Halloween 2011

Halloween, the second most important holiday on the children’s calendar, is over. My daughter and I were Cleopatra. Get it? Queen of the…Nile.

Halloween is infamous for drama around my house. Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to eat candy. My parents made me pass out candy to the neighbors, though. Not just pass it out–bag it cutely, label it with our address and pass it out. In my defense, not all of it made it out the door.

When I wasn’t being tortured at my own house, my parents would take me to parties at March Air Force Base in California. I was 30 before I ever went trick or treating. My husband and I bought a house a week before Halloween, borrowed some cousins and away we went.

When we moved to Texas we didn’t know our rental was in a senior heavy neighborhood. When we approached houses with my then 4 year old daughter, they’d lay the candy on thick because they didn’t get many kids. Six houses and her bucket was full. My mother , 50% of the posse that wouldn’t let me eat candy, complained that my daughter’s candy bag was too small. Like Bill Cosby said, these are not your parents; they’re old people trying to get into heaven.

In a couple of days the pictures will be posted online and it’ll all be a distant memory. Onward to Thanksgiving, my friends!

Tags: candy, Halloween, kids, trick or treating

Taking One For The Team

I went decaf.

If you read “Call of the Wild” you know this was no easy task.  I returned home after a particularly taxing day at work to a blood pressure reading of 174/156.  I was having heart palpitations. I gave up caffeine and called my doctor. I expected her to say there was no need to go decaf and only a change of medication was necessary. Instead, she was pleased to see the effort I made and checked off a box on her tablet computer. I considered scratching her off my Christmas list, but, what could she do? Like my big feet, I inherited this issue from my father.

I love coffee. I have a Keurig. I love the aroma when it brews and the ping I feel in the back of my head when the caffeine hits my nervous system. As far as addictions go, one could do worse. You never hear about someone overdosing at Starbucks. No one will ever be arrested for a DWC, Driving While Caffeinated. If anything, these are some of the most alert drivers on the road. You’ll never turn on the news and see stories about caffeine addicts robbing stores at gunpoint. If they did, they’d be too shaky to aim the gun straight.  Just roll a canister of chocolate-covered coffee beans their way and I’m sure they’ll walk out happy.

This is not the first time I’ve given up caffeine. I gave it up once when my husband and I were engaged. We were running errands. I realized my cup-a-day habit had grown to addiction when I had him pull off the freeway for a Pepsi after missing my morning hit.  I went decaf because I envisioned having “I need a Coke” mistranslated on our upcoming Mexican honeymoon.

My husband, Captain Self-Righteous, has always championed the benefits of a caffeine free existence. He says I snap at him in the morning if I haven’t had “my fix.” I explain to him that he’s annoying all the time. My ability to handle it goes up exponentially when I have caffeine.

If you’re going to go decaf, I recommend you time it with your menstrual cycle. If you’re going to be tired and grumpy, it’s best to get it all out at the same time. This time around, the withdrawal headaches were tolerable with a few well-timed liquid ibuprofen capsules. I could honestly feel the blood vessels expanding in the back of my brain. My daughter is proud of me. She knows how hard it’s been. I’ve even lost a couple of pounds. Since decaf doesn’t have a bitter aftertaste, I’ve been using less sugar each morning. I’ve also discovered that my body’s working hours are from 5:30am to 9:30pm. If you need something, catch me early. When I conk out, there’s no flipping and turning. It’s that beautiful, drool in your pillow sleep that you don’t get unless you’re pregnant or taking Nyquil shots.

As a result of my efforts and new medication, my blood pressure has evened out significantly.  I’ve rediscovered the joys of green tea, hot chocolate and apple cider.  And for now, I busy myself looking for decaf pumpkin spice k-cups online. It’s only a placebo, but it’s my placebo.

The Call of the Wild

Camping always seems like a good idea before you go.

My current camping experience is minimal and usually comes about when my daughter’s girl scout troop plans a trip. My daughter looks up at me with huge Disney princess eyes and says, “You’re going, right, Mom?” Since they say the first child is like the first pancake, and I’m out of batter, I say yes. I don’t want her telling some therapist years from now that I never participated in things that were important to her.

It was only a weekend at a camp approximately an hour away. I was pretty Gung Ho about our mini adventure until I walked in on the troop leader’s “there-might-be-snakes-in-the-showers-or-toilets” speech. I briefly considered a low-liquid, low-fiber diet. She followed that up with the “possibility-of-tarantulas-in-the-morning” talk. I wasn’t falling for that one. Her husband used that line on me during a prior outing.  I couldn’t back out. If I was willing to send my child into the wild, I should be willing to go.

