at it that way, I decided to take another shot at making resolutions. My life is good, but there is always room for a little improvement.

So, here goes. I am sharing my 2006 resolutions for a couple of reasons. If I publish my them, those who know me will hold me accountable. Plus, this blog is a much better place to store my goals than on the back of an old envelope.

Diva's 2006 Resolutions

Wake up every weekday at 6 a.m. by February 1. Most days, it’s a struggle for me to get up by 7:30. This is problem if you have to be at work by 8:30. And, I’ve often heard the saying that the early bird gets the worm. I’d like to see if it is true.
Develop and maintain a reasonable workout schedule. Before Elyse was born, I made it to the gym from time to time. Nowadays, putting Elyse in her snowsuit is about all of the workout I get. Don’t get me wrong. It’s a challenge to hold onto a one-year-old for a couple of minutes, but it is a far cry from a legitimate workout routine.
Post a new entry to my blog every two weeks. I’ve been a little sparse with my entries since I started this space. Writing’s a good outlet for me, and it seems that I have plenty to subjects to cover.

That’s it. I hope you weren’t expecting a two-page list. I know the new year is an open door for change and all, but I have to take it one year at a time.

Happy New Year!

In Da Club

2005-12-19T21:27:00.000-08:00

I was too much of a nerd to be there. Or maybe I was just too uppity. The longer I stayed there, the more I realized that it was both.

It was 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, and I was sitting in the middle of a small club in North County. I was watching my hairstylist and her friends chicken-head and nina-pop to a song that I recognized but could not name. A woman in dark glasses and a Rick James-esque curly ‘do was running in circles and screaming into the DJ’s cordless mic: “Throw your hands up! Throw your hands up, dammit! It’s my girl Lisa’s birthday!”

Lisa followed her friend to the mic with her remix to another rap that was familiar to me but unnameable: “Cause I’m popping Moet, and I can’t be stopped …”

Yes, indeedy. This was not the place for me.

Lisa had invited me to her mid-thirty-something birthday party earlier that day. She told me that it was downtown, but her sister said that it had been relocated (as a surprise) to a smaller club nearby. The birthday girl was scheduled to arrive between 8:30 and 9:00.

I was thankful for the change in venue. The new spot was five minutes from my house, sparing me a 25-minute drive. Lisa is notorious for being late, so I planned on getting there after 10.

I turned onto the parking lot at 10:45, and I could make out the lyrics to “In Da Club” as I walked toward the door. That was a bad sign. If a place is crowded, you can only hear the thump of the bass line.

The guy at the door who checked my ID was wearing black sweats and a disinterested look. “Enjoy yourself,” he mumbled as he handed my license to me.

“Thanks,” I replied.

One of Lisa’s friends stopped me as I headed toward the corner that her guests had staked out. “What are you drinking?” he asked. “I’m good, thanks,” I responded. He didn’t call me a nerd, but the look he gave me said plenty.

Now don’t get me wrong. I enjoy a good time. Kettle One and Cranberry are friends of mine. But this party was a combination of all of the things that I hated about the club scene. So, for your reading pleasure, here is my list of pet peeves. Or better yet, let’s call them The Diva’s Club Rules.

Dress your age. Most of the people at this party were in their mid-thirties (or older), and at first glance, you would have thought that it was a group of 20-year-olds. I had seen a version of most of these outfits on 106th and Park.

It is okay to be trendy. It is not okay to look like you are wearing your daughter’s clothes. It doesn’t make you look younger; it makes you look sad. Oh, and make sure that the clothes fit, too. The only thing worse than wearing clothes that are too young for you is wearing clothes that are too young for you and too little.

Keep up with your own stuff. One of Lisa’s friends proclaimed herself “The Paparazzi” and took pictures of everything. Whenever she was ready to dance, she left her camera with whoever was willing to hold it for her.

Even if you are kicking it with a wallflower, give her a little respect. Do not ask her to watch your purse, your coat, or your drink. What if someone asks her to dance? Carry a purse with a shoulder strap, or put your money in your bra. If you can’t kick it on the dance floor with your new Louis Vuitton, then Louis needs to stay at home.

Keep a close, but unnoticeable, eye on the jerks. Lisa’s brother has met me a thousand times, but somehow, number 1001 was different. I don’t know if it was the freshly done hair or the dainty walk that I had to adopt to navigate in my stiletto boots. Whatever the cause, Tre didn’t take his eyes off of me.

His stare gave me the creeps. It was the “I didn’t notice you before, but now that I have, when can we sleep together?” look.

If you get this stare, and you suspect that the person giving it to you is a jerk, you don’t have to humor him. Run. Hide. Do whatever you have to do to steer clear of this person. Unfortunately, these types usually don’t take no for an answer, so it’s best to not give them the opportunity to ask.

Drink (or don’t drink) whatever you want. Grey Goose and Bailey’s was the drink of the evening. I don’t know who started that trend, but cough syrup sounded like a better drink to me. I saw a few people with one, but I didn’t see anyone finish it.

