Twenty-eight

Does anyone else ever feel like they're choking to death in a pit of what the fuck?


I mean, pardon my French, but if you ask me, I'm too familiar with the taste of that nasty muck.


I'm a poet and I didn't know it. (Sorry, second and third grade humor reigns in my house.)


It's all one step forward, two steps back sometimes, isn't it.


Yay, my bonus is coming! Boo, we owe more than that in taxes. (BTW, can someone tell me what country doesn't suck that also doesn't have taxes? Because I'd like to move there, please.)


Yippee, the puppy finished school with flying colors! Rats, he just ran out of the house and tore across three lawns and into the street with all four of us chasing after him.


I'm sure he thought it was the most fun he'd had since he polluted the RV. And if I was watching it from a neighbor's window, I'd probably pee my pants - which I have been known on occasion to do - at the sight of us all running at full speed but coming nowhere near to catching him. We could have maybe caught his tongue, which was flapping in the breeze, but that thing is slippery.


In the moment though, his escape wasn't that funny. We had just been talking about taxes, which formed the thick, murky base of the WTF choking potion, which came after the fight to get Seven to do her homework, which was timed perfectly with the argument with Nine about why three cups of organic cheesy bunny snacks isn't an appropriate snack in and of itself, even if it IS organic, which led to us being a mere 8 minutes away from the time that ballet class starts. And in case you were wondering, ballet doesn't start in my living room, it starts one town over. That's the moment when the puppy decided to shove his gigantic, hairy self out of the front door, take a leap over the front hedge, and take off like a racehorse heading for a finish line decorated with kittens and milkbones. Except in his case, the race ended with the alpha dog (also known in this case as The Very Angry Husband Who May Have Just Pulled A Hamstring In The Middle Of The Street) catching him and "helping" him back into the house.


Now, if I was the dog, and I'd been listening to the taxes and the cheesy bunny conversation and the whining about the math, I'd have run away too.


Let's be serious, I'm not the dog and I wanted to run away.


But I didn't. I swallowed my crazy, and got in the car with the girls and drove like a maniac safely to ballet, explaining all the way there that no, me and their dad actually aren't the meanest dog owners in the world, because listen girls, it's really, really hard to teach a dead dog that running out of the house into the street isn't a good idea, because he might get hit by a car. Then, I choked back some tears, got a chai tea latte, sat in the hallway at the studio and started tapping away here.


How do all of you deal with the dance of life? Where do you find the extra joy you need to make those backwards steps not quite as tumultuous? Is it juicing cucumber and spinach? Pouring a Chardonnay? Taking an extra exercise class? Writing a blog? Do you meditate? And if you do, on a side note, how do you meditate without falling asleep? Or is that the goal? Because I can always use more sleep. And more Chardonnay. And more dancing and meditation and exercise and green juice.


This is me, begging the collaborative you, to share your infinite wisdom so that I can catch back up with myself (and the running puppy). I need to remember where to find the silver lining on days like this. I need to find my uncrazy self so I can be happy, helpful, smiling, grateful mommy.


I need to inhale and outhale and keep plowing ahead, even with the full realization that the choreography of life will take me backwards again at some point.


Thanks in advance.


Love,


Grumpy McNeedsalot

Twenty-one

I feel a little crazy writing about Whitney Houston, because I don't know her personally. Plus, it dates me and makes me feel like I'm glorifying big, eighties hair bows and neon pink and the pop music that was the soundtrack to my life back then. But her passing has pissed me off, and while I have never met her, I'm going to call her by her first name, and I'm going to take it a little personally that she died when and how she did.

I'm not gonna lie, I'm more than a little sad that Whitney's gone. It just feels wrong. I think there are many women like me who, when they first heard the news, felt instantly like, that's gotta be a typo, there's no way Whitney is gone. Seriously? With her fabulous life and gifts and money/fame/glory? How could it be? What about the whole, learning to love yourself thing? How. Could. It. Be?

I kept saying to my husband (who, shockingly, was in town), She's a dumb ass. How could she do that to herself? Knowing that she had friends who revered her. Knowing that she had a daughter who loved her. How?

Because she's a dumb ass, that's how. And my husband kept reminding me, don't hate. She was sick. She had a disease.

Maybe I'm angry because I've been through this before. So many people have, and shouldn't the rest of us learn from the fatal mistakes we see being made all around us? Don't people understand the devastation their passing causes? Couldn't Whitney see she had every resource available to help heal her, and that she didn't have to end up high and alone in a bathtub when she passed? No, she couldn't see that, because she was a dumb ass.

My sister may have been somewhat of a dumb ass too. (If you knew her, and ever heard her cackling laughter, you'd know she'd be agreeing with me and laughing right this second. So it's all good, I'm not pissing Jesus off or anything by writing it.) She wasn't in a bathtub when she died, but she was definitely alone and she was probably high. She was 45 when she passed. FORTY-FREAKING-FIVE. How many years away from or past 45 are you? I'm pretty close to that number today, and it feels a whole lot younger now than it did then.

But how about that sentence a few paragraphs back, the one in italics. How could she do that to herself? Is that a fair question? Let's consider for a moment that maybe she and Whitney weren't dumb asses after all. It's tough for those of us who aren't afflicted to recognize addiction as being a sickness sometimes. Cancer, that's a disease. Pneumonia, that's an illness. Alcoholism or drug use, from the outside, looks like a choice, doesn't it?