My daughter and I reviewed the fact sheet and packing list. There would be cabins, a limited kitchen, toilets and (possibly reptile infested) showers.  BYOTP! Despite all this, my only concern was where I was going to get a cup of coffee in the mornings. I packed Starbucks Via instant coffee, non-refrigerated creamer and a dollar bill.  The dollar was not to buy coffee, but to roll into a tube and snort the grounds directly should things turn truly desperate.

We met at the leader’s house Friday afternoon and trailed each other to Camp Gambill– rhymes with “gamble”.  It was three adults versus seven scouts,  our own motley set of dwarves: Happy, Grumpy, Sneezy, Clingy, Talkie, Doc and Posh. We inspected our accommodations and made our bunks.   Not 20 minutes into our trip, an armadillo walked into our campground to dig for dinner. The girls were entranced. Then, squawking geese flew overhead, their bellies tinted orange by the sunset, and I realized this trip might go all right.

We set off on a twilight walk around the grounds to familiarize ourselves with our surroundings.  We trudged through the forest and emerged to the view at the bottom of the page. The girls admired nature’s beauty for a few moments and we walked on.

Not five minutes later, Grumpy was so busy trying to take a picture of the still grazing Mr. Armadillo, that she didn’t see Mr. Skunk six feet away from her.  When the girls called to warn her, she shouted back an exasperated, “What?” and Mr. Skunk cocked his tail. It would be a much better story if I could say she got sprayed–but she didn’t.

This incident taught me that certain things are not innate, so here’s some advice: if you see people running–run. Don’t stand there trying to determine WHY people are running. You can work that out later. Half the troop ran because they understood why skunks should be given a wide berth and because we didn’t know if Mr. Skunk was married. The other half of the troop stood there admiring how cute he was.  They’ll learn.

The bad part about camping with children is that they bring their personalities along. My daughter, Clingy, expressed dismay that she’d actually have to drink tap water. Sneezy refused to eat the Saturday night dinner and Happy was determined to be camp clown. After dinner the girls headed back to their cabin. When I checked on them they were happy, talking and completely oblivious to the fact their cabin smelled like feet.

Saturday was full of hiking and play. The girls found tire swings and rode. They gathered fallen foliage for projects. They walked the lake shore, collected shells and gathered dried reeds to make baskets. That evening the girls received the badges they recently earned and found planets and stars on the leader’s phone with Google Sky Maps.

I had spent the afternoon plotting a practical joke on the girls. For instance, while hiking it occurred to me there’s no law that says you actually have to SEE a snake to yell “Snake!!!” and run screaming past the children. I decided on something more docile. The cabins had tin roofs. I decided a few well-tossed pebbles before sunrise, accompanied by some convincing animal noises would make for an interesting morning.  The joke was on me. At three in the morning, Doc got sick, we had to evacuate the girls to the clubhouse and clean up. Good times!

After archery lessons the next morning we packed up and headed back to real life.  Posh was content to nap. Clingy and Talkie are apparently majoring in song lyrics at school and sang all the way home.  I returned my portion of the precious cargo back to their parents and took my daughter to In-In-Out for a burger.  With her belly full, she unpacked her gear and fell out. She slept for seventeen hours. She’s going camping again in November. I’ll be at home with a fresh bottle of bubble bath.

Death of the Podfather

Steve Jobs died yesterday. I am not an Apple groupie, but our house has been relatively Applized. Those closest to me know I am unnaturally attached to my iPod. My iPod listens to me. It keeps track of my likes and prioritizes them. It keeps me entertained, organized and on time. If it was a man, I’d marry it.

I’m on my third unit. I dropped my first one. When the liquid crystal display cracked and started to bleed, I was nearly brought to tears. My second one died from sheer exhaustion. My current one has learned to pace itself. My husband has an iPhone, known affectionately in our household as “The Fancy Phone.” My daughter has a nano and if our dog had thumbs, she’d have one, too.

The death of Steve Jobs was like losing a modern day Gepetto. He figured out what people wanted and delivered it. The iPod has become such a part of modern life that MP3 jacks are now standard equipment in most new cars. When my friends pull out an iPad, we still paw around it like monkeys.

People are sad and the tributes are pouring in, because his inventions touched our lives.  There will never be another Mr. Jobs. Rest in peace, Podfather.

Ain’t Yo Momma’s Monkey bars!

It started innocently enough.  I received a Groupon offer in my email for three drop-in pole dancing lessons.  As an aspiring romance writer, I’m always seeking ways to fill pages. I bought the offer and procrastinated 51 weeks until I got yet another email indicating my offer would soon expire.  Motivated more by my desire to not waste $39 bucks than my desire to hop on a pole, I made reservations despite my reservations.