This is a lesson in basic economics. Top shelf liquor is too expensive for you not to drink something you like. Experiment with the cheap stuff.

Don’t drink (get drunk) and drive. I know it sounds like a public service announcement, but we are way too old for that mess.

After an hour of chit-chat and a obligatory spin on the dance floor, I went home. I doubt that anyone other than Tre noticed that I was gone. I checked on my daughter, put on a pair of PJs, and went to bed. The partygoers stayed out until the wee hours, I’m told.

I was glad that I went to wish Lisa a happy birthday, even though I didn’t really enjoy the party. This was one time that I was more than happy to be a nerd.

The Christmas List

2005-11-11T09:32:00.000-08:00

The Christmas list is my family’s time-honored tradition. The late-October arrival of the JC Penny Christmas catalog signals the start of the holiday shopping season. As kids, my brother and I would take turns eyeballing every page so that we could craft a well-rounded collection of wishes.

My mother always asked me to have my list ready by the beginning of the month so that she could use it to choose my birthday present. My brother and I were able to amend our lists throughout the month, but Momma did not accept any requests after Dec. 1.

Our lists were pages long, mostly filled with things that we had no chance of getting. I remember the year that my brother asked for gold bricks.

Our lists became more reasonable as we got older. And thanks to the advances of technology, we now e-mail our lists to one another.

Friends tell me that we’ve turned gift giving into too much of a science and that by doing so, we have zapped the fun right out of the whole process. I would argue the opposite. I enjoy writing the list, and I enjoy opening a present that I know I want. My shopping is a breeze because all guesswork is eliminated. So, everybody’s happy.

Twenty some-odd years of list writing has made me a professional. I can write a lengthy wish list and divvy it up among Mike, my parents, and my best friend Erika.

At least I thought I was a pro. Erika called me on Monday. “I need a birthday and Christmas list,” she said.

“Huh?” I asked. Then I realized that it was mid-November and I hadn’t even thought about it.

“Yes, your list,” she said. “Besides, once I see yours, it will probably give me some ideas for mine.” (Over the years I had spread the gospel of the list so much that others had caught on.)

With my birthday fast approaching, I decided that I better get cracking. I stared at a blank piece of paper for a while, and then I put it away. How could I, Queen List, be experiencing writers’ block?

Then a few ideas came. An activity table. A push and play walker. A baby doll.

This is the first year that my daughter will be able to crawl around the tree and cover my floor with torn wrapping paper. I thought about how much fun it will be to watch her discover her new things. I’m looking more forward to that than anything that I would get.

Motherhood has caught me off guard again. I’m still surprised at how Elyse changed me. There are the obvious adjustments like fewer nights on the town or more trips to the grocery store. But it’s the little things that show me how my priorities have changed and how cool it is to be a mom.

As I continued to think of gifts for Elyse, I decided that I could stand to open a present or two on my birthday. So I gave the list another shot.

Eight-quart stockpot. Steam cleaner. Daniel Green house shoes.

My list is shaping up to be drier than burnt toast. Maybe I passed all of my list-writing skills to Elyse. I’ll have to wait a few more years to see if she has the chutzpa to ask for gold bricks.

Dooney Update

2005-11-01T21:31:00.000-08:00

Three Saturdays ago, my phone rang at 1:45 a.m. A police officer was calling to say that the truck turned up in an obscure part of town. It had been missing for two weeks by ths point; why the he couldn't until a decent hour to call is beyond my understanding. While fighting a sleep-induced fog, I tried to make sense of the details. The truck's front seats were missing. The steering column was destroyed. And our belongings were nowhere to be found.

By now, the thief's mother/wife/girlfriend has shown her new bag to all of her friends. Mike's pool stick is either in the garbage or at at pawn shop. And I, for one, am still a bit peeved. I'm using an old black bag that I found at the bottom of the coat closet. It's too small, and the straps are failing. I absolutely hate it.

My Dooney

2005-10-04T00:11:00.000-07:00

I felt like an adult for the first time in months. Mike and I were having dinner with Kevin and Sharon. Good food. Good conversation. No kids. It was a combination that I had promised myself to seek out from time to time.

We were still chatting and laughing as we walked to our cars. I was silently patting myself on the back for suggesting a night out.

“Babe!” Mike yelled. “The truck is gone!”

I hopped off of cloud nine and looked up and down the street for the light grey Dodge. Sure enough, it was gone.

“That sucks,” I said. To be honest, I wasn’t too upset. The truck was a company car, so the loss didn’t really affect us. Mike was pacing in a tight circle, furiously punching the buttons on his cell phone.

“Hello,” he growled. “I want to report a stolen vehicle.”
I didn’t understand Mike’s frustration. Sure, we were a bit inconvenienced, but at least the car wasn’t ours. I turned to talk with our friends while we waited for the police.

“Did you have anything in the truck?” Kevin asked. “Just a tote bag and an umbrella …” I began.