When I tell people my sister died, I get a very appropriate, sympathetic look. When it comes up why she died, and I explain that it's probably due to her abusing her own body for many, many years, combined with her last couple of weeks of life consisting primarily of drinking vodka...the look shifts slightly. I end up feeling like her death was HER fault. And on some level, I tap into that feeling, because if only she hadn't put the drink to her mouth all those times, maybe she would still be here. It was HER doing. On some level, I feel like her death was suicide, because she knew from a near death experience years ago, that if she drank heavily again, her body would no longer be able to survive it. That kind of abuse would surely kill her. And yet, that's exactly what she did. 

A tumor can't be helped, it just eats you alive. But alcoholism or drug abuse? That doesn't just eat you alive. Or does it?

Cancer cells are uninvited, but so is whatever IT is in somebody that drives them to drink too much or use drugs. Some of us can do it whenever we feel like it. We can take a hit or a drink, or we can leave it. We don't have that thing inside of us, whatever that thing is, that tells us we must use.

Or maybe we do, and we just also have something else inside of us that's stronger, that tells us when life gets tough, or we feel like we aren't good enough, or we want a 5th cocktail for the 5th night in a row, that hmm...maybe there's a better choice to make. Maybe there's another way to feel better.

So maybe there isn't a gene that exists in some people, telling them to overdo it, maybe something else is missing instead. For those of us who find ways to cope with stress or sadness or frustration, those feelings, when we have them, fall into our internal coping mechanism and the mechanism churns it up and spits out an answer. It's not always the right answer, but it's something. A process with which to manage ourselves in a way that won't, say, lead us to death. Like, take deep breaths. Go for a run. Call a friend. Take a Xanax. Write a blog. What have you.

But it seems to me that for people who are missing that coping mechanism, all those horrible feelings of stress and sadness and frustration fall into a little hole where the coping mechanism should be. And maybe that hole goes deep, and maybe it's dark and prickly and devoid of answers. And when they go into the hole, chasing after all that stress and sadness and frustration to see where it's going to go, they go too deep inside of themselves, and they start to feel really alone and afraid. And also, it's so dark they can't see their options anymore and they're just waiting for the answers to churn themselves out like they do for everyone else, but unbeknownst to them, that's not going to happen, because that mechanism they think they have, actually doesn't exist.

So in that dark, pokey place where they feel different and bewildered and alone, how good does a drink start to sound? How nice would it be to just tap out for a while. Get reeeally high and just say fuck it for 90 minutes (or however long a high lasts...this is not my personal area of expertise). And maybe it starts as a conscious thought, like, I think I'll get high and not deal for a while. For some of us, the next thought might be, Nah, getting high is probably not the best thing for my body/kid/husband/job/life. I'll call a friend and go for a walk, or I'll eat some ice cream and watch a sad movie and cry it out, or I'll clean the bejesus out of my house. 

Maybe for people like Whitney and my sister, that second thought doesn't come. That first thought, the one that tells them that the only option is to escape, gets all stirred up in their system like a dirty martini, except instead of olives, it's mixed in with that stress and sadness and frustration, and after some time, that's what makes them sick. And the longer it lives, the bigger it grows, until it turns into disease. And the disease then starts to eat them alive, just like cancer can. It starts to make all their decisions for them. It becomes their first thought, and their first instinct, and it manifests itself as need in their body. But the general public doesn't live like this, and so in order to keep functioning in the sickness, people with the disease learn that the disease's best friend is a good front. They have to pretend. They lie. A lot. So much of the time the lie is paper thin and vodka-scented, but they so desperately need to hold onto the life they lead, they believe we believe it with a whole (if broken) heart. But we can sniff it out, literally and figuratively. For the longest time when I was a kid I thought that scent was my sister's perfume (It kind of smelled like White Shoulders or Taboo...what can I say, it was the 70s.). When I got older, I realized it wasn't that at all. It was the smell of lies and sickness and the disease that would eventually take her from me.

My sister wasn't an international megastar like Whitney Houston was. But she had friends who loved her, just like Whitney. She had a daughter too. She had three siblings who had each spent nearly thirty years getting banged up along her rocky road and loved her in spite of it all. She had parents who gave with open hearts and minds and hands over and over and over and OVER again, and yet the well of love was still full to overflowing whenever she came back for more. She knew it too, because she reached out to all of us the week before she died.

I hold my last conversation with her in my heart, in a dark corner, right next to a large pile of regret. I can't recall the whole conversation because it was almost 10 years ago, and I was a new mom, in the throes of sleepless nights and foggy days, and honestly, this call sounded a lot like many other calls from her over the years. A bit twisty and nonsensical. I remember thinking though that I was happy to talk with her, because we finally had something in common. If you read "Seven" on this blog, you might recall me mentioning that we didn't have a very large common ground as I was growing up - she was clutching a bottle of alcohol not long after I stopped clutching my bottle of milk. But as adults, we were both moms. We both had daughters who would be 11 years old in our 45th year of life. There had to be something there now that we could connect over, and laugh about, and love each other through.

But instead, about a week later, I got another phone call. This one came in the middle of the night, and like most middle-of-the-night calls, it was a sharp ring followed by some very bad news. The call came as a shock, even given the history and the knowledge that it could happen, because it had almost happened before. But it felt surreal, as did the phone call I then had to make to my parents. As did gathering with my family for my first Mother's Day weekend, to say hello to everyone, but goodbye to her. As did standing on the boat, with my baby in the Bjorn and my husband next to me, while we each scattered a handful of her ashes into the Pacific Ocean. As it does now when she comes to me in my dreams, and I wake up thinking how real it felt when I talked to her.