When I read the fine print I was relieved to discover the offer only included non-pole classes so I chose one called Zensual Stretch. Per the class detail, it would “help lengthen muscles, improve my balance, open my joints and increase my range of motion.” I was all in! The studio was located in Dallas and it was immediately clear that this was not your normal dance studio. For instance, my instructor had been up until 3am watching a local pole-dancing competition. Women walked in carrying shoes that probably required weapons permits.

The lesson was as if the Pussycat Dolls gave a yoga class. We moved to the soundtrack of slow, sensual music. I bent. I stretched. I writhed. I was feeling good about keeping up with the younger girls. Then, I got a Charlie horse in my foot. All I could do was lie there and wait for my body to stop betraying me. But when it was all over (and my toes returned to their original front-facing position) my goose was loose. I’d highly recommend it to anyone.

When I returned home, I decided to show my husband some of the moves I learned in class. I demonstrated a “scoop” where you bend at the waist, dip your head slightly as if balancing a ball on your neck, and then snake your body into an upright position.

He said I looked like a chicken. He asked if I was taking this class in hopes of doing some moonlighting. His show was over.

My next class was called Zensual Flow and was to be a “graceful blend of exotic movement.” Any class that tells you to bring thigh high boots, props AND knee pads, was all right with me. The students were all shapes and sizes. They were dressed in leggings, yoga clothes and Daisy Dukes. One came armed with nine-inch stripper heels. I chose to dance bare-footed. I could just imagine things turning for the worse and having to explain to the EMT, “See, there was this stripper class, right…”

The instructor, Clarissa, was a lovely, bendy young woman born with more than her fair share of cartilage. I imagine she was a pretzel in her last life. Although the room was a normal dance studio with mirrored walls and hardwood floors, there were lights strung along the walls and the room was dimmed, giving it a more club like feel. We got a primer.  Sade’s “Love is Found” boomed from the speakers. When you give women slow, bass and percussion-heavy music, the body naturally reacts. Clarissa slithered, flipped and prowled. I followed along despite getting another Charlie horse.

Things went well once Clarissa explained that The Flow centered on the Goddess Pose, where you sit upright with your legs out to the side. (Think mermaid sitting on a rock.) This is Ground Zero.  From this pose you can launch yourself into several moves including helicopter legs, “opening the door”, dance legs and more. If you get lost, you can always come back to the Goddess Pose and look really, really good.

When I got home I demonstrated a table stretch for my husband, a move where you bend at the waist as if you’re leaning over a table.  Don’t rush, girls. If you do it right, they’ll wait. No comment from my husband, but I swear I saw an exclamation point go off over his head.

My last class was to be Zensual Stretch Splits, same as the original stretch class with a special emphasis you-know-where. To my surprise, I was the only person to sign up for this class and the teacher offered to transfer me to the Curve Appeal class. Curve Appeal was a mix of burlesque movements and pole activity. I had brought my knee pads and was ready for anything.  Waiting for class to start, one thing occurred to me about regular aerobics that I had asked myself in high school math class: When am I going to apply this in real life? At least with this sort of exercise, my husband will be more entertained than watching me do squats.

We started off with burlesque basics including bumps and hip circles aka “grinds.” My perky, pregnant teacher explained hip circles by telling us to stand with our legs slightly parted and imagine there’s a beam of light shooting from our vi-jay-jay. Now, draw a circle on the floor with the light. I’m willing to bet this visual is now permanently imbedded into your brain, too. After some practice we moved on to the pole.

I did not know that poles varied. Our studio was equipped with thick poles approximately four inches round, thin poles approximately three inches round and a spinner.  I selected a thin pole, listened closely to the instructions and launched myself into a fireman’s spin. It looks just like it sounds. After take-off, your legs wrap around the pole fireman style, spin and land. My fellow student, a class veteran, did one and landed daintily with a flourish. What I didn’t have in daintiness I made up for in sheer, brute force. I soon discovered that a successful spin depended on an effective take off and that my height was my friend. The higher you land on the pole, the more time you have to spin down it, correct any form problems and land with dignity.

We went on to learn a back spin and then a front spin “with attitude.” The front spin turned out to be my specialty. It was just like the fireman’s spin, but instead of wrapping both legs around the pole, the outside leg stayed bent behind you in the air. I found this made my landings easier. They stopped looking like accidents. I had a blast! It was as if someone turned a set of monkey bars sideways.