I started thinking more about my missing belongings. That just wasn’t any old tote bag. It was my Dooney & Burke Tassel Tote that I got for an incredible deal during a department store close-out.

Not to mention, I had dropped my checkbook (credit card included) into the bag on my way to work that day. So the thief had a new ride, the means to gas it up, and a present for his mother or girlfriend. Oh, and my favorite sunglasses were in there too.

Mike was rumbling something about his $200 pool stick and dart collection. “That was a McDermott titanium cue! I’ve had it for seven years!”

That didn’t mean anything to me, but I could feel his pain.

As I pictured some stranger prancing around town with my bag on her shoulder, headed to a nearby pub to see her man hustle the locals over a game of billiards, I got pissed. “Bastards!” I yelled. And I continued to yell that throughout the week as I called the bank and credit card companies to switch over my accounts.

I am thankful, though, that they took the car and ran. It could have been worse. My daughter could have been in the car when the thief decided to take it. Or finding the address in my checkbook could have inspired a visit to our home.

I’ve found another pair of glasses. They are similar, but not quite at cute. Mike has been playing pool with borrowed sticks, and he says his game is suffering. And my Dooney? Well, it’s long gone; the company doesn’t make it anymore.

If you are reading this, and your son/boyfriend/husband/secret admirer has just given you a light brown signature Dooney tote with dark brown trim, beware! It is quite possible that your benefactor is the no-good so-in-so who stole our stuff. Check the pockets. You may just find a pair of black rhinestone-studded sunglasses.

What's in a Name?

2005-09-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've posted anything, so you may not even notice my blog's title change. Concepts in clarity was a little to lofty; some days I'm not too clear about much of anything. So I decided that Diva Script was a better fit. I think that those who know me will agree. Nobody but a diva has a shoe and bag collection like mine!

TMI?

2005-09-20T20:30:00.000-07:00

Too much information. The phrase has become a talisman to ward off those unwanted bits of information — like the bathroom habits of a good friend, or the sex life of an unattractive coworker. I am still reeling from that horrible day two years ago when a colleague told me about a one-night stand with his friend’s sister. I regret not whipping out the TMI shield sooner that day.

Since then, I’ve been quite reserved with the information that I share, mainly out of the fear that something I say will encourage others to tell me things that I don’t want to hear. I try to stick to the basics. Yard work, restaurants, current events. Since Elyse was born, I’ve found myself talking about her a lot, and occasionally, childbirth and motherhood have tipped into the TMI category. But I’ve been trying to catch myself.
I was able to relax those restraints with one coworker a few months ago. Kevin joined the department while I was on maternity leave last year, and for the first time in who knows when, I was not the only African-American in my department. We developed an instant kinship.

Our first lunch was a discussion on corporate culture laced with humorous dish on our coworkers. Later talks on workplace challenges led to conversations on past jobs. Then past lives. His college days. My Delta days. His military family. My jovial one. His penchant for fitness. My madness for shoes. His goddaughter. My first daughter. Our shared love of Kenneth Cole.

Five months after that first lunch, Kevin left the company in search of greener pastures. His departure propelled me back into exchanges on lawn care and home improvement.
I saw Kevin a couple of weeks ago at an awards banquet. He greeted me with a warm hug. “Where’s Mike?” he asked. “He had to work,” I said. Kevin turned to the woman at his side. “This is my wife, Sharon.”

Wife? Not once in five months had I heard Kevin mention her name. I don’t even remember seeing her picture on his desk. I’m surprised that she couldn’t tell that I was caught off guard. I smiled at Sharon and said, “Nice to meet you.” She returned the smile and nodded with recognition when he told her that we used to work together.
One hundred and one scenarios went through my head as to why I’ve never heard of Mrs. Kevin. But instead of dwelling on those, I decided to just ask. “I’m a private person,” was his reply.

Private person? Bull. As much as we talked, her name should have come up once or twice. Or should it have? Was it that Kevin had been too closed, or had I been too open? Does the existence of a wife fall into the category of too much information?
As soon as Mike got home from work, I told him about seeing Kevin and Sharon at the dinner.

“You never mentioned that he was married,” Mike said. “That’s because he never said anything,” I told him.

Mike was stunned “What?” he said. “How can you not talk about your wife? I talk about you and Elyse all the time. I even show pictures.”

“I guess everyone is not as open about their personal lives as you are,” I said.

“Whatever,” Mike said. “I just don’t see how it didn’t come up.”

I couldn’t help but agree. Mike and Elyse are a big part of who I am, it’s difficult separate my family self from my work self. Although, I can see the appeal. After having one of those days when you want to cuss out everyone in the building, I would like to be able to leave my issues at the office. And I know for sure that Mike could use a little practice with that skill.

So perhaps the TMI force field extends a bit farther than I thought. I could benefit from a little separation where work/life balance is concerned. So I’ll stick to my landscaping and home improvement dialogues for a while to see how it goes. But I’m going to keep Elyse’s pictures on my desk. She’s just too cute to not show off.