Some people end up being able to fill that little hole inside them, so the despair has somewhere to go to turn into answers. I don't know how big that hole was inside my sister, or what shape, but I wish she had found a perfectly-sized piece of self-love to put there. In my mind it would soak up her despair and allow her to see her way into her 46th year and beyond. Both my sister and Whitney gave me memories, and taught me about myself in little ways, and then abruptly left. Nothing I could do about it and no song about learning to love yourself could keep them here.

So where's the silver lining, you might ask? Well. Maybe my sister has now met Whitney, and they're up in heaven reading this blog and having a good laugh. Maybe Whitney is helping my sister turn her cackle into a proper singing voice. Perhaps they are busy advising young angels on how to watch over people on earth who are dealing with their own disease, so they don't come up to heaven too soon and make the wait time for a table even longer at the Heavenly Starbucks, where my sister always gets her Egg Nog Latte and her Cafe Verona blend.

Whitney and my sister can keep my seat warm at the coffee shop for another 50 years or so. In the meantime, I'll continue to miss them both. (One more than the other, obviously. Who can resist an international megastar songbird?) 

Does anyone else hear a cackle in the distance...?

xoxo

Twenty

I know some of you are all, "I don't watch television." and if that statement describes you and your high horse, just skim this blog entry and go back to harvesting your wheat, or whatever people who "Don't watch television." do with all that free time.

I like television. Always have. Television is fun. Sure, some of it scares me, but everything that's big has a little scary to it. I think I mentioned before that the ocean is a lovely place. With gigantic, sticky beings who swallow things that are the size of a city bus. Big/scary. Also, cake is delicious, but if you consume one in it's entirety in a single sitting, you'll spend the rest of the day regretting it. See? Too much of anything can be scary.

Moderation, people. Also, choose wisely. You don't have to watch the channel that makes up news stories and reports them as qualified facts. Nobody is forcing you to buy Pajeans, or a 6-CD set of the grooviest hits from the 70s. Our family loves to watch Globetrekker, but that doesn't mean that PBS is the only channel with quality programming. (Again, don't get all "Blasphemy!" on me. PBS is great, but so is Bravo and I know that you know that I'm right.)

I love me some good, mindless smut. The kind of television that is so full of freak show people that it can't possibly be reality, but it is reality (just not mine, exactly). And then there's some "reality" that isn't at all, in any sense of the word, real, except for that there are actual people on the show. But even that's debatable because so many of the real people have fake parts and are missing important pieces, like for example, a functioning brain.

Here are my thoughts on a few choice shows. A couple of them are worth climbing down from your pedestal to watch, and a couple of them are, in my humble opinion, not any better than harvesting wheat.

1. Real Housewives of Orange County/Atlanta. These are my top two Real Housewives offerings. Each geographic has unique qualities, but these two are special.

I used to live in the O.C., and was acquaintances with one of the women formerly on the show, so it was fascinating to watch. Also, informative. I learned that one of the restaurants we went to in the neighborhood was a swinger's mecca on Tuesday nights (you were supposed to wear white to show your interest and availability). See? Valuable lesson. I also learned that our beautiful, two story town home on our tree-lined street, anchored by two lovely parks, was in fact, The Ghetto. Who doesn't love that wacked out mentality? The ladies are so blinded by the gold they're digging that they have completely lost touch with reality, and yet, they are on a reality show. See where I'm going with this?

Now the Atlanta crew is my favorite for other reasons. These ladies are each ghetto (fo' realz) in their own way, shape or form, but are trying reeeally hard to come across as super high society. Teenage mothers who have grown into women who don't work have personal assistants named "Sweetie", then they seduce young (somewhat unattractive) NFL players and accidentally get knocked up and promptly move into mansions. They always drink Chardonnay or champagne when they get together to talk about whichever Housewife isn't in the room at that time. They work the junk in their trunks in their long heeled, red bottomed shoes, and sling their Louis Vuitton bags while they start their high fashion/modeling/singing careers, and then they fight and claw and scream and pull wigs and spit sarcastic venom at each other, louder and louder, until I'm whipped into a jaw-dropped, giddy frenzy on my couch.

It's AWESOME. 

2. The Bachelor/The Bachelorette. Listen friends. I want to give you a little tough love right here, right now. This show is what all the other reality shows are, which is a bunch of pretty people, with no actual, marketable talent, who think they are cute and cunning and special, and therefore that they should be famous. Obviously. 

So from The Bachelor perspective, all these women go on television and pretend to fall in love with the strange guy they just met. You know, the guy who is openly dating the 20 women she now lives with. These charming ladies aren't looking for love, they're looking to be on the cover of People magazine. They want it so bad, they are willing to humiliate themselves by trying to seduce the King of the season in front of millions of people. With sparkly, wide eyes, she pretends to be touched by the manufactured date the producers set up, and thanks the King for being creative and making her feel "special". Then she has to cry and act legitimately devastated when he says he really cares, but that he's sorry, he'd rather pose for the cover of People magazine with the girl living down the hall.

What? I don't know about you, but when I was dating, if I found out the guy I was seeing was also hooking up with my roommate, I wouldn't just smile and try harder. I'd punch him in his balls. Also, aren't both The Bachelor and The Bachelorette sort of high profile escorts? I'm pretty sure they're both getting paid to hook up with random people.

I'm also fairly certain that these beautiful people are perpetually single because they're crazy, and I think them acting like it's not crazy to be on this show, is exactly what makes them so C.R.A.Z.Y.