The teacher started Kelly Rowland’s “Motivation” and we were off to explore our new skills free style. I have to admit that for a first lesson, I felt pretty comfortable.  The studio was run by women and went out of its way to make an environment where women felt relaxed enough to explore.  It wasn’t like some studios I passed where the poles were on display in the front window for the entire world to see. I will be back.

One last note, as far as my mother knows, I just went to “dance class.” Do not blow my cover if you meet her on the street. That’s one conversation you don’t want to have with your mom: “See, there was this stripper class, right…”

The Sun Will Rise

My heart goes out to the Japanese people.  Everything I’ve seen on the news lately has been straight out of a disaster movie.  I wonder how many Hollywood special effects men are reveling in the fact that their simulations of the world at its worst were accurate.

Since I was raised in California, I have great respect for the earthquake preparedness of the Japanese.   They prepared, they drilled, they built sturdily, and for all purposes, they were prepared.  This would never happen in America.  The Japanese have a sense of social cohesiveness we don’t possess in America.  We’d still be having a vote about the proper type of toilet paper to keep in the emergency kit.  They were prepared…for the quake. No one can really prepare for a tsunami.  All you can do is give as much early warning as possible and high tail it out when you hear the bell.  And what does someone do when the backup’s backup’s backup’s backup fails at a nuclear reactor?

It’s tough when God decides to teach you a lesson and that lesson is “I am more powerful than anything you can prepare for.” What’s even more amazing about what I see on television is what I don’t see. I don’t see looting. I don’t see fighting. I don’t see people yelling at each other.  Again, I’m from California. We riot when the Lakers win.

The Japanese are patient people. I realized how much when I saw a woman speak about the traditional Japanese teacup.  There are no handles.  You know why?  If it’s too hot to pick up, it’s too hot to drink. Americans? We have handles, paper sleeves, cup cozies and if that fails, we will wrap the cup in the excess of our sleeves and blow. We’ll take a sip anyway,  burn our tongues and when the drink finally cools down,  it doesn’t taste right.

You might argue that Americans are capable of rallying around disaster.  We weren’t even able to come to complete cohesiveness after 9/11.  Yes, there was a heightened sense of patriotism, but it only took about 10 minutes for the ugliness to show up.  Red Cross monetary and blood donations shot up, so much so that the Red Cross couldn’t use it all in New York and Washington, D.C.  They started re-directing the excess blood and funds to sites that were short. People complained that if their blood and money weren’t going directly to New York, they didn’t want to donate.   The day after the attack, some gas stations started jacking the price to $5.00 a gallon. Examples of our selfishness go on and on.

My thoughts and prayers go out to the people of Japan.  The sun will rise again.  My prayers go out the people of America.  May we learn a lesson from these patient, dignified people.

 

Let’s Take a Pole

I’m a member of Groupon, a service that sends daily discount offers to your email box.  One morning, I received an offer for pole dancing lessons.  That was months ago. I bought it, now I’m scared to death.

It sounded like an adventure. I was going to step out of my box.  Well not that far out my box.  I’m less conservative than people think I am, it’s just that I don’t let my freak flag fly at work.  I finally figured out why I’m nervous about the class.  No matter what you say about pole dancers, two things hold true: they have fabulous arms and awesome shoes.  Will I be able to hold my own?

The National Anthem

I don’t understand why people make such a big deal over Christina Aguilera making an error on the national anthem during the Super Bowl.  First of all, it’s a very hard song to sing.  I believe it spans four octaves in a melody written by someone who probably couldn’t sing it if you paid him.  It’s not like she Roseann Barr’d her way through the anthem, knowing all the words yet screeching them unapologetically, causing small dogs across America to run under their beds.  Let’s face it: the Star Spangled Banner is boring. Yes, I said it. Boring. I think the national anthem should be changed.

I must admit, when an unfamiliar singer steps up the the mike to sing the anthem, my butt cheeks tighten in anticipation of those first few bars. The first few notes of the anthem will determine how well the rest of the song proceeds.   How many times have you been at an event, where a wannabe diva/divo decides to stretch out her/his 15 minutes of fame and turn the anthem into an aria? I remember a baseball game where the singer stretched the anthem out so long, the plane waiting to do the flyover stopped waiting. It drowned her out as it flew across and left her to finish her song afterwards. (Maybe we should set a time limit?)

I’m not saying we should call Randy Newman and have him scribble out a national version of  ”I Love L.A.” Personally, I think the anthem should be America The Beautiful.  Except for England’s God Save The Queen, I cannot easily recall any other countries where the national anthem never mentions the name of the country. America The Beautiful is shorter and pays homage to the country. The Star Spangled Banner pays homage to a battle people would long have forgotten if they didn’t have to sing about it before each sporting event.