Maybe that's why I can't be on either one of those shows. I'm only a little crazy. That, and I'm married already, but come on, it's only a matter of time before that new reality show comes out. I can see the headlines now: Sexy Boys and Girls! Line Up To "Secretly" Date Someone Else's Wife/Husband! If You're Pretty, Devious, And A Little Stupid, You're Welcome To Audition! Disclaimer: You will get your ass kicked by a fame-seeking actor pretending to be the surprised spouse of the loser you're trying to sleep with. Good luck!

3. Survivor. Oh, Survivor. It goes without saying that this show is cast via the Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs formula. There's always a mixed bag of tricks. Think about it...the show isn't complete without: Dopey (not the brightest tiki torch on the island), Grumpy (the gruff guy or butch girl), Doc (smarter than everyone), Happy (Yay! Hammocks and foraged berries!), Sleepy (or in this case, Lazy), Bashful (aka, I'm not trying to flirt with the cute, strong one, it's just that I'm reeeally pretty so he likes to build my boat for me) and Sneezy (always the weak link).

And please, PLEASE, tell me you fully understand that they aren't hunting for food, or spearing fish for their dinner, or that they are actually lost or alone, or in any way "surviving" a difficult situation. Somebody's gotta be holding the camera and the microphone, and you know who those guys are? Bill and Nick, who are staying at the nearby luxury hotel, just a couple of rooms down from the contestants, and they all take shooting breaks to dive into the Snickers bars and sodas they have in a cooler back at the campfire on set. I love that the contestants lose weight and appear to be dirty on the show, though. I think that's a nice touch. And the hotel room probably has a distressed wood headboard, but I'm afraid that's about as rustic - or as real - as this one gets.

4. Jersey Shore. Funny. Scary. Stupid. I refuse to say anything else about it.

If you know what I'm talking about, happy watching to you. If you love and believe deeply in Survivor and The Bachelor shows, and you're offended (you know who you are), my sincerest apologies. It's just my two cents (combined with fact, but whatever).

If you watch Jersey Shore like it's your job, then it might be the only job you have right now. (Drinking beer at 1:00pm on Wednesdays doesn't count as a job, no matter how consistent you are with it.)

And if you aren't familiar with any of the above, well, I won't judge you as you tend to your worm compost or read up on "How To Knit A Sustainable Yurt", as long as you don't judge me and my good friends Ben & Jerry, as we tuck in for some good productive outhaling.

Peace.

Interlude: Grammy edition

Dear Adele,


I know you don't know me (yet?) and I may (or may not) be old enough to be your Mother, and after reading this (who am I kidding, She's not reading this {and YES, She deserves a capital "S"}) you may be tempted to Google "restraining order", but rest assured, I'm not crazy, I'm just hopelessly devoted to you, gorgeous you. And your eyelashes, your brash humor, and the way you say "Fank you" wif such charm and Brit cockney lilt.


Let's just get something straight from the start. You may not have my same dance background, but I think you'll concur. Chris Brown is the male Britney Spears. If he wants to be a dancer, he should dance. Dance his ever-loving ass off. I will sit back and enjoy. If he wants to be a singer, well then, by God, at some point he will have to actually sing. Live. Like in front of people. With his voice. And a microphone. One that turns on. Speaking of which, if he isn't going to sing, he shouldn't wear a mic. He shouldn't even pretend. It's not an accessory, it's actually used to amplify one's voice. Which he isn't currently using. So he shouldn't bother.


(Not to mention, Chris Brown, to use one of your homeland terms, is a wanker. You must think we're crazy in La-la land. And we might be. Because apparently you can sock your girlfriend, and then continue to enjoy success and glory because of a talent that you don't even have to actually employ in public. Amazing. And by "amazing", I mean debatable. At best.)


Next. Sir Paul McCartney is from your dojo. I get it. However. The very old and many times married man skipping around the stage wearing suspenders does not a finale make.


Miscellaneously (if it's not a word, it should be), why do the Foo Fighters get to be on stage (albeit the one outside) THREE times? I love me some Foo, but I would much rather have heard you sing two more times, and I'm not just saying that.


A few more musings:


• Why is Nikki Minaj trying to reenact Madonna's 'Like A Prayer' but with some sort of nouveau twist, inviting the Pope as her date? I didn't understand that one at all. If you spoke to her backstage and can break it down, write me back. 
• Why did Katy Perry come to the Grammys as Smurfette? Aren't we finished there?
• And WTF is Dead Mau5? Is that cool, or is it a digitized Jack in the Box head with ears?


HELP ME.


Last, I'm a fan of Lady Gaga. I am. I think she sings the shit out of her acapella version of "Born This Way", and I'm not even going to front, I love "You and I". That said, what is the meaning of that face screen? Normally she looks like what would happen if Barbara Streisand and Amy Winehouse (R.I.P.) had a baby, but two nights ago, she looked like a dolphin who swam full speed into a glittery net. Sort of surprised and pulled back. Did she indulge in too much pre-party and end up trying to put her tights on face first? I felt uncomfortable with that decision, and I'm not even going into the scepter she was holding. She makes me nervous a little bit. Which is probably her goal. So in that case, well done YOU, Lady Gaga. At least when you open your mouth you actually sing.


That's my recap. Granted, I saw it from my couch, in America. I'd love your perspective, Adele. We should probably circle the wagons for a glass of red (or six) and really talk. We don't even have to talk, come to think of it. I'd settle for some time in your presence. It was supposed to happen at your Bay area concert, but then those dastardly polyps ruined everything, so...


Until we meet again. And by "meet", I mean, until another fabulous friend offers to buy me tickets to your next concert and takes me to watch you sing. For real. With your voice. Your fabulous, wonderful, amazing, God-given, angelfaced voice.


Love,


Crazy Amy

Seventeen.

It's been longer than five minutes and my husband is still in town.

Granted, he leaves again Sunday, maybe Monday, but for the moment he is here, so he's finally cleared some mind space, and read the whole blog. His comments about it crystallized the differences between men and women. He liked it and was very complimentary. He even said he laughed out loud at one part, although he couldn't recall what it was. He said, You know, it was something about the four of us doing something. I was all, Super specific, thanks.

But he said something else that I thought was so interesting. And by "interesting" I mean I shared it with Chicago right away to get her perspective, because she's the kind of best friend where if something happens in my life or hers, it didn't really happen until we can share it with each other. So I wrote to her and she emailed back and instantly made me feel uncrazy, as she tends to do. 

So, he said, I don't know, it just sort of seems like you're sad. And I was like, Sad? I'm not sad. Well, sometimes I'm sad, but I'm not writing because I'm sad. He said that he's just not the type of person to throw his life out there for people to read or see. You know, he's a man. I explained to my sweet, unassuming, confused man that this is what women do. We feel something, and then we feel around to see if anyone else feels it too, and then when we discover they do indeed feel it too, we all feel better.

It's a lot of feelings for a man to wrap his man-brain around, I get it. But I've been thinking about what he said ever since, because I like to dwell.

What I've come up with is that women are just different from men. We love the feeling of feeling connected. Even as little girls we joyfully hold hands, and to catch a glimpse of little girls holding hands is to catch that sweet, innocent, burgeoning female connection in its infancy. Eventually, we hold the (clammy) hands of our first boyfriends, and our next. It makes us feel giddy and breathless. We hold the hands of our husbands or partners. It makes us feel adult and exclusive and publicly devoted. We hold the hands of our children. It makes us (and them) feel guided and safe and in control. We hold the hands of our parents when we are all adults. It makes us feel thankful and full of remembrance and less out of control.

Women need to hold hands with others, even if it's virtually. For me, reaching out and connecting helps keep the Good Ship Amy balanced as it creaks and sways and navigates through life.

Men like to stand solitary on the bow, feet spread, hands on their own hips, steady as they go. I think it makes them feel stronger to manage the course alone.

But women's hands are never just on our own hips (without grocery bags and infants and backpacks, I mean), and we learn early that steering alone doesn't make you stronger or braver or more capable. It just makes you alone. Women's hands are forever wringing, washing, carrying, clasping, patting, soothing, making, cradling. Our hands are exhausted. We feel less tired when we feel warmth. Solidarity. Support. We need to feel another woman saying, I've walked in your shoes, and my callouses are right where yours are - do you feel them? You aren't alone, I am with you - do you hear me? I will stand by you and walk with you and listen to you and feel for you. I will squeeze your hand to remind you that I am cradling your heart while you cradle that baby through another sleepless night. I will brush the hair off of your pretty forehead as you cry out of sheer exhaustion or frustration or anger or heartbreak. 

Or, I will read your musings and I will write you back and tell you that your journey is my journey. And that your kids sound like they act like my kids. And that your life seems wonderful and crazy and you're a lunatic (but I say that with love) and you made me laugh today and also? We. Are. One.

Women love that shit. Men, not so much. And that's okay. Because I can feel something, and throw it out there thinking, Man, am I the only one who feels like this? And someone writes back and says, Me too. And then I know it's not just me, because I have proof. Someone else said it out loud too, and that means it's not just in my head. See? Uncrazy.

But that's only part of why I'm writing. One side of it is that it gets all these ramblings out of my head. The other side is the side that connects me to you. So I will use the hands that I use to hold my babies, to make dinner, to love my husband and to care for the house-eating puppy, to do this too. To write away. And as I clickety-click it all out there, I will feel your hands holding mine. Just holding and squeezing and outhaling through it all, every time.

Sad? No. Exactly the opposite, actually.

:)))

Sixteen.

"Mama, what do you want me to be when I grow up?"

"Happy. I want you to be happy, baby."

That response just flies out of my mouth whenever Nine and Seven ask me that question. I know they are probably asking me for some sort of career guidance, but honestly, I don't care what they do or where they go with it. I just want them to be happy. And safe. And strong. And smart. And clever and soulful and fair and healthy and respectful of themselves (and others) and brave and loving. So I guess it's not just happy I want them to be, but that's at the top of the list. 

Which is why I wonder if I am living by example. Do I bring them enough joy every day? Do I show them how to live life with glee in their hearts? Not sure. What I am pretty sure of is that me doing the dishes and hollering at them to HURRY HURRY HURRY UP AND IF I HAVE TO SAY IT AGAIN I'M GOING TO PASS OUT doesn't inspire great joy, nor does it make me seem particularly happy.

I am happy though, and I do respect this life as my only one, and I do know that every day - be it good or total crap - is a gift and that it's far superior to the alternative. But when we aren't necessarily living the dream as we'd imagined it, how do we teach happy? Is it by our living a happy life in whatever form that life has shaped itself into? How possible is that on a daily basis? I try to slap a smile on my face whenever I can, but maybe that's not enough. Maybe I need to be my own student of happy, so that I can lead by glowing example. Is my stress level weighing them down too, just because they are near me? Do I need to do a better job of hiding it all, or of actually not letting it affect my own happy? Yes, probably on both fronts.

Note to self: Exude great joy at laundry and dinner and repeating myself 100 times a day to no desired result. It's still better than the alternative. What if I didn't have those little pumpkins to holler at? What if my life was quiet and clean and devoid of dog hair and backtalk? Would joy seep from my pores then, or would I want what I didn't have? 