For purists, there are enough difficult notes on America The Beautiful to allow every inspiring singer to close their eyes and have a diva moment. I understand there are people who are traditionalists and would never want to tamper with something as “sacred” as the national anthem, no matter how logical a change it may be.

Don’t get me wrong.  Some people have done some great versions of the national anthem.  Whitney Houston’s national anthem during the 1991 Super Bowl was fantastic. However, it came out later that she sang that day to a pre-recorded soundtrack.  At least we know Christina was singing live.  EnVogue does a fantastic doowop version. Marvin Gaye made it sexy.  I’m not saying I hate the song; just that we can do better.  Small dogs all over the country will thank us.

Traveling and the Common Jerk

I just spent ten days in California helping a relative pre/post knee replacement surgery.  On my return trip, I ordered sandwiches at the Schlotzky’s in the Ontario airport and turned around to find a wad of money on the floor.  I picked it up and asked the man standing in front of it if he dropped it. He said he did, took the cash and thanked me.  Fast forward about thirty seconds and the man standing in front of him ordered his meal and began to pat his pockets after the cashier told him the total.  The man with the money, let’s call him “Dick”, asked what was wrong and the elderly gentlemen said he was looking for something.  Dick told the man not to worry, that he would pay for his sandwich for him.

“Don’t worry. I got you buddy,” he said.

Meanwhile, I’m having a WTF moment by the pick up line. You need to realize that Dick doesn’t see me standing behind him, apparently in his blind spot, while this new conversation is taking place. Dick must have assumed I left.  It’s become obvious that Dick lied about the money belonging to him and that the real owner of the cash has just realized his loss. I am pissed as his audacity: he is face to face with the genuine owner of the cash, an elderly gentleman,  and instead of presenting him with it, he offers to a paltry sum to pay for his meal? So I outted him.

“Sir?” I said in my best public speaking voice. I now have the attention of Dick who seemed surprised to see me still there. I also have the attention of the elderly gentlemen , the cashier and if I upped the volume a bit, could probably get the attention of the security guard across the hallway.  “I believe that belongs to him,” I said pointing to the other gentleman. Dick pulled the money from his pocket and presented it to the surprised man, probably cursing me and his loss under his breath. 

I know. I know. Why didn’t I keep the money? It was a healthy stack of bills. Why’d you give the money to the Dick in the first place? Although it did cross my mind to keep the stash, bottom line, it was not mine. It was not my intention to be a shero that day.  If I found it in the parking lot where the odds of finding the owner were slim and none and slim just left (thank you Chick Hearn) I would’ve entertained keeping the cash. But the circumstances indicated the owner lost the cash in the last minute or two. I felt a great sense of satisfaction in reuniting the owner, an elderly traveling man, with his funds. It could have been all he had for the entire trip. Even if he was filthy rich and had won that wad at the local Indian casino, it was still the right thing to do and that Dick at the airport will have karma bite him in the butt one day.

All Used Up

I am currently on a “use it up” kick. I buy in bulk and I’m good at it. I even have a vacuum sealer.  I realized about two months ago that I’ve been grocery shopping every two weeks out of habit, not out of necessity. I’ve always wanted to take advantage of the butcher’s specials I see in the newspaper, but I have no place to store half a cow.  So, I started shopping less and making meals out of what I found in the freezer.  I realized this is what I should have been doing all along.

 When the middle shelf of the deep freezer started to clear out, my mother started to freak out.  She was born during The Depression Era and feels comfort in seeing full shelves. It doesn’t matter if the shelves are so full that by the time we empty them out, the things in the back have freezer burn.  And, if you find something you can’t recognize, she has issues with you throwing it out because she “paid good money for that.”  She’s like that. She will hold onto something that has absolutely no use, like a coffee table that was barely fashionable forty years ago, because she “paid good money for it.”

For example, my parents bought a stereo console, circa 1962, back when people considered electronics to be furniture.  This behemoth was sixty inches of hi-fi, turntable, radio tuner, reel-to-reel goodness and ceased working about twenty years ago. My dad got it after the divorce and after his death, my mother got it back and kept moving it from home to home, saying all the while that reel-to-reel was coming back in style and all she had to do was have the unit repaired.  She never did.   She claimed it was a collector’s item, was very valuable and she could sell it at any time. She never did.  When I moved her in with me it met an untimely accidental death. ß insert winks here.

Times are tough now, and although our family is coping fine, it has made me re-evaluate what is really important. I’ll be weeding out what I don’t use in the kitchen, which includes the cabinets, pantry, fridge and freezer. I hope I’ll find peace in a more streamlined kitchen.  I’ll let you know how it goes.