The trick is that the things that do bring us joy aren't always what fills our day. My girls love cookies and movies and play dates, but their daily allowance of fun is doled out in tiny portions, given to them in between big, time-consuming things like vegetables and homework and please finish up in the shower because you've been in there so long that I'm dehydrated just thinking about the water that's being wasted. And my joy comes from relaxing with family and music and catching up with friends and writing and taking class and laughing with my husband. But those seem to be the little glittery dust particles that float in and out of the spotlight that's focused squarely on the hours spent driving and planning and cooking and cleaning and saying no and teaching lessons and making lists of things to do and then doing those things and repeating and repeating and repeating myself.

But I look forward to those shiny bits. Remember I said once that Thursday is my favorite day of the week and Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday because both of those things hold promise of what's to come? I can get through all the muck of the day because I love anticipating the special moments that I know are just a phone call or a tickle or a laugh away. Just knowing that joy is going to be found can bring the happy around. Just knowing is the silver lining in each day.

Granted, when Nine and Seven are bickering, and then one of them starts repeating "NO! NO!! NO!!!" louder and louder to the puppy as he innocently forages in their room for shoes and pencils and socks (i.e. his happy), and the shower is running (see aforementioned cause of drought), and the oven starts beeping because I'm burning the roasted brussels sprouts, and then my husband's phone rings, interrupting our 30 second chance to catch up on the last three days...well, sometimes it's hard to find that silver lining. But I know it's there. I should tap into that content feeling. The peace of knowing joy is around the corner, even when the corner is blocks away and in order to get there I've got to walk barefoot, uphill, in the snow.

Some people don't have happy waiting for them. I do. And my girls do. They have happy woven into every day of their lives and waiting around the corner. And they need to have happy waking them up each morning, and happy taking them to school and happy helping with homework and happy loving them to sleep at night so they realize that even though life is crazy and Mama is crazy and the puppy is crazy, we can all still be happy.

Hence, I've decided to be outwardly happy. As much as I can. I'm going to joke instead of yell. I'm going to smile instead of frown. I'm going to say "I love you" when Nine says "no" to me for the umpteenth time, and when Seven whines at me about homework/chores/dinner/bedtime/brushing teeth, I will hug her. 

Time for Mama to walk the walk and talk the talk. Time to give happy and grow happy and teach them how to find their own happy, in - and sometimes in spite of - their lives. Maybe it's as simple as acting like the dog (apart from the innate desire to eat poop). He seems to find great joy in very simple things every day.

So I will be more like the puppy, except laughter will be my stolen slipper. Because "when I grow up" is happening right now, every day, all around us. I can't slow it down, but I can infuse it with as much joy as possible. And hopefully one day, when growing up turns to all grown up, they can look back with eyes that sparkle with happy memories, and joy that lights up their hearts. Which will set my own heart afire.

Outhale.

Twelve.

I'm not a doctor and I don't spend the graveyard shift saving lives. My kids don't have the flu (although by writing that, you know I'm jinxed), and my puppy has issues, but not explosive ones that require me to clean the floors more often than most. And yet, yesterday morning I still felt a little put out by the situation I found myself in.

The husband has been traveling. A LOT. And I'm used to it because it's his industry and we've been together for a hundred years, so I get it. When he's gone, life falls to me. A lot of things get easier when he's out of town. There is less laundry, less food to cook, less parental banter (read: bickering) about the kids and the puppy. But overall, it's more work for me. So in addition to my day job and my teaching on the side, it's up to me to make a meal plan, get groceries, keep track of the hot lunch/play date/Brownies/snack/birthday parties/child care/field trip and class party organization/laundry/sign ups for ballet and piano/et-freaking-cetera.

Who am I kidding? The man does a mean load of laundry (folding not included), and he's way better than I am on the grill, but the rest of the above ends up on my plate whether he's home or away. But sometimes, after all the solo multitasking, mama needs a break. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy he's home again, and in our bed, and there for us all, but I still want a little reprieve.

So the other morning I thought, let's go crazy. I'm going to take a class and then have coffee with a dear friend. Nuts, right? Living life right on the edge. I made it to class and afterwards could almost taste the coffee, when I received a text message asking me to "just come home". Wha?? Come home?

No. I don't want to come home. What I want to do is spend an hour or so jumping off the high dive with a friend into a vat of coffee, and swimming around with all the good stuff that she shares about her life. I don't want to come home and talk about 1) why the puppy is acting weird and 2) why the kids are acting weird and 3) why his job is weird enough that he has to start answering text messages at 6:00am on a Saturday and 4) why I'm acting like a salty, complaining, weird cherry on top. I already have those answers: 1) He barfed a SOCK on Friday night, 2) They are hormonal, bored, and enjoy torturing us, 3) Football people aren't like regular people, and 4) BECAUSE I DIDN'T GET TO GO HAVE COFFEE WITH MY FRIEND.

Seriously, right?

Alas.

I broke the plans to get caffeinated with my gracious pal, and came home. And man, was I salty.

Because in my mind, I'm thinking, I have been doing it all, alone, for days on end. And the load, she isn't light. We've got things to handle on a daily basis. Kids and parents and that sock-eating puppy and all the rest. When he comes home, I want to throw him the keys, run fast in the other direction, and be gone for at least a couple of hours. I don't even care what I'm running towards. I'll drive back and forth on the freeway, as long as I can get a chai latte on my way and listen to the music of my choice. And by "my choice" I mean almost anything except for the Bieber Christmas CD or sports talk radio.

In the husband's mind, I venture to guess, all he wants to do is reconnect and talk about what is too much to text about when he's on the road, and co-parent for the short time he's here before he has to leave us again.

See? Now I feel like a huge bitch. And I don't even like that word when it's aimed at me unless I'm on the dance floor with friends, in which case we're all up IN that bitch.

You may be asking, what's my point. I actually have no idea, I'm just blogging it off my chest. Again, I never promised this would be fascinating.

All I'm saying is that today, when I went to the grocery store, I picked up a chai latte on the way, and when I had to make three stops instead of one, I was almost giddy. I was alone, finally, and just in time because he leaves town again tomorrow. So I just sipped my tea and I spoke to nobody except the checkout people. And yes, I made eye contact and offered a smile. Why wouldn't I? I was happy as a farm-raised clam.

I didn't rush home, either. Nope. I took my sweet time up in that bitch. 

:)

Ten.

What is the restless feeling I have lately? It isn't that I want to be somewhere or someone else, but more that something is missing. And then to compound the confusion, a feeling that I shouldn't be feeling this way. I know I don't get enough of the people and things in my life that I love, but it shouldn't make my temper quite as short as it seems to be. Patience used to be my thing (that, and eating really slowly), but it's more of a visitor than a virtue these days. As far as eating goes, what I still lack in speed, I make up for lately in frequency.

Why am I motivated enough to create pretty little vignettes around the house, but not especially moved to do the big stuff, like put the Christmas decorations in their bins so we can open the door to the extra bedroom and actually enter the room? I have these cookbooks that I love reading, and yet, I never seem to have the mind space (life space?) to actually cook from them. I know so many women do so much more with less, and yet, here it is. As I type, I think, really? This is what you're "restless" about? Poor you, can't motivate to clean all of your holiday decorations out of your extra bedroom? Asshole.

Sigh.

I wonder if something soothing to drink might help. To that end, do I want to make a chai tea or pour a double triple Chardonnay (or a Pinot, or a Zin...really, those who know me know that the answer to "Red or white?" with me is nearly always "Yes, please.").

I'm not a complete train wreck on a daily basis. I do glimpse the peaceful me sometimes, like when a favorite song comes on, one that moves me to breathe into the music lyrically, as music so often used to do to me when I spent my days and nights choreographing. (Did someone say dance party? What?? I said patience used to be my thing, not focus.)

But then there's that restless feeling again, driving me to extremes, which for me these days means I either go on a cleaning frenzy (take THAT, Christmas decor, and guilt regarding the aforementioned), or I climb into bed and hope to find a chick flick circa 1997 on TBS, and then another, and maybe another, until suddenly it's 2:30am and OH MY GOD, is it too late to order hot lunch for tomorrow because there's no way I'll get up in time to pack lunches now.

Sometimes I feel like I'm trying to keep my eye on the horizon and enjoy the sunset or the sunrise or the clouds...really anything...because when I look down, I get the impression that my life raft is somewhat held together with duct tape and super glue. I have to keep my chin up, otherwise, the downward glance can begin the downward spiral that can eventually capsize the Good Ship Amy. 

I hesitate to throw this out there, but here it is. I don't think it's material things (or lack thereof) causing that restless feeling, but I do struggle with the inherent ugly American in me, that girl who occasionally wants more. More stuff, better stuff, different, pretty stuff with big price tags and big wow factors. You know, like a shiny new life raft with espresso-stained oars and a matching yacht, complete with a new family wardrobe, college tuition funds, and bi-yearly vacations abroad. Also, I'd like to meet Ina Garten and Adele because I get the sneaking suspicion they would both want to be my bestie.

Ick, right? I know. It feels dirty coming out of my fingertips. I have stuff aplenty. I write this knowing full well that kids across the world (heck, kids across town) have no food, let alone new Fall boots. Hello, hypocritical feelings...you're rather prickly, aren't you?

Before you close the window in which you read this, having cleverly decided I'm either crazy, or that this blog has taken an unfortunate turn and isn't worth reading anymore, be honest with yourself. Have these things never crossed your mind? Or maybe your list of "Pretty Things I Want" is all check, check, chiggity-checked off, but you still feel restless and neither chai nor Chardonnay is the remedy. We all have to put one foot in front of the other, and true, some of us follow the yellow brick road, and others of us stumble our way down a dirt path, but as long as we just buck up and keep moving, we'll get there. There hopefully being the place where we can put our collective feet up and wish for nothing more for ourselves than another day, and then another, and another, with the sun rising and setting smack dab right where we are.

And really, where I am is right where I choose to be. I do have everything (and everyone) I need, and most of what I want. And I wouldn't trade what I've got for what I don't. Except for the chai I'm drinking now...I would trade that in for a Chardonnay in the blink of an eye. See? There it is again. Restless. Selfish maybe, but restless.

In any case, tonight I think I will leave the extra bedroom in it's unattractive post-holiday state, and leave the laundry to languish (aka wrinkle) in the dryer. I'm going to take my warm chai, and put myself in my warm bed, with my big, warm puppy, turn on the TV, and watch with my chin up, grateful that I'm smack dab in the middle of this moment, this place, this life.

You?

Six.

I ate at a restaurant called Cafe Gratitude a few weeks ago. As I walked out, I saw a painting above a doorway that read: "Abundance can be had simply by consciously receiving what has already been given.".


If that's true, I've consciously received so much food and alcoholic beverage over the last several weeks that I am now experiencing a personal, physical abundance. Most evident in the southern regions of my body, but really, my whole self is like gravy, thickening up nicely with just a few lumps.


I sit on the couch and things come to mind as follows: Stuffed sausage. A puffer fish. The Michelin Man.


And yet, rather than start an internal cleanse today, I cleaned the house. Gone are the dry, prickly fire hazards that once were fragrant boughs of pine on the mantel. Off with the stale gingerbread abodes covered in frosting and every kind of candy ever made. Goodbye dog hair dust bunnies (until the puppy comes back in from the yard), and so long bits of tape, donut and bread crumb.


As I sit at a now more-clean-than-sticky kitchen table, I realize it's probably time for some sort of mental cleanse as well. Sometimes I feel like there is so much information in my head that if I use a Q-tip in the right way, I could dislodge some of it and let it tumble right out of my ear. Let's be serious, most of it is useless, and what I do need, often buries itself under Journey or Adam Ant* lyrics.


So in order for me to get to the important things, like remembering to find a new babysitter next month (i.e., in three days or so), or getting a new calendar and writing everyone's birthdays and anniversaries on it before July hits, it's time to purge some gunk.


Now, if you are reading this with pencil in hand, waiting for my pearls of wisdom on how to organize and prioritize your brain and all the information in it, go ahead and break the lead. If I had those pearls, I wouldn't have started this cathartic blog. I'd be too busy digitizing my mental files and writing thank you notes to friends who haven't even bought the gifts they are going to give me in 2012.


If any of you dear readers have a brain more filo faxed than mine, please stop hoarding your mad skills and start sharing your special tricks with me and my good friends, Carbohydrate and Sugar.


*To the younger readers who have no idea who or what Adam Ant is, A) you're cute as a button, and B) this is precisely what Google is for. Look it up. I'll share something you won't find on Google - a visual of me in junior high, throwing my AAA bra at Mr. Ant while he performed valiantly for us at Magic Mountain. It hit him on his left shoulder. Yes, I was that girl. Also, yes, I can remember this, but the passcode to my iPhone eludes me.

Two.

Today I was talking with a friend - and before you imagine us sitting near a fire in a tidy home with a hot tea Chardonnay in hand and awesome leather boots on our pedicured feet, take note that I was on the street, getting tangled up and manhandled by the 95-pound puppy when said friend happened to drive by.


My delayed point is that we were chatting about how busy our week seemed to be and I said, with full conviction, "I mean, it's already WEDNESDAY!". She gave me a blank look with a half smile and said, uh, it's Thursday. I looked down for several seconds as if the real answer to why I'm crazy was written on the side of her car.


This happens to me a lot. Not just the day of the week thing, but other things too. I consistently feel like I'm on a raft, swirling around inside my own head, with all my jobs and tasks and things I'm forgetting to do rushing at me trying to capsize my day.


Even when I try to compartmentalize things, which I'm pretty good at, the compartments tend to open up and spill over and everything slips into each other's way.


For example, I have a day job, and I work from home a lot. But I'm still a Mom, with a husband who travels so much in the month of December that I pretend he's not coming home even when he's supposed to. Which means that when I get home from dropping the girls at school, I have a puppy who wants to play (read: eat poop outside, and don't act shocked, I've probably heard your kids talk in my back seat about how your dog does it too). Laundry that isn't going to wash itself. Errands to run. Dear friends I'd love to catch up with. Breakfast dishes to do, lunch to consider and a dinner plan to make. 


So as the minutes turn into hours, I try to slip other things into quiet work moments. Take a break in the action to check personal email, or look up that recipe I was meaning to try. Text a friend or my husband. Add to my "to-do" list. Some people might call this multi-tasking, and on some level I agree. But when it happens more often than it should, you end up being the equivalent of a quarter of the way through 7 books at once, and mixing all the characters and story lines up.


I'm working from home today, in full view of The Jesus House. This is a little barn with a loft that my parents used to pull out every Christmas for my brother and I to fight over play with. Granted, in my childhood home, Christmas=gifts and Easter=chocolate, so The Jesus House was a treasure, but we didn't fully understand the meaning behind it. Now my daughters love to play with it too. In fact, a couple of years ago, as they set it up, I learned that Ariel, The Little Mermaid, was present at the birth of Christ. I told you they are smarter than I am.


Moving on.


Each character was always wrapped in tissue and my brother and I would take turns choosing; whichever ones we got, we got to set up. We tried to feel around for the baby, or his bed, because it was cooler to set up baby Jesus than it was yet another sheep. And we always tried to get "Gloria" - the angel holding the banner that says "Gloria" on it, who hangs on the tiny nail at the roof's peak. What? It says her name RIGHT THERE.


My second delayed point is this: look at sweet Mary. If any of us find stress in our day, let's ponder hers for a minute. The woman gave birth in someone else's barn, after walking around for hours on end begging for help. I called for the epidural guy for a while from the comfort of a clean hospital bed and thought I had it rough until he showed up and turned dark into light.


Back to Mary. There she kneels, by the baby's little bed of hay, hands gracefully crossed at her chest, head tilted to the side, peace written across her face. I'm pretty sure she had more to deal with back then than I do today, and yet, I can't remember what day of the week it actually is.


I don't know the trick you use to keep it together, even when it's all obviously slipping through your fingers. The best I can do some days is stop. Take a deep breath. And while I feel the rise and fall of my ribcage, and my shoulders releasing my ears and settling down my back again where they belong, I remember that this breath is a gift. And my chaos is a gift, as is this day, and these thoughts, and my able body, and the friends I don't have time to talk to, and the husband who is gone, and the daughters who fight with me every morning about the same things. 


And there it is. A tiny sliver of silver lining. I told you it was in there. And it was hiding under an Ugg boot. Not anymore, however, because the puppy has now eaten it in it's entirety. 


It's going to be a great